Tigers Jaw

Arriving at the venue during the first band Smidley’s set, a yearning for slumber weighed my eyes down slightly. It’s common for me, for some reason, to feel tired and weary at a gig during the openers (but I still try to express avid support for what they do!). Maybe it’s the transportation that gets to me, but I always resurrect when the headliner plays, anyway. However, I prepared myself for this show: a little Starbucks run just prior to Webster Hall. Sat down with my white chocolate mocha, read some of my book, and tried to simmer down before venturing over. Needless to say, I had been anticipating this show ardently and impatiently.

The amount of concertgoers shocked me when I emerged upstairs after checking in through the guest list and feeling cool. The Grand Ballroom of Webster Hall—which I’ve only seen sold out and packed during Halsey, The Wonder Years, and The Front Bottoms—appeared practically empty. Smidley rocked out on stage to a miniature crowd and I bore sympathy, even though I’m sure the band didn’t even mind.

While everyone—or, the few people there—lingered in general admission watching Smidley with mild admiration, I slouched against the wall to rest while appreciating the music. Though I didn’t experience the set up close, I felt I was having a better time than most of the people there. I bopped my head and tapped my feet; Smidley played some jams—some jams I never heard before, but regardless, I dug what I heard and made a mental note to listen to them afterward. Their sound filled the room with its mysterious, unorthodox aura, and I recall a lot of cosmic instrumentals. I loved it all.

During Saintseneca, the room began to infiltrate with more people. More tired concertgoers joined me in sitting—and I would remain in my spot until the end of their set. After recording merely an iota of my day in my journal—some scribbles about going to the New Museum and eating a resentful kale salad after which I immediately grabbed a pizza—I arose and entered the crowd. I figured I should try to get a good spot for when Tigers Jaw went on.

Once Saintseneca left the stage, I expected what usually happens—a stampede of fans endeavoring to maneuver their way through the clump of people, making their way toward the front. That didn’t happen. No one even moved. No one seemed to care. It baffled me, especially for a show at Webster Hall. No competition for barricade—it was rather relieving.

Opening with Follows, the crowd was mellow in the sense that no mosh formed. However, everyone sang along mirthfully and swayed around joyously. I remained in the middle of the crowd for this, just hanging out and singing along while fixated on the band in a trance—I’ve been to a million concerts, but every time the band stands before me I end up stunned. The night I’ve been waiting for actually came? I genuinely wonder. It’s a lovely feeling when the excitement never dies.

As soon as the iconic “The Sun” commenced—the quintessential pop punk anthem; the epitome of modern edgy rebellion—the crowd transformed into a swarm of noisy, reckless, destructive teenage miscreants (although probably most people were in their 20s). Just what I was waiting for, my mind reacted. With a sincere, almost devious smile, I made my way to where the mosh jumped the highest, screamed the loudest, and pushed the hardest—right where I, the most obnoxious concertgoer, belong.

During the beginning, the bass-heavy interval with lyrical repetition, “pushin’ me away ‘cus you feel that I’m all the same”, the crowd reciprocated the fast pace with their own movements—vehement, aimless pushing in all different directions; as well as incessant fistpumping, if you count flailing your arms up in the air as fistpumping; plus shrieking the words off-key and breathlessly, struggling to keep up.

Although the new Tigers Jaw record Spin is more indie rock and devoid of most pop punk aspects, the crowd treated songs like “June” and “Guardian” like they were off self-titled: hopping up and down to the beat and singing along contently. Both songs were performed faultlessly, as if the audience were listening straight from the record. Truly one of the best live bands—the crowd’s energy merely mirrored the passion on stage. I didn’t even know the band members’ names, but that night I praised them earnestly and with reason. The talent really shined through with the clear, enunciated vocals and the brazen instrumentals. Brianna Collins truly served with her mastery on the keyboard and with her rich soprano vocals, and props to the touring members as well: Luke Schwartz shredding on the bass, Teddy Roberts slaying on the drums, and Pat Benson jamming on the guitar. Bravo!

“Test Pattern”, a song I barely knew at the time, struck me as their best song. As soon as it started—the loud, hectic introduction resonating through my body—I danced around like it was some generic pop song played at party; I jumped up and down and side to side, headbanging to the distinct drum beat, and then the distinct, catchy guitar riff and continued throughout the entire two minute song, pausing once or twice after dizziness overcame head and distorted my vision, and then resumed with clear ambition. And as soon as the song ended—the song to which I concluded I would die after probably damaging my skull or rupturing my neck—they yielded to no one, and played right into “Arms Across America.” The damn band gave me no time to compose myself.

More moshing and headbanging later, the setlist began to come to a close, and thus we existed in the chaotic time during which the band played all the well-known hits. Or, at least, the hits to which the pop punk community paid a decent amount of attention. One of their most popular sad songs “Chemicals” came abruptly and no one was (emotionally) ready for it. I hoped for the harmony to be upheld by the crowd, but unfortunately, I instead listened to Ben Walsh (the lead vocalist) singing the low part as the audience struggled to follow his way down the scale. I didn’t mind this vocal adversity, though, I found it amusing. I never complain about an audience singing off-key—it’s cute.

Because one gloomy melody didn’t suffice, the band proceeded to play the one and only “Plane vs. Tank vs. Submarine.” “Lie to me like you used to,” the crowd shouted along with collective anger, devastation, and malaise, all deriving from the depressing song we’ve probably all cried to at one point. The whole song rung out with emotion as the crowd-to-performer intimacy intensified—the crowd sung along every lyric with utmost sincerity and fervency. There’s nothing better to be a part of.

For a majority of the set I remained second row and to the right, but because “Favorite” was one of my favorite (ha!) songs, I managed to slickly push my way to the center all in one quick movement (being short at concerts generally sucks, but it makes me more mouse-like and able to get away with these things!). At that point I wanted to be absolutely annihilated—Ben directly in front of me rockin’ out, the most hyped songs coming up, the night almost over. I didn’t want it to end, even though it’s honestly the tritest thing to say, I just didn’t want to leave the moment where my world revolved around the vibrant, spontaneous present.

I warned everyone prior to the concert: “I Saw Water” live will be the cause of my death. And, ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that I was right.

My heart rate skyrocketed once the highly anticipated line, like a call for war, beamed unexpectedly from the speakers: “I saw… water!”

And with that, the crowd erupted and rushed forward, the adrenaline at an all time high, the floor trembling, the opening guitar solo blaring. And when the lyrics began, the crowd echoed sloppily, voluminously, but most importantly: passionately. To the song we’ve all most likely danced around to by ourselves in our bedrooms on a bland Friday night.

Of course, I let the song control my body—dancing and jumping into whichever direction it led me; automatically headbanging to the beat; and singing the lyrics out of key even though I’ve harmonized with the song countless times, just because an arbitrary key came naturally to me in the mess of a moment. I lived in this musical fantasy of a euphoria, which soon halted to a tragic reality when my glasses flew off my head behind me while I was headbanging. Coping with the nightmare, I avoided panic by internally convincing myself it wasn’t the worst scenario—it happened to me before at a Moose Blood show in the venue directly below where I stood (a.k.a. The Studio at Webster Hall) and I clearly don’t learn from my mistakes. But this time, I still freaked out and screeched in horror at what I had done before proceeding to my routine: turn my phone flashlight on, check the floor behind me, and hope other people help me. The funniest, most god-awful part of this process was when I realized that looking for glasses is a hell of a lot harder than looking for anything else because your goddamn sources of sight are missing. I’m blind as hell without those precious lenses, which were handed to me pretty quickly by two different helpers—because there were two different pieces. I shrugged it off and even chuckled a bit as I placed the glasses on my face—the left temple in my hand. I returned to my previous state of excitement for the rest of the song and even crowdsurfed right before it finished.

I prepared to leave. Went to the bathroom, laughed at myself in the mirror, relished the weird looks people gave me, and sauntered over to the exit. I couldn’t get myself to leave yet, especially during “Never Saw It Coming.” I admired the entirety of the crowd and even ruminated on retreating back into it, but dispensed with the inane thought right away. Finally, with immense wistfulness, I left. Trekked down the stairs triumphantly with my broken glasses and disarrayed hair—tonight I felt alive.