Does anyone remember Bucket Works? Or maybe Bucketworks? Bucket Worx? I don’t remember if it was the name of a music series, or the venue, or—and this is not unlikely—not a name at all and something my friend made up or misremembered when we were 15, because we were ding dongs.
I remember getting a ride to an unassuming building, clomping in my paratrooper boots up a flight of stairs, and watching metal bands in an empty room with disintegrating wood floors. The sound quality was poor, the audience disaffected, and the bands unpolished. I experienced my first mosh pits in this dilapidated building, flinging my limbs around with other teenagers in distorted self-abandon under full-beam overhead lights, stomping amid cast-off construction materials. While Bucketworks or whatever it was called acted as the site of self-conscious enjoyment, those experiences were the precursors to my unconditional love for dancing (a singular moment that I remember with crystal clarity as a great door unlocking, which deserves a separate narrative treatment).
A few years ago, I started going to concerts by myself. I already like going to movies and plays restaurants and museums alone, but for some reasons it took longer for me to work up the courage to see musicians by myself. It could be rooted in those early feelings of self-conscious moshing, that if the pit got out of hand someone would be there to scoop me off the floor. But why fear this? And what exactly did I fear? I haven’t crowd-surfed since a 2009 Bring Me The Horizon show when I danced so hard I lost a contact, then soared over the pit half-blind until some blurry gentleman set me upright on my feet.
I think the hesitation today stems from giving a live act one’s full attention, an ability that diminishes with each passing year. But live music is not that different from a play. Setlists and scripts are fixed, with room for the less rigid sparkle and banter that makes any live performance worth seeing. Maybe because music is so personal that it feels vulnerable to do alone. It feels like real dedication, like saying to the crowd around you, “I love these guys so much, I don’t need to socialize tonight.” After all, we walk around with headphones feeling like the main character of our days with The Microphones or Bad Bunny or Hermon Mehari in our heads. Not Fiddler On The Roof.
I’d like for this to change. We should advocate for going to concerts, movies, museums, ballets, and plays by ourselves. We don’t need to feel awkward about enjoying art and entertainment that is here for us to enjoy. In fact, doing it alone can force us to pay more attention to the work that goes into putting a performance together. Without a date to distract you, it’s less likely you’ll be thinking about which observation to vocalize and more likely you’ll think about learning to play the saxophone. This is how we move from solipsism to developing an awareness for what it takes to give notions of beauty some life. Or notions of life some beauty. You might call this the reason for art.
The first concert you see alone should be for a band you might be slightly embarrassed to see with a friend. Go back in time for this one. Get back to the essence of your mushy, emo self. The first track you downloaded when you finally figured out how to install LimeWire. This concert should be for tapping into a purer form of self. I know I just pooh-poohed self-absorption, but you can ignore that. Buy yourself a ticket as close as you can get to the stage and let go of all thoughts and feelings. Also, I recommend you go sober. Not because there’s anything wrong with alcohol, but because you’ll want to feel every second of the experience without the blunting effects of booze on your thoughts and emotions. You will know every song and all the lore and be completely among the likeminded, it makes you feel woozy and swoony and de-centered from your life timeline. You might even expect to hear the imperfections of that old LimeWire file coming from the live guitar. And there will be nobody to turn to and say, “I love this song!” because you love every song. Everyone does. Just enjoy it.
The next concert you see alone should be a step down from this experience—a band you like, but one that doesn’t draw dopamine to the top of your brain as if sucked by a frontman through a straw. You’ll still be in the moment, but you’ll begin to leave room for attention between moments of clarified joy. You can still get lost in the setlist, dance in your well-defended circle of personal space, and be swept into the art of music. This gets easier with time.
It might take a few years to develop the confidence to buy a ticket to a band you hardly know, waltz into the venue by yourself, order a sparkling water, and vibe out alone in a crowd. I did it on April 8 for Lala Lala at Cactus Club. When she wrung out the words “hell is the day after the party” over and over into the microphone, I closed my eyes and swayed until my water sloshed over my hand and into my pocket. Not this party!
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