We all know that rock music is pretty awesome, right? I hope so. If not, you live in a sad, sad world trapped under an entirely different kind of rock. Poor soul.
I went to my first rock concert with my daddy when I was fourteen. Def Leppard. And it was friggin’ sweet. One of the things that was really great was that even though my mom didn’t approve and tried to stop me from going, she didn’t succeed, and I came back with a t-shirt.
The next day, of course, I got lectured about the evils of rock music. Because I was proudly wearing my new shirt (with the Hysteria logo on the front).
We got in quite the argument over my evil music and evil shirt, but this time, I wasn’t about to be sorry. She was the one who let me go. This scuffle got to quite a high point. My mother grabbed me by the collar, pulling me up to her.
Of course, I was terrified, but I wasn’t about to show that. Instead, I just grinned at her. She muttered something about me looking so proud of myself, and walked away.
My first point in the game.
She’s tried to “lose” that shirt in the laundry, but I’ve always made sure to find it again. After all, she already lost my dad’s vintage shirt with the same logo. I wasn’t about to let her lose mine.
And since then, yes, I’ve been to other concerts, slowly getting heavier and heavier, and I’ve gotten t-shirts from most of them. And oh, how I love them! I shove it in the face of my mother and aunt at every opportunity. I am the devil child. I wear black, though it is depressing to those two, band t-shirts, and eyeliner. HORROR!
I went to a rock festival a few months ago, and had the time of my life, bringing my sister who’d never been to a real rock concert before. I like to think it was really good for both of us.
I can’t even begin to describe the feeling a rock concert gives me. Such freedom from the stifling, stuffy childhood I had. Not just that, but everything. It’s nice to just stop worrying, for once, and lose yourself in the energy of the crowd.
When you imagine a typical teenage rebellious stage, you imagine black, piercings and screeching rock, right? Not me. My rebellion was around ten or eleven. It’s called country music. One of the quickest ways to piss off my Daddy.
Most people I meet often find something to like about my taste of music. Particularly my current coworkers, who seem so shocked to hear me listening to classic rock and metal. I tell them the same thing every time—my dad raised me right!