Give This Fangirl a Chance

I crave the moments where I close my eyes and feel every breath in the room come to a pause. Where I lose myself, a body who's heartbeat has been stolen by a kick drum. Where the lights dim and there's no fear, no pain, no connection beyond the opening chords that electrify every atom. You blend into the space; letting go of the failed tests, the thrown together presentations, the traffic lights stuck on red, the parents who can't get along, those who laugh at you in the hallways, the angry words you reserve for yourself. You fall backwards into the roar of voices, crashing through the sentiments you've scrawled across the front of your note book, screamed out the windows on a Tuesday's twilight, whispered to the mirror in the middle of the night. You emerge on the other side, refreshed while at the same time drenched in sweat and post-concert depression. As much as it hurts, emotional and maybe even a little bit physically from the pit, you smile to yourself.

I spent years being that teen with the messy eye makeup, tottering out of venues before 11:30PM to make sure my parents wouldn't be blaring the horn the second we got to the sidewalk. Feeling off-balance, my ears slightly ringing from the sounds of a crowd refusing to accept only one encore. I had just spent at least three hours not fully responsible for holding myself up right, when everyone is packed in that tight, you're at the will of the crowd. I fell in love with the feeling of experiencing your favorite song live, with seeing the people who helped you get through every bump and hurdle without even knowing you existed. I grew fascinated with the idea of how it all happened. How music could transport you, how shows would just appear on the marquee, how bands would hop state from state, continent to continent, doing the show again and again without losing momentum.

There's plenty of jokes about fangirls. How they're ravenous, crazy, driven by the love of their favorite band. There's plenty of criticism, commentary run at the expense of teenage girls by people who either never knew what it was like to be one, or who get their kicks by tearing them down. What could be spoken to, instead, is the transformation of the love for your favorite band fueling your career path. For me, it was the fangirl to tech changeover.

When I came into adolescence reaping the benefits of someone else's time, money, and commitment to a musical project, I wondered what it's like to be the person making it all happen. When I got to college, I had the opportunity to test drive it in the safety of my own campus. I had thought it was just a stupid dream of mine, to want to help with concerts. I didn't even have the right language for it, I didn't fully understand what I wanted to be. I just knew that at the end of the night, I wanted to be the person watching the crowd, experiencing the show with them, and knowing that I had helped make it all happen. When my RA was doing ice breakers the first night in our dorm, she posed the question, "What's your absolute dream job? If you could do anything you wanted right now, what's that job look like?" Being a "B" last name, I ended up being first, secretly cursing the lack of "A" last names on our floor. "I want to do lights for concerts," I blurted, immediately feeling my face go hot. It wasn't exactly true, that was an aspect I was interested in, but I didn't want it to be my full time job. My RA looked at me, a small smile coming to her, "I have someone I want you to meet."

Unknowingly to me, I had picked the college that had an event program that not only was known for it's concerts, but the students had a hand in the event production. They planned and executed the campus activities, ranging from bowling trips to a full on paint (foam, by the time I graduated) rave. After a little hesitation, nerves, and being stalked by one of the senior members, she just knew I was a perfect fit, I signed myself up for four years of event management and production practice. I learned the basics of booking artists, running lights and audio for concerts and dances, and built a portfolio as a social media manager and content creator. I realized the little dream I had for myself had so many avenues, that they could overlap and you didn't have to stop at one part that interested you.

As I've grown through college, and post pandemic life, I realized I had a fear of becoming too old to follow my dreams. To be asked the question of dream job again, I could look at you and easily say, "I want to be a tour manager." It's what I've wanted to be since I first started going to shows, since I first started watching tour documentaries. Coming out of college and having only a few months before the event industry crumbled to COVID, I spent those months excited. I was taking on so many new projects, I was working what I felt was a temporary full time job just to cover until the "real" side of my career took of. I sit here, fifteen months post that first realization that it could be all gone, still fearing that I'm too old to chase it.

It's crazy to put an age limit on passion. It's even crazier to consider yourself too old at twenty-four, and yet, I do somedays. I feel as though I'm watching everyone else book and commit and take their chance. Meanwhile, I wondering if I'm good enough, how do I convince someone to give me a chance, how do I convince myself that I'm competent and capable. When I fall into these holes, I scroll through my Facebook networking groups feeling hopeless. All of these emerging opportunities, I just keep clicking save post. I don't contact the two production companies I freelance for, I don't reach out to any of my friends made over five years of doing events and ask for advice, I don't turn to any of the role models I've found on social media for inspiration. I wallow, and I'm getting tired of it.

I want to be the fangirl that brought it back for the fans. I want to do a few decades of touring, spending my off seasons helping my local venues. I don't want to be stagnant, I want to get better at being behind the boards, flipping lights and making sure if we blow out a speaker that we can fix it. I don't want to look at myself and say that I'm too old, that the very thing that puts me on the edge of my seat isn't worth it.

In my dream world, I'm taking the five years of experience. I'm taking over eighty events produced, hundreds worked, stages that have been managed, troubles that have been shot, and I'm pouring it all into the conversation that seals my contract with a band. We're looking ahead to months of shows, stopping in cities I've only traced across the screen prepping for the road. I'm bringing kids with messy eye makeup their favorite band, I'm pushing in earbuds because at this point I've learned you want to cut back on the noise just a little bit to save your ears for the next show. I'm gathering footage off my phone to make reels for our social media pages, snapping shots for fans of what we do when the lights haven't traced the stage quite yet. I'm cultivating an experience that doesn't end with the house lights going up.