Teddy Afro Needs to Come to Asella

I miss going to shows.

I miss feeling the surge of excitement as the band takes the stage.

I miss being in an overcrowded space with strangers. And I miss, by the end of the set, feeling an unspoken bond with those strangers.

I miss being in a room with people who know my next favorite band before I’ve even heard of them.

I miss being surrounded by people who make me feel like tattoos are the status quo.

I miss singing along to all the songs with reckless abandonment.

I miss watching hundreds of people feel free enough to sing without shame or self-consciousness.

I miss a singer who is more conductor than singer.

I miss seeing little kids with their parents and knowing he or she has no chance but to grow up to be like the rest of us.

I miss dancing around the tiny few inches of space I have.

I miss clapping so hard my hands hurt by the end of the night.

I miss yelling lyrics like they were written for me.

I miss the idiots in the mosh pit.

I miss the thoughtless people crowd surfing.

I miss the progression of a perfect set list.

I miss the beginning of an encore; when everyone in the room knows they only have a few songs before this moment is over.

I miss walking out into a brisk night as the cold wind hits the sweat I was completely unaware of.

I miss LA dirty dogs.

I miss having no voice and sore legs the next day.

I really miss going to shows.