What it feels like to live in a music venue

It’s Friday evening, again. 

​

The hardwood floors are covered with an ocean of mist from the fog machine. Multi-colored lights dance across the walls, exploding like fireworks as they hit anything reflective. Coiled cables line the fireplace. The stage is set. The band prepares. And now, the show begins.

​

People swarm the hallways, squeezing and pushing to fit into our tiny living room which is made even smaller by the drums, guitars, amps and keyboards. Like liquid, the crowd fills any gap, spilling onto the surface of the kitchen island. I scan my surroundings. 

​

No spilled drinks, yet.

​

No people throwing up, yet.

​

No broken belongings, yet.

​

Phew.

​

The next five hours blur. Dance, clean, rest, repeat. Until, finally, the last of the crowd disappears through the back door. Now, everything is still, and the only sound I hear is the ringing in my ears. 

​

Throughout the house I see the chaos of empty cans crushed, stacked and kicked into corners. I take a deep breath and smell the lingering scent of the sweaty bodies that once occupied the space. But, none of it bothers me. All I can think about is laying down.

​

My heavy feet drag as I ascend the stairs. I yearn for my room, untouched by the disorder below. 

​

I take a step.

                     And another step.

                                                   Until, at last, I reach the door.

​

I rush to my bed and collapse, slowly drifting further and further into unconsciousness. 

​

For nearly 30 weeks, I lived in this house. Each week included a day like this. But, through all the late nights and loud noises, I rarely wished I were somewhere else. 

​

For nearly 30 weeks, my life was unpredictable and exciting. I saw so many different people and different bodily fluids. I made wonderful friends and anecdote-worthy memories.

​

For nearly 30 weeks, I knew what it felt like to live in music venue.