Blood Tangent | Sarai Nissan
I’m on the list,” I say not so surreptitiously to the grumbling face behind scratched up, filthy glass. A little surge of superiority floods my brain whenever I say it. I feel cool, like a VIP ghoul, like maybe I’m kind of important.
“Can I see your ID please.” The grumbler says.
I pass it under the glass (feels like visiting hours in prison), and watch her scan the list for my name before picking it and my complimentary ticket out.
These are the coveted words. Holy in their own right. There is something oh so glamorous about not having to pay for things. “Why is this person so important that they get in for free?” They think. Well, little Lava Lizards of music junkie island, don’t you fret, I’m not that important. I just have a job that makes it seem like I am. Anyone could be me.
I slap on my photo pass sticker to the black outfit I have carefully curated. I fish my camera out of my bag and beeline to the front of the venue, timed perfectly so that the headliner will materialize in five, four, three, two, one…(As a rule, I never get to any venue at doors, primarily because no one cares).
I hit the shutter like a gun.
I flash my photo pass to the bouncers fixed by the sides of the stage, so I can get as close to it as I possibly can without actually being on it. Stationed right where band members duck in and out from the green room—maybe this will be my big break, I catch myself thinking. It never is—you immediately seem much more relevant if you stand somewhere where no one else is allowed to be.
Now don’t get me wrong, as bleak as this column may be, I love music, writing about it, listening to it (live or not), but after a while, this whole routine gets a little monotonous and my eyes start scanning for the neon green exit sign. At the end of the night I find myself smoking cigarettes under the marquis. I throw my ticket and photo pass in the trash and poof, with the bat of an eyelash, I’m no one again. Everybody wants to be someone once in awhile.