[rerun] Summer Concerts and Second Chances

Thanks to some recent media hits (Zibby Owens’ Podcast, a HuffPost article, and a Memoir Land Q&A), I have several new subscribers. Welcome! Check out this “Hi, I’m Liz…” introduction post to learn what you’ll find here. I’m so happy we’ve connected, and I look forward to engaging with you through this Substack.

Things have been BUSY with the launch of my debut memoir, Sober Mom, and two young adults flying the nest this month. As a result, I didn’t have time to write a new post this week. Please enjoy this post from last year.

Besides “Have you been to the beach?” and “Are you going on any trips?”, “Are you seeing any shows?” is a common question people ask each other when inquiring about summer plans. So far, I’ve seen two, and we have tickets for one in September, which is still summer in my opinion.

Is there anything better than a summer concert? Whether you're sitting on the lawn at Garden State Arts Center (I refuse to call it PNC) or standing and watching the sun set at Stone Pony’s Summer Stage, whether you're singing along to a lifelong favorite like the Counting Crows or discovering a new band you love like Mt. Joy, magic happens at a summer show.

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I live for those magical music moments: the call and response, when the singer turns the microphone to the crowd, when thousands of voices unite for a fan favorite. I even love it when we bond in collective disgust—like when we were at a Dawes concert last month, and some jerk shouted, "Sit the fuck down!" We all booed the guy, and the lead singer prompted us to stand. Which we did, of course. My friend Jennifer Gaites calls this magic energy “Collective Effervescence.”

My relationship with live music began with a bang. My first concert was Amnesty International in 1986 with my friend Zari—an incredible inaugural show that I didn't fully appreciate at the time. I was thrilled to see the Hooters and Bryan Adams. (I was young, please forgive me.) The crowd sang the first verse of “Summer of '69” and Adams seemed genuinely moved. But also on that bill that night? U2 and the Police!

Here’s a moment that’s seared in my memory: the darkened stadium, dots of lighters flickering across the crowd, everyone holding their breath as Edge’s opening guitar lick for “Bad” pierced the silence. To this day, hearing that song provokes a powerful surge of emotion.

I remember that night so vividly because I was sober. The older brother who was chaperoning us allowed us to drink only one beer.

Soon after, music would define who I was. You know how in high school, there’s a point where you make a decision about your identity. Are you a jock, or a music head, or an intellectual? (Disregard the lessons we learned from “The Breakfast Club” for the moment.) I can pinpoint the exact moment I chose my path.

It was 1988, my sophomore year of high school, and my field hockey coach discovered that a few of us planned to skip practice for a Grateful Dead show. “Anyone who goes to that concert instead of practice gets kicked off the team,” she declared.

Guess which I chose? So the kids they dance, And shake their bones. I picked the music path, and I've never looked back.

But that choice came with consequences I couldn't have foreseen. After that pivotal 1986 show, I wouldn't experience another concert sober until I got clean in January 2011.

What started as pure love for live music gradually became something else entirely. Was I a drunken mess at every concert? Not all of them, but far too many. Were there shows I don't remember because I was blacked out? More than I care to admit.

The turning point came in 1997 when my sister Julia died. The grief was unbearable, and concerts became my escape route to oblivion. There was a string of shows after her death that I attended basically in a blackout—Ben Folds Five at Irving Plaza, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones at Stone Pony. I remember walking through the doors, then nothing. Entire evenings of music and magical collective energy, just lost.

If I'm being rigorously honest, as my Twelve Step program suggests, at that time I wasn't really buying concert tickets—I was purchasing permission to get obliterated. After college, I started to realize that it was uncool to get so sloppy drunk in regular social situations. But at a concert? Totally fine. You got a pass.

Concerts meant drinking beer and smoking pot, and while I may have genuinely liked the bands, my unconscious goal was oblivion. The music became secondary to the substances, though I couldn’t admit that to myself at the time.

When I got sober in 2011, my husband Chris and I returned to attending concerts together as a way to reconnect. It became a path to heal our broken marriage. While I secured childcare for our three young children, Chris planned mini-getaways around shows: Jim Boggia in Kennett Square, PA, with a trip to Longwood Gardens the next day, and Big Head Todd and the Monsters at the Bowery Ballroom in NYC.

Those first sober shows were terrifying. At first, it was difficult not drinking at a concert—like my first wedding without a drink or my first Super Bowl party stone-cold sober. At the Jim Boggia show, a waft of wheaty vapors from a waitress’s tray made me crave a beer. At the Bowery Ballroom, I burst into tears when someone carrying a bunch of beers to their friends sloshed some on me.

But I survived. I made it through an entire show without drinking and discovered something revolutionary: it was possible to attend concerts sober. I could be around people getting wasted while staying clear-headed myself. I didn't need to be drunk to participate in the collective energy.

More importantly, I could remember the shows again.

Today, some of my most treasured concert memories have happened in sobriety. Tom Petty at Forest Hills Stadium in Queens in July 2017—Petty’s second-to-last show before he passed away. (I'm forever grateful to Chris for dragging me to that one!) Trombone Shorty and others at Red Rocks in 2022 became special not just because of the iconic venue, but because our whole family attended—Chris and I with all three kids.

Dead & Co in June 2023 at MetLife Stadium might have been the best Dead show I've ever seen. The irony isn't lost on me that some of my best Grateful Dead experiences have come without any substances at all.

Does the drinking and drugging at concerts sometimes still bother me? Sure, I’d be lying if I said it didn't. But if someone blows pot smoke in my face, I can move. If the crowd gets too rowdy from drinking, I can leave early. These are small prices to pay for what I’ve gained.

I’m not going to miss out on seeing great music because of alcohol. Alcohol has already stolen so much from me, I'm not letting it steal music, too.

Now I remember the shows. Or if I don't remember, it’s because the show was meh (like the recent Dark Star Orchestra at Stone Pony’s Summer Stage), not because I blacked out.

I’ve rediscovered the concept of collective effervescence that my friend Jennifer talks about. The call and response, the unified voices, the shared energy of thousands of people connecting through music—none of that required alcohol or drugs. It only required presence, something I'd forgotten how to offer.

Standing in that crowd at the Dawes concert last month, singing along to “All Your Favorite Bands,” that’s the real magic. Thanks to sobriety, I can be fully present for these moments, remembering them clearly, and carrying them with me long after the final encore.

May you find some concert magic this summer and May all your favorite bands stay together.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I use Grammarly, but mistakes still occur. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.