It was the first concert I had ever gone to. Me and my friends were so excited. We were going to see Panic! At The Disco play live at the Majestic Ventura Theatre. If you ask me, it wasn't that majestic. Walking in, it was awesome. It was old and smelly and slightly worn down, and the paint on the intricate moldings was faded and chipping. The linoleum floors were old and cracked; signs of previous riots and mosh pits from long ago.
The place was packed. It was crouded and hot and I couldn't see anything past the bald, tattooed head of the man in front of me. I lost my friends several times that night, but they easily spotted my flaming red bob of hair like a giant strawberry in the crowd. We found a place to stand about 10 feet away from the speakers. It was loud and hot and sticky and I was pressed up against a bunch of 10 year olds who seriously needed a shower or 3. They smelled like B.O. and serious teen spirit. We didn't care. We laughed and screamed and cheered even though the only people on stage were some guys testing the sound and lighting.
The place was packed. It was crouded and hot and I couldn't see anything past the bald, tattooed head of the man in front of me. I lost my friends several times that night, but they easily spotted my flaming red bob of hair like a giant strawberry in the crowd. We found a place to stand about 10 feet away from the speakers. It was loud and hot and sticky and I was pressed up against a bunch of 10 year olds who seriously needed a shower or 3. They smelled like B.O. and serious teen spirit. We didn't care. We laughed and screamed and cheered even though the only people on stage were some guys testing the sound and lighting.