Dana Kaldy

I spent Tuesday afternoon November 24, 2015, cross-legged on the edge of my bed, speed-racing through a Chemistry exam study guide. I was freshly 15 and shaking in near-fright that today's the day I get to see the band that introduced me to pop-punk music. In middle school, All Time Low was who I thanked for allowing me to see more than just mainstream pop music. They exorcised me out of One Direction-obsessed rose-colored paralysis. I was presented with light and guitar music; power chords that became the very backdrop of all my angst and pre-teen problems. It was also my first concert ever. So yeah, a pretty big deal. Huge earth-shattering, singing doves kind of situation.

(not from my show!)

I made us thirty minutes late doing homework for a class I couldn't care less about. Cooped up in the back of my mother's too-small Ford Focus, my two closest friends and I suffocated from the inside our puffy winter coats, stuck in traffic. Finding parking around Madison Square Garden, we ran to the first entrance we saw with no luck.

Entrance after entrance we were all met with hysterics. A security guard would furrow their brow or tilt their head, "Uh yeah that band isn't playing here." My heart dropped each time. I squinted at our tickets. In bold letters, it read The Theater at Madison Square Garden. This was different from MSG itself, we were told. (Today it's been renamed The Hulu Theater at Madison Square Garden which is definitely less confusing).

We took off running again in 45-degree weather with determination and frozen fingers, searching feverishly for the theater's entrance. Before we could locate it, my lungs gave out and I had an asthma attack in the middle of the street. With two puffs from my inhaler and what can only be described as teenage tenacity, I kept it moving. Jogging at a slower pace, I tripped over my foot and dove into the concrete. There on the cold floor, now with a sprained ankle, I had to be carried over to the entrance. I vehemently refused to miss my first show.

Finally finding our seats in the back of the venue didn't cast a shadow over me in the slightest. It was still the closest I'd ever been to a stage regardless. We arrived at some pretty bittersweet news; the first opening act, Neck Deep, had to pull out last second so the show hadn't even begun yet.

When the second opening act, Sleeping with Sirens, took the stage I was more panicked than anything. Kellin Quinn's screaming ripped through the microphone and trapped itself within my chest, making my molars vibrate. The band slowed things down with their well-known cover of 'Iris' by the Goo Goo Dolls. Equipped with just an acoustic guitar and a brave vocalist, Sleeping With Sirens reduced the screaming theater into a field of nostalgic innocence. Flickering flashlights from cellphones and lighters swayed through the air while my two friends and I grabbed a hold of each other's arms, rocking one another back and forth to the tender cover that littered us head to toe in goosebumps.

(pictured from our seats)

It was at that moment we were heavily entranced by a band we didn't even buy tickets for. The idea that you can be in a room full of thousands of people, all strangers until joined by a kindred love for music, all feeling the same emotions, was so incredibly special to me. I knew I was witnessing something bigger than myself.

We couldn't see the crew set up All Time Low's instruments because the stage had been covered by an enormous thin white curtain. And the longer it stayed up, the ditsier and antsier we became. Until bright strobe lights lit throughout; we saw the shadows of bodies strap on their instruments. My favorite band in the world at the time, at that moment, was standing right in front of me separated only by a single fabric. And then they began to play.

"Wishin' on a star that's just a satellite / Drivin' in a car with broken tail lights"

https://open.spotify.com/track/5iN7ZEHuZIHMPxQ9Eb8RXN?si=0004fa8b32834424

The beginning of 'Satellite' began to ring, fading in and out with Alex Gaskarth's voice, but we still couldn't see the band. As the song picked up and the guitars got loader, the curtain fell. The theater exploded with light and energy while I screamed until my throat soured. Everything I'd ever experienced in life was so minuscule compared to what I was witnessing in front of me. The songs I used to blast in full volume to block out turbulent high school feelings were suddenly being played right in front of me.

Halfway through the set, the band asked us, "Should we play 'Therapy' or 'Remembering Sunday?'" The latter was a fan favorite not included on the setlist. The screams for both songs were so great that no one could tell a difference. Alex paused then looked at his bandmates for a moment. Coming back to us, he said proudly, "You know what it's the last show… It's the last show! F*ck it, we'll play both." And I would've burst into teeny tiny pieces if I could.

Around the same time, Jack their lead guitarist had compiled a colossal amount of bras of which were tossed at him, and oddly enough I never felt more at home. He seemed pretty psyched about it, putting one over his head at some point.

After an encore and a cover of Green Day's 'American Idiot', I prayed that the idea of going home would cease to exist. I wished nothing could tear me from that seat. But when it did, I found that a piece of me stayed in that theater. All Time Low was going to stay with me and all my future endeavors; they were always going to be my first show. In a way, it's like I never even left. At 15, I constantly felt badgered by teenage insecurity and high school pressure, but that theater was my safe space. Some version of me was always going to be screaming the lyrics to their songs, and feeling like nothing in the world can touch me. I limped to school that next day. With a perpetual ringing in my ears and still no voice, I hoped the physical remnants this show had on me never faded.

 This free site is ad-supported. Learn more
​