A concert conflict with “she-punk” and “face tattoo”
“Turn around. Turn around. JUST TURN AROUND THEN!” the drunken she-punk demanded. With one eyebrow raised, and my blood boiling to a critical level, somehow I managed to turn the other cheek.
What led to this standoff in the first place? A group of friends and I were at a show at the Vogue in Vancouver. For those who have never been, the Vogue has theatre seating.
Maybe by accident. A drunk guy in the row behind us spilled his whole drink down my friend Shelby’s back. We were engaged in a totally civil conversation with the guy, and I was adamant on getting him to apologize for his clumsiness.
It was a reasonable expectation.
A spilled drink usually garners at least an apology, and in most cases, a drink from the person who spills. It’s just basic concert conduct, people.
About 10 minutes into our conversation, a little firecracker with short hair and dressed in all black and denim, (a deadly combination) shows up. She injects herself into the conversation, absolutely livid that we are talking to her dude. I am not one to back down from an argument, especially if one of my friends is getting walked on. I calmly explained to her what happened and that he should apologize.
Instantly, she-punk kicked the situation into high gear and started threatening me.
I turned around, looked her in the eyes and stared her up and down. Her torn denim vest covered in obscure band logos just screamed, “please believe I’m tough.” It was then when I noticed that her man had a face tattoo. Yikes. That fact alone should have made me hit the eject button, but still, for some reason I just couldn’t let it go.
I refused to back down and the conversation shifted from sharp, cutting statements to yelling. Shelby saw how agitated I was getting. The she-punk demanded that I turn around, and kept yelling it at me.
Shelby, wisely, whispered: “Kim, just… It’s not worth it. Just drop it.” I was so angry that I couldn’t see straight. I slowly took three deep breaths. Without a word, going against every instinct in my body, I forced myself to turn around and ignore the incessant barking of the she-punk.
Never have I had to work so hard to move. I had to fight against every muscle in my body in order to turn around.
For about 20 minutes following that pleasant exchange I sat with both hands clenched into tight fists, eyes locked on the shitty opening band. Staring straight ahead, my teeth gritted, I was bracing for impact. I was a loaded spring.
Then, she-punk and face-tattoo get into an argument. He was mad because she embarrassed him, and was “always doing that shit.” In a rage, she-punk stormed off before the headliners even stepped on stage.
Should I have expected a run-in with aggressive fans? Who was the band? Were they playing fast-paced metal, hardcore, thrash-metal, or industrial?
No. We were reliving our pimply, awkward youth by watching the emo, alternative-rock band Brand New. Their music is centered around teenage angst, young love, and getting drunk on Southern Comfort.
This was neither the time, nor the place, she-punk. What an inappropriate show to try and throw fists at; for shame. In any case, I learned that however deeply it usually resides, I do have the fight response. Even in cases of denim vests, she-punks and face-tattoos.