In my younger years, I decided I wanted to become a music journalist. All I wanted, was to take my notebook and pen, and go visit concerts and festivals and presentations to write about what I love: music. I imagined myself interviewing the greatest artists, going backstage and telling the craziest of stories.
Since then, I went to hundreds of concerts, festivals and events and I loved it with all my heart. There’s nothing I love more than to go a music festival with my friends and family, and enjoy the sun, music and spare-ribs. During the past year, I started to write about these experiences, and I published these stories and reviews right here on Almost Famous Writer. But, the dream of going to a concert or festival as an official reporter still lingered, and last Friday, I went to my first concert as a writer for 3VOOR12/Zeeland.
I was both nervous and excited when I drove (all by myself and I’m still incredibly proud of said accomplishment) all the way to Bergen op Zoom to cover a concert by a band that I had kind of forgotten about: Moke. Back in 2008, their debut album Shorland was on repeat at home and during the concert, I experienced more flashbacks than I can possibly count. Besides that, I also experienced a sense of pride, that I organized this all by myself, that I drove all the way by myself – but most of all, that I was there, in that concert hall, all by myself.
And this one realization was a strange one. Everybody else there was with someone, whether that were friends or family. They were talking to each other, laughing with each other and drinking with each other. I, was not. I was alone, quietly observing them from my safely secured place in front of the stage. Although I was terribly aware of this, I did not mind. After all, I was here on a mission: to report.
I thought I was not going to talk to anyone the entire night, until two middle-aged men approached me. The first, wearing a leather jacket and being just a tiny bit taller than me, asked me: “Who put you on the guest list?” It wasn’t an unfriendly question, but rather an incredibly curious one. Indeed, what was a young girl doing at a concert venue all by herself. I replied with: “I’m a reporter.”
I am a reporter. The man nodded his head, with an expression of surprise on his sun kissed face. “A reporter, huh? You’re quite young to be reporter.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You have to start some time, right?”
The two men laughed, and before they wished me good luck on the job, they said to me: “You missy, you’ll get there.”