A short one hour and fifty-five minutes later (just long enough to listen to both North and my "Matchbox Twenty Rules the World" albums in their entirety), Andrew and I pulled into the parking lot of the scenic Microtel Inn and Suites by Wyndham. At 7pm, we were pushing the limits of our time frame (the concert started at 7:30, and I wasn't sure if there was an opening act or not), but I managed to check in, shimmy into better jeans, spritz and smear (perfume and lipstick, respectively), forcibly yank Andrew off of the bed and get back out to the lobby to meet the next shuttle at 7:20.
It took us about seven minutes to get to the casino, during which I glanced at my cell phone's clock no less than 42 times. Thirty seconds after pulling up to the door, I had bounded out of the back seat, sprinted to the entrance and was huffing impatiently at Andrew as he jogged to catch up. As I navigated the crowd with my ninja-like skills (and by that I mean, "politely tried to push people who looked like they could handle it out of my way while avoiding the urge to frantically shout, 'IT'S 7:32 AND I WILL CUT YOU!'"), I caught a whisper of music floating out of the concert venue. Upon realizing that it was not, in fact, coming from my beloved boys, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, released my death-grip on Andrew's upper arm and followed him to the concessions area before proceeding up to the seats I'd purchased on StubHub 48-hours before.
A quick word about our seats: if you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen this:
The tix that I paid $50 each for @matchboxtwenty @mohegansun after mine fell through Wednesday are now going for $19 each. Someone hold me.
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) March 8, 2013
Obviously, when Andrew informed me on Friday afternoon that the seats I had purchased for $50 apiece on Wednesday were going for $19 due to Winter Storm Saturn, I was a little bit, shall we say, peeved. Upon emerging from the staircase leading into the arena, however, every bit of that animosity faded into distant memory when I saw this:
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| Actual seats, sans zoom. These seats were like a rear-view mirror: closer than they appear |
I've made the decision to buy "possibly obstructed view" seats for concerts in the past, particularly those that are located in the sections directly next to/slightly above the stage. Of probably eight concerts, I'd say only one or two of them has disappointed; this one, of course, did not. In fact, we were closer to the band and had a better view than at least half of the arena, which is, admittedly, larger than I expected it to be for a casino in the middle of Connecticut.
Matt Hires, whom I am sorry to say I had never heard of before, was the opening act. Despite my Twitter snark, I actually managed to put my urge to start a, "WE WANT ROB" chant aside and took the time to really listen to Mr. Hires' set. He's very talented, and even Andrew commented after he was done that he "would pay that guy five bucks if he handed me his cd on the street in NYC" (Matt Hires, if you're reading this, don't get a big head over that; Andrew is also the proud owner of a $5 EP by a wannabe rapper named Mustafa, so...).
I have to give it to the production people -- they really knew their audience, and spent the twenty-five minutes between sets playing a blend of Rob Thomas' solo works and Top 40 hits from MB20's early '00 heyday (my personal favorite being "Flavor of the Week," because what Millenial Girl did not, at one time, blast this song alone in the car and dedicate it to that poor friend who had no idea that her boyfriend was a raging dbag sending inappropriate IMs to other girls? I know I certainly did).
Because our seats were above stage right, we had the opportunity to watch all of the behind-the-scenes activity as MB20 prepared to take the stage. Once Paul Doucette (henceforth known as Charlie Day, because that's how Andrew keeps referring to him) finished tuning his guitar, it was pretty evident that the headliners were about to start. At 8:30 on the dot, the lights went down and the opening chords of "Parade" rang through the arena.
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| Too much awesome to handle. |
And then I went nucking futs.
For the next 130 minutes, I was in a state of euphoria that is probably only achievable via drugs or seeing your favorite high school band live again after twelve years. You could have told me that I was dying of some terminal illness and I would have looked at you with a stupid zombie grin on my face and said, "THAT'S GREAT! LOOK, IT'S ROB THOMAS! ISN'T KYLE COOK AWESOME? DID YOU KNOW PAUL USED TO BE THE DRUMMER? EEEEEE!"
I'm aware that this is not normal.
I do not care.
The set list was exactly what I would have put together if I were in charge of such tasks. In fact, the only song that I didn't see coming was the Encore cover of David Bowie's "Changes" which, despite what the MassLive review I read said, was awesome. All of the old classics were intermingled with songs from North, which provided an interesting audience dynamic in that you could tell exactly which faction each member of the crowd was from: old fan, new fan or diehard. The woman to our left, for example, was old-school, enthusiastically singing every lyric to, "Bent" and "Bright Lights" but sitting contemplatively during the newer songs from North. The two mid-20s guys very enthusiastically trying to catch Rob's attention and bopping along to "She's So Mean" and "How Far We've Come" were a little quieter during "Disease" and "Back 2 Good". And the middle-aged man in a mock-neck zipup who spent the entire concert screaming along with everything from "3am" to "English Town" and regaling us with some of the sickest aisle dance moves I've seen outside of tv? Well, let's just say that I witnessed my future and leave it at that.
A little more than halfway through the concert, I had a mini-moment in which I was just completely, utterly overtaken by emotion. As the band transitioned from "I Will" (a pretty little number that is one of my favorites from North) into "Unwell," I took a second to just close my eyes and take it in. Then I burst into tears.
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| But really though. |
I always say that "Bed of Lies" is my all-time favorite MB20 song, but the one that means the most to me is, without a semblance of a doubt, "Unwell." Throughout the past twelve years, through break-ups, make-ups, crises both professional and personal, this one short, 3-minute-something long song has reminded me that no matter how unhinged I feel, no matter how off-the-rails circumstances seem to be headed, I will be ok and come out of it alright on the other side. When I was unraveling in college, when I realized a few years later that I had to put myself first and that doing so would mean losing a lot of my friends, when I felt like my very grasp on reality was slipping through my fingers, I put "Unwell" on repeat and cried until I didn't have a single tear left to cry.
So when those first few recognizable notes resounded throughout the arena, all of those emotions that I associate with MB20, from the teenage angst that led to that first concert to the unbearable heartbreak of a dissolved long-term relationship to the utter helplessness and anxiety while falling into a quarter-life crisis, they all came to a spiritual crescendo of sorts. After almost thirteen years of identifying with this music, these words, these feelings, I closed my eyes to experience it all over again, and opened them to see thousands of people like myself who were similarly, but not identically, moved. I looked around at them, then at the band and then finally at Andrew, sitting there observing and pretending to know the words while singing along, holding my hand and then trying not to laugh as he leaned over and shouted, "are you CRYING?"
And in that moment, I just felt thankful.
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| RT killing it on the piano |
I know it seems silly to place such importance on a song, a band, a brief series of events in one's life. At the end of the concert, though, I was reminded again of why I love not just Matchbox Twenty, but music from the late 90s-early 00s in general. As a teenager and early 20-something, we're all a little bit lost, whether we choose to admit it or not. It's that weird time in our lives when it feels like everything will last forever, but there is also an underlying awareness that we are all, in fact, speeding towards the end of... something. It's a time of simultaneous exhilaration and terror which forces us not only to wonder what our futures hold, but also daring us to do something about it. It's sink or swim at its finest.
Most of us, in one way or another, find a way to stay afloat. At 16...18...22...I had no idea who I was, what I wanted or in which direction my life was headed. The countless hours of TRL, the painstaking precision of hitting "record" on a dual-cassette player to create the perfect mix tape, the destinationless drives with the windows down and the Weekly Top 40 blaring loud for all to hear -- at times, these were the life rafts tethering me to reality. Now at 28, an age when I expected to have everything together, the husband, the house, the 2.5 kids and the fantastic job, it's ironic that I have none of those things but find myself perfectly, for the most part, content. I have a loving and generous boyfriend, an apartment that feels like home, a gaggle of nieces and nephews to spoil and a career that allows me to do something I enjoy while still pursuing the activities, hobbies and travel that leave me truly inspired. Despite all of those moments where I felt like I had fallen apart and would never get put back together, I did. I do.
So when the lights came up and Andrew grabbed my hand, and the two of us left the arena to grab some food at Bobby's Burger Palace and lose all our money playing slots, I continued to grin like an idiot. In fact, as I sit here typing, I still am.
Because I have come so far, and I am happy.
And Matchbox Twenty reminds me of that.
PS - Thank you. Andrew, you dear, sweet man, for putting up with me. I promise that the next time we go see Kelly Clarkson you can comment on how hot she is and pontificate the perfect fit of her jeans for a full 48 hours afterward. I am nothing if not fair.
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