Got to see a wizard rock concert this weekend. I have to say it was pretty epic. I shared my excitement over this to my french class, and my french teacher was apalled at the concept that people wrote actual MUSIC about HARRY POTTER. She was all "really, Andie, you're willing to share that with the PUBLIC?" and went on to tell us this story about how she used to watch this reality TV show about people who were so obsessed with Jane Austen that they went to go live like the characters of the time period. (I fail to see how this correlates to my wizard rock concert in any way, but whatever)
Anyways, this "concert" was in someone's GRANDMOTHER'S LIVING ROOM. I'm serious. Like, we had to drive around in suburbs until we found this person's address, and her parents and her grandmother were, like, sitting in chairs in the kitchen behind us looking at us like we were, like, freaks, or something (where would they get that idea?)
My friend made this lovely analogy when we were driving there about a "Harry Potter sea". See, normal, non-harry-obsessed people are on land, far away from the sea. People who think they're harry potter fans are on life rafts floating on the top of the sea. My friend and I are hanging on to the life rafts, with our feet dangling in the water. But there are people at in VOLCANIC VENTS at the BOTTOM of this sea, and they're not coming up for air. People like that were at this concert. These kind of people actually are GROUPIES to these wizard rock bands, and like, FOLLOW the bands on their "tours".
A little creepy.
BUT, Justin Finch-Fletcley and the Sugar Quills, and The Whomping Willows were well worth being in the company of these slightly creepy albeit funny-ish-ly lovable people. I've had the "Dumbledore is Gay but that's OK" song stuck in my head ever since, and I was very excited to place my order for a Justin Finch-Fletchley t-shirt. :)
So...Yeah...
26 October 2010
25 October 2010
Marching Band
Sometimes I resent the very existence of Marching Band. I don't even march, and yet, the grueling three-hour-long rehearsals four times a week plus eleven hour camp days and away football games and competitions that inhibit us from getting home until the early hours of the morning wear down on me. The lack of social life that band members possess between the months of August and early November kills.
The thing is - and if anybody from band or school read this, they'd probably think I'm a freak (who doesn't?) for admitting it - but I can't deny the pride and satisfaction felt at the end of a grueling season. It's the end of the year, you're at the last competition, and you've played the show for the very last time. You know you've just given the performance of your life, and you're so ecstatic that you can't help but smile even when you know you're supposed to look fierce and intimidating. But you have absolutely no idea how anyone else has done. You stand out on the field, not allowed to move a muscle, and they start calling results. Your anxiety grows as the numbers get smaller and smaller. The band could very well have made tenth, but you didn't. Not ninth, either. Or seventh. Or sixth. Or fifth. Or fourth. They call third place, and you don't have to hear the first full syllable to know it's not you. You can't believe you've done this well. Yout start calming yourself down. 'Second', you think, 'second would be so great.' But what you really want is to hear that you've exceeded your wildest miracles, by some miracle beaten out every other band and gotten first. Then, the announcer calls second place. It's not you. You've won. You want to scream and jump and hug every person in the band, every person who has stood out there with you for twenty hours of rehearsal a week, in the heat, in the rain, in the freezing cold. But still, you have to stand still.
When they call first place, you listen carefully, to make damn sure they call your bands' name, and there's not some fluke. And they do.
The thing is - and if anybody from band or school read this, they'd probably think I'm a freak (who doesn't?) for admitting it - but I can't deny the pride and satisfaction felt at the end of a grueling season. It's the end of the year, you're at the last competition, and you've played the show for the very last time. You know you've just given the performance of your life, and you're so ecstatic that you can't help but smile even when you know you're supposed to look fierce and intimidating. But you have absolutely no idea how anyone else has done. You stand out on the field, not allowed to move a muscle, and they start calling results. Your anxiety grows as the numbers get smaller and smaller. The band could very well have made tenth, but you didn't. Not ninth, either. Or seventh. Or sixth. Or fifth. Or fourth. They call third place, and you don't have to hear the first full syllable to know it's not you. You can't believe you've done this well. Yout start calming yourself down. 'Second', you think, 'second would be so great.' But what you really want is to hear that you've exceeded your wildest miracles, by some miracle beaten out every other band and gotten first. Then, the announcer calls second place. It's not you. You've won. You want to scream and jump and hug every person in the band, every person who has stood out there with you for twenty hours of rehearsal a week, in the heat, in the rain, in the freezing cold. But still, you have to stand still.
When they call first place, you listen carefully, to make damn sure they call your bands' name, and there's not some fluke. And they do.
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