Quote of last night: "Open it up, MOSH, right now– I want to see it. North, South, East, West, go. I SAID MOSH, dang it!"
~30 Seconds To Mars

I.Am.So.Hardcore.

And you know it is true, because when you are hardcore, you.have.to.type.like.this.

Some people who live in other countries deal with homesickness for the US by talking on Skype. Some people deal with it by paying 1Euro every 10 minutes to have their clothes put in the dryer at the laundrymat. Some people find overpriced import stores and buy Dr. Pepper.
And some people go to concerts.

Tonight was the 30 Seconds to Mars concert here in Paris. I had my eBay-purchased ticket, was going by myself, and could not have been more excited. Now, a word about this band for those of you who do not know: they are ridiculous. Whether you like their music or not is irrelevant to the point that they have this ridiculously insane fanbase which is composed of some of the most hardcore people I have ever seen. Their fans, incidentally, are mostly guys, which was pretty cool and made for a way different vibe than the tough-girls-who-want-to-listen-to-guy-rock that is the crowd at most concerts now. I got to the venue (Bataclan, a 19th century burlesque house now in the garment district on the far side of Paris) about an hour before doors were supposed to open, and the line was already pretty decent. I quickly realized I was overdressed for the occasion (what’s new?) in my black halter, black jeans, Beetlejuice tights, and black sparkly ballet slippers. Everyone else showed up in black t-shirts with their black jeans and black hoodies and faded black Chuck Taylors. At least I got the color right.

I’m standing out there, in the dark, in the garment district, in front of a Kosher Jewish Italian café, and it is freezing. Literally. And of course, I am wearing as little warm clothing as possible, because once I get in to the show it is going to be meltingly hot. Over my halter I have my rock star/marching band jacket (in guess what color?) that wouldn’t keep me warm in Florida on Thanksgiving, much less in Paris in the bleak of winter. (I also had on wristies, but those count for absolutely nothing when it comes to keeping warm.)
And then it started to rain.

And I almost burst out laughing at the thought of the whole situation: I’m standing in line for the concert of a band I love, the only one within earshot who actually can pronounce the name of the band in English (come on, guys, it’s not "Trente Secondes à Mars", get it right), alone, overdressed, foreign, hungry (oh, yeah, our refrigerator is getting replaced, so I couldn’t find any food, so I didn’t eat dinner... which means all I had had all day was a lump of baguette for breakfast at 9am and then a cup of coffee at 14h), and cold, and now it has started to rain. But as I am sitting here thinking how ridiculous it all is, the crowning point of the night (other than getting to be in the same room as Jared Leto for a couple hours) happened when a man about my grandfather’s age drove down the street where we were all raining... in a convertible from probably the 1930's, one of those really old, really long, really low ones... in the rain... with a world war II pilot hat on, straps fluttering in the breeze behind him and driving goggles, on the right side of the car. I suppose it was an English car (who am I kidding, it had to be. No one but an Englishman would wear that outfit in the rain in the middle of the night in Paris), but it was probably the funniest thing I have ever seen (other than four grown men in fingerless leather gloves with their rock fists in the air and ninja masks)... I mean, really, just as soon as I had convinced myself that I was at a real concert, just like a real American, something like that happens and there goes the sham.

It never got hard enough to actually soak all of us, just sprinkled enough to look like tiny bits of glitter in the hair (now frizzed) that I had spent so much time trying to fix. They let us in eventually, I find a spot with a great view, and pretty soon, the mayhem commenceth.
European concerts of American bands (particularly in non-English speaking countries) have this crazy weird atmosphere because of all the complicated factors going into the show. The opening act is almost always a local European group, because 1) what small-time band can afford to go tour Europe? And 2) what’s the point in doing it if they haven’t even made it big in the US yet? So the opening act was a Parisian band, who were amazing, though everyone just kind of yawned at them. I felt bad for them, but they were amazing.

And then, the lights re-dimmed, and out came 30 Seconds To Mars. Amazing show, full of masks and tight girl-pants and enough eyeliner to paint a small house... Kind of the emo equivalent of a rock opera. And we are all out there in the audience with our rock fists in the air, more fingerless gloves than I have ever seen in one place before in my life. So we’re moshing to our heart’s content in the pit, and the lead singer is jumping around like a spider monkey on crack (it was a very energetic performance, and I am not at all saying that is was not a good look. If I could have fit into his pants, I would have looked like a spider monkey too). And any inkling of homesickness I did have has disappeared with the pride in my heart that my country makes such good music (is it bad that the biggest pride I have in my home is music made by four guys ten years older than me who all wear more makeup than I do?). And to make it even cooler, the band has actually learned a few French phrases, said with surprising accuracy and a pretty good accent. (Though I truly hate to think of the vocabulary gained by the linguistically-challenged French in the crowd... the most common word used throughout the show was not one that really ought to be used in everyday talk.)

But they only played for 50 minutes! This is not nearly long enough to be considered a whole concert, even if you have thrown six water bottles into the audience and exhausted your microphone’s supply of guitar picks by the end of the second song. Even if you do jump around like a monkey and stagedive into the audience to the point of ripping one sleeve of your shirt off... I understand it must be tiring, but 50 minutes? Come on...

But then I realized that it is really only 50 minutes because afterward, they hung out with everyone there for more than two and a half more hours. As they left the stage, they promised to "say hello to every single one of you" and I thought that was a load of crap, but then, sure enough, they stayed outside in the freezing cold with all of us greasemonkey sweaty fans, most of whom don’t even speak English. So I stayed for awhile, in the cold, until I realized that, though the rest of them could stay for hours because they had to drive home to some suburb somewhere, I actually live in Paris, so I had to leave or risk missing the Metro. And though I can walk home from the Musee d’Orsay in the middle of the day, I most certainly cannot from the garment district (as far in Paris as one can get from my apartment) at 2am. Which means that this is a very anti-climactic story, because there were no lies to huge bouncers or sneaky attempts to look like I knew what I was doing and get backstage. Because there was no need to.
So the debate becomes: short concert but chance to actually meet the band vs. long show but snobby artists who get straight on their bus?
If I was 17, I’d be all about the first one. But now? I don’t know, man, it’s a tough call.
And now I am home, a little cold still but otherwise none the worse for the wear of the night. I tried to wash my face as soon as I got home because I felt so sweaty and greasy... but all that happened was that my eyeliner went from lining my eyes to lining my face, and I somehow got glitter all over myself (where in heaven’s name did that come from?). Since when did makeup start requiring mineral spirits and a buffer to get off?
I think I need red streaks in my hair.
On a mission over the hill,
B
P.S. I want to be the guy in charge of holding the guitar of the lead singer and looping it over his head when he wants it back on him.