Ryan's Writings

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It's funny how a shirt with a couple of words on it can open a conversation, or two, or three.

Doing a dejected half jog to the elevator that would soon close, I had pretty much given up on catching it-- it wasn't a train or anything, missing it wouldn't cause any grave consequences really. Thankfully though, a hand stuck out from the elevator, along with the words, "Oh hey! I like your shirt!" And as I made my way in, the woman that almost lost her fingers to the sliding door smiled, tilting her head to my H&M Fall Out Boy shirt.

"I saw them at the Chicago airport once," she says, pulling her phone out, opening her photo app and pressing on a folder aptly titled Fall Out Boy Selfies. And true to the name, there she was, grinning alongside Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump.
"Met Joe too," she added as she adjusted the bag nestled in the crook of her elbow while swiping through the gallery.
"I haven't met them," I decide on saying, trying to continue this conversation, "but I have seen them, in Manila, when they came there last year. I really liked it." Awkward, but to the point.
"Yeah, I love em," she would say before we reached our floor, swiping past the pictures to instead get a picture of her flight information. "Have a safe flight, okay?"
"You too, see you around!" I don't know why I added that last bit, but maybe I would in the future? Maybe at a Fall Out Boy concert or two one day.

Though it was a quick interaction, it was nice, and it almost made me feel better about missing my bus and also my train before getting to the airport, because if I had gotten there any earlier, I wouldn't have had that little conversation with her.

Thinking that was the last time someone would point out my shirt, the lady behind the counter perks up a bit as she lets me in after seeing my flight.

"Fall Out Boy! That brings back memories," she says with a smile.
"Oh, yeah! Were you able to see their concert recently?"
"They're doing concerts again?" She looks surprised but still happy, "No, I didn't! I didn't know they were still together!"
I nod, putting my phone back in my pocket, "They toured their new album," I tell her.
"New album?" She's raising her brows now, and I'm just thankful no one's behind me yet so I don't hold up the line. "I'll have to listen to that when I'm home! Thanks for telling me, enjoy your flight!" She makes a signal for the next person to come after me, and I move aside.
"Yeah, of course! Thank you." I almost tell her to enjoy her flight but thankfully I save myself from that small embarassment.

I'll be honest, metal isn't my first choice when it comes to music-- I didn't even know the band that I was seeing that night, but due to a less than favorable cancellation of a comedy show my friends were supposed head to, I found myself in Trans-Pecos, a fairly small venue in Queens, New York. Though I was strapped for cash, my friend said they would buy me a ticket if I was okay with standing back and holding their bags just in case a mosh pit were to break out. Being no stranger to how rowdy those things can get (I once lost a very cute pair of heart shaped prescription glasses in one), I agreed to tag along as their coatrack. Luckily, this venue had a bench where I could sit back and rhythmically bounce my leg as Funeral Chant, a black metal band hailing from Oakland, California, performed.

I was half way through my second vodka cranberry in when I realized the fatigue from running around New York had finally set in. Traversing an unfamiliar city usually does that to you, especially when you also have to figure out bus schedules, how the trains run, and the New York City grid system... all while it trying to stay dry, as apparently, the aftermath of Hurricane Debby made its way through the city. I suppose my body could only handle so much, especially without an energy drink or coffee in my system, as I felt like I could just knock out right then and there. And as I finished off my second vodka cran, that's what started to happen-- I could barely keep my eyes open.

Usually, this is not a thing you want to do at a show, especially at a show in a city you barely know, surrounded by at least two or three dozen conventionally "scary" looking strangers. Especially when these strangers don battle vests with patches that have lettering unreadable to the untrained eye, coupled with illustrations of heads on stakes and corpses with various liquids oozing out of them. What was a bit more concerning though, were the shirts a couple people were wearing. When we had walked in, my friends and I had noticed at least two people wearing shirts with art belonging to infamous bands such as Burzum or Forgotten Woods, we paid no mind to that though, assuming they were wearing those shirts because they enjoyed the music and not the bands' ideologies. Aside from the handful of sweaty, longhaired metalheads, this place felt like home, or at least a strange callback to my childhood, more or less.

As a kid, I would be dragged by my parents to parties that ran late into the night where there would be equally grumpy and tired kids that didn't have any way of entertaining themselves, as iPhones and iPads were not as common place as they are now. And though I would beg my parents to leave so I could watch TV or even just go to bed, they would brush me off in favor of dancing with their friends or gossiping late into the night. Because of this, I would have to settle for getting some shut eye as the heavy bass reverberated through the two chairs I pushed together to form my makeshift bed for the remainder of the night. And perhaps that's why I could find myself taking a quick cat nap at the metal show. It was strangely so calming-- the drum beats called back to vibrations that once rocked me to sleep, the metal style scream-singing mirrored party chatter in a sense, and even the moshing somewhat followed a beat similar to the way my parents and their friends would line dance. And though I knew no one but two people there (my parents, in the case of child me and my friends, in the case of adult me), I felt safe to close my eyes and tune out for a bit. And as I found myself starting to shut my eyes, a man who with a grey beard and and vest full of patches approached me, giving a face of worry before sticking his thumb up, as if to question if I was okay. With a slow nod, I signalled that I was fine and he nodded in return before he turned back around to enjoy the music.

Looking back at this experience, it made me think of how even though metalheads may not look like the most approachable people out there, most of them just want to facilitate a space where music can be enjoyed and people are cared for.