Jenny Sheets on the Power of Live Music

My heart pounded for weeks as I thought about the songs she might play and what I would wear. The thought of hearing, “…paved paradise and put up a parking lot…” carried me through fifth-grade lessons and household chores until the night arrived. If I remember correctly, I wore long shorts and an oversized T-shirt—classic.

Nothing in my childhood dreams could have prepared me for a live concert: dimming of the lights, first notes of music, the roar of the crowd, screaming and singing with strangers as one. This was long before cell phones and pocket cameras but I captured the memory of that night in a hand-drawn thank you note to my neighbors with Amy Grant singing on stage holding a bag of Lay’s potato chips. (My neighbor did something with Lay’s. My ten-year-old comprehension recalls that he either owned the company or filled vending machines). That one night, all the anticipation leading up to it, and all the adrenaline after it, left a permanent mark on me. I needed more.

The problem with being ten is that you’re ten. No one would fund my newfound passion for hopping on a concert circuit and I couldn’t get a job to fund it myself. I was old enough to understand the concept of money. Every month the coveted Delia’s catalog arrived and I spent weeks circling everything I wanted to buy with my nonexistent credit card. So yeah, I was no fool to the workings of capitalism. When I turned eleven, a respectable age to hit the job market, I started going doorto-door asking if anyone wanted to hire me. I babysat, raked leaves, picked rocks out of gardens, and even worked retail (not legal). I was practically swimming in cash.

My fundraising coincided perfectly with our generation’s version of Beatlemania: the rise of NSYNC and Backstreet Boys. I doubt there could have been a more fitting time for two of the biggest heart-throbbing bands to enter my life. Hormones were in full swing and the Titanic soundtrack was No. 1. Even twenty-five years later, just hearing the first two notes of “My Heart Will Go On” almost sends me into early menopause—in a good way.

Both bands embarked on global tours that included North Dakota. I remember feeling as if I would literally die if I didn’t go. Now at my age, that level of extreme delirium would land me in the hospital, but ah, adolescent bliss. Tickets weren’t cheap. I must have pooled all of my piggy banks together and taken out an advance on my chore money, but I remember holding onto those paper tickets like gold. For reasons I can’t comprehend, especially since I’m a parent now myself, my dad drove my two best friends and me to both concerts, an hour and a half away—on two separate occasions—so we could scream and profess our love during every bridge of every song. That year my parents also gave me a portable CD player for my birthday. Thanks to mail-order CD scams I discovered bands outside my boy band scope: No Doubt, Green Day, TLC. I fell in love with the Broadway Rent soundtrack alongside the Beastie Boys. Just as erratic as my middle school emotions, from punk to R&B, and Broadway—music was woven into my identity.

I carried my Walkman into high school, putting the headphones over my head in between classes. Pop punk and ska of the early 2000s was in full swing and I finally felt heard when I listened to Blink 182, Fall Out Boy, or Reel Big Fish. In hallways, bedrooms, and cars, my friends and I would sing as loud as we could, flailing our arms and legs, and pumping our fists to the music gods. Pop punk and ska were happy genres that bordered on rebellion but didn’t cross the line—perfect for angsty teenagers unsure of where they fit.

Pretty soon all my babysitting money went to every ska and punk show I could find. I wasn’t old enough to get into the bar shows with the big local bands, but that didn’t slow me down. I started to amass a group of friends who would clue us into high school punk bands playing at the local bowling alley and coffee shops. Promotion traveled via photo-copied posters tacked up in school bathrooms, or yelled in the hallway between classes, “Brookdale at the All Star Bowl tonight! Five bucks!”

I spent a long time getting ready for concerts—which was half the fun— determining which outfit would allow me to dance the hardest and fit in with the, “I don’t care about fitting in” crowd. Oftentimes I landed on rippedup jeans with black or hot pink tights underneath, paired with a couple of tank tops, a ton of bracelets, and poorly dyed hair in a high pony. In this outfit, I felt more like myself than anywhere else.

Like many young people, it took me a long time to settle into my skin and find a community. It’s not like I was immune to the threats of adolescence. But for a few hours on the weekend, while kicking my legs to overly distorted punk or ska, worries took a backseat to my love for live music. We wore ripped, baggy clothes together. We sweated and screamed together. We breaked under the streetlight together. Despite what was going on at school or at home, we exhaled and made space for joy. Together.

It’s been over twenty years since those nights at the bowling alley, and I don’t listen to as much punk or ska anymore. Truthfully, I miss it. In my twenties, I demoted genres and switched to club and party music, and then in my thirties, I quieted down to Americana and folk. Now with a three-year-old, I listen to Sesame Street and handclapping songs on repeat, not by choice. But a few months ago a friend gave us a tote full of records he found at his parents’ house. Our son pulled out a green record with cartoon figures on the front: The Kinks, “Schoolboys in Disgrace,” a 1975 rock album. For months, per my son’s request, we listened to it on repeat. After seeing our son light up to music, we started to reach back into our memories of CD cases and introduced him to some of our old favorites like The Black Crowes, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and even a little Fall Out Boy and Mighty Mighty Bosstones. We danced in the living room as a family, kicking our legs, waving our arms, doing somersaults on the carpet, not caring what anybody thought—just exhaling and allowing space for joy. Together.