i’m a closet dave matthewsite. i love him. i love his band. some people think that makes me a loser. but i can’t help it. he reminds me of being 16 and driving to/from diving practice in findlay, having the freedom of a license and an open road, a deep tan, hair bleached blonde from the sun, and no worries. except for what mom was making for dinner. hopefully not tuna noodle casserole again. she always burned it.

i’d listen to tripping billies on the way to practice. i’d listen to #41 and crush on the way home, the sun setting behind me, my body tired and my eyes doughy from chlorine. (i was in the pool so much that year that licking my skin after a shower would release more chlorine smell. it was ridiculous. or amazing).

dmb also was my first concert. in cincinnati. it also was the first time i got drunk with friends. i was 17. i’d only been drunk once before, and it was at my brother alex’s wedding. i was 15. i got drunk on champagne. the room spun in the hotel that night. my mom thought it was hilarious. the next day, she and dad got donato’s pizza and put it next to me in the back seat all the way back home. two hours. me hungover, not able to appreciate the donato’s deliciousness. wanting to shoot myself instead.

oh wait, so back to dave matthews. my friend brad, who i loved making out with at the time, was a freshmen in uc’s design program. another rad character, ryan, was his accomplice. together, they spiked my orange juice with vodka. then they proceeded to get lost on the way to the concert. i remember being in the front seat, yelling to the back of the minivan about how weird the orange juice tasted (and brad laughing at me, later rolling his eyes wishing he hadn’t gotten me drunk for fear i’d never shut my pie hole), while ryan got on entry ramps and off exit ramps. i remember lots of circling.

but the best part, aside from neel laying on the lawn like a slug, was just sitting in warm grass on a warm city night surrounded by hilarious friends i loved being with, listening to some glorious sounds played by talented musicians whose art moved me emotionally. people smoked weed openly around us. everyone was a hippie. i was a hippie. later, we bared our asses out windows like the maturing adults we were.

i was happy.

i’ve had lots of similar experiences of being moved by music — ben folds at wolf trap, regina spektor at virgin music fest, shins at merriweather, mew at black cat, even ben lee at the birchmere — but nothing compares to your first concert when the band, the weather, the experience seems almost magical.

sure, it could have been the vodka. but something tells me it wasn’t.

i have this uncanny ability to associate music to experiences very strongly. i’ve tried to explain it to people, but most think i’m getting all spiritual or metaphysical and look at me weird. some get it, though. i mean, i can remember exact chords and songs i hear at random moments. i realize that some situations are actually greatly enhanced by whatever music is playing in the background. later, when i hear a song, or a similar song even sometimes, i get goosebumps from it. suddenly. like the memory itself has been enhanced because of the music, too. it’s an incredible distraction. but i know it’s unique and i love it. (i also sometimes am moved by certain smells i associate with memories. but less so than music. like, for instance, pipe smoke reminds me of my grandpa, even though i don’t remember him otherwise.)

anyway.

today, when i still here anything from crash or under the table and dreaming, my heart swells and i smile. the emotions that music and memories can elicit a decade later is priceless to me.

sing to me, dave.