One of my favorite bands, and I wear their hoodie with pride. With all supergroups* come conflicting schedules, so they were only able to play a handful of shows.

The DVD that this video was pulled from is the closest I ever got to see them play live. I’ve been revisiting this album all morning, much to Henry’s chagrin.

(He doesn’t like Anthony Green. This is actually grounds for break-up, so I’m not sure what’s keeping me with him.)

I think I will listen to ALL of their albums, ALL DAY. And all of Circa Survive’s, too. That’ll show him.

*Most notably, this band consisted of members from Rx Bandits, Circa Survive, Finch, Chiodos (well, ex-Chiodos, as it were), Good Old War and The Autumns. In my opinion, it’s the perfect concoction of talent.

Three years ago, I was on my way home from Cincinnati for the last time, when this song came on in my car. It was on a mix CD I had made months earlier, but never listened to until then. I just remember having my breath ripped right out from me, and replaying the song immediately after it ended, then scouring the CD for more Dance Gavin Dance tracks. I bought both of their albums post haste and it became pretty much all I listened to for months; their lyrics inspired paintings and stories and certain songs on repeat coaxed me down from the ledges upon which life and broken hearts had precariously placed me. Their music simultaneously made me want to love and rage while throwing my body up against walls.

If you’ve received a mix CD from me anytime since 2008, chances are there is at least one Dance Gavin Dance track on there.

Unfortunately, my discovery happened right after the band kicked out their singer, Jonny Craig, so while I’ve gotten to see them twice over the years with Jonny’s replacement, I never really got to have the DGD experience I craved.

I was in the car last August when Alternative Press sent out a tweet announcing that Jonny Craig was going to reprise his role in Dance Gavin Dance. Even though I don’t harbor the best opinions of Jonny, with whom I’ve had a couple unsavory encounters at his other band Emarosa’s shows, my love for his work with Dance Gavin Dance is great enough for me to snuff out the flame of hate that burns for him in my stomach’s pit and just appreciate the music as the entree instead of a side dish to Jonny’s steaming bowl of douche-peppered arrogance.

So as the news sunk in, I cried. Legitimate tears of OMG Fangirl Hysteria streaked my face as I realized I might have the chance to see one  of my favorite  bands with their original lineup, and for this thirty-one-year-old scene girl, that’s better than a trip to the beach. Better than winning a new car. Better than having whatever asshole you’re rooting for become the next American Idol.

Better than anything most women my age should be getting all worked up about. And I am grateful for that.

I bought tickets for their Pittsburgh show in March and have been so happy about it all weekend. Henry can’t wait.

Sorry, Googlers – I don’t actually have any photographical evidence of Jonny Craig’s genitalia here at Oh Honestly, Erin, but thanks for keeping what I wrote about him last year the most-viewed post on my blog! Over 80 views just in the last 24-hours  (1,167 all-time), which is a lot when you’re as unpopular in the blogosphere as I am.

And of course there’s got to be a “flopping boobs” up in there, too, for good measure.

Tonight is Game Night which means Henry is grumpily cleaning the house and threatening to kill me and Chooch. Scary times. In order to build the dam against impending bloodshed, Chooch and I went to the craft store so I could get more wood blocks for my bathroom plaques and candles to mask the perpetual cat stench in our house. What really happened was that I offered to go to the grocery store to pick up stuff Henry needs for his spinach dip; when I suggested this, Henry’s face went slack and practically served as a projector screen of the montage of me fucking up that was spooling through his memory. So we mutually decided on me sticking to a store I couldn’t get lost in or accidentally purchase sardine juice.

In the car, I was playing the new Circa Survive Appendages EP.

“Who is this?” Chooch asked from the backseat, carefully forming the words around the protruding candy cane which he acquired from the cashier at the liquor store after successfully managing to not touch any daunting pyramid displays of wine bottles.

(Mostly this was due to the fact that every one of his fingers was stuffed into finger puppets, preoccupying him while I calculated the ratio of how much I like my friends : how much money I wanted to spend on wine.)

“Circa Survive,” I answered. But god forbid I should stop there! “The singer is Anthony Green. You know who he is. He’s in that picture with Craig [Owens] that I have hanging on the wall behind the chair.”

“Oh,” Chooch mumbled. “Yeah, I know Anthony.”

“Daddy hates Circa Survive,” I instigated, hoping this could be something that Chooch and I could join forces on in order to make Henry’s life even more miserable.

“Yeah well, I’m going to take Daddy to see Circa Survive and then tell Anthony to punch him in the face,” he spat aggressively.

I don’t know where Chooch gets his aggression,  but I honestly thought he was going to cut me the other day when his person lost on Hell’s Kitchen and my person won.

Excited that Chooch was expressing interest in this, I blurted out, “Do you want to watch Circa Survive videos when we get home?”

“No,” he said haughtily, as if he couldn’t believe my audacity to suggest something so lame to him.

I’m placing an ad on Craigslist today for a friend who will sit around and watch music videos with me.

I’m on the way to work and just got a tweet from Alternative Press announcing some early bands playing at next summer’s Warped Tour.

Hysterical shrieking commenced.

“I can’t wait until you’re old enough to go by yourself,” Henry mumbled with absolutely no feeling, at the same time Chooch reminded me, “You don’t have to shout about it!”

There was a special holiday pre-sale going on and you better believe I snatched one up. I want my motherfucking commemorative ornament.

I made my first mix tape when I was four, by thrusting a Fisher Price microphone right up against the stereo speakers. The tape was translucent yellow and had a rainbow arching across the top; the songs on it were muffled and never full-length.  In middle school, I started trading mix tapes with several pen pals I had around the country. One girl from Seattle taught me about Matthew Sweet and the Pixies. Another put Cotton Eye Joe on her mix tape and already I was learning to curl my lip up in music-snobbery.

A few years ago, when I worked evenings as a billing clerk for FedEx, my boss walked in on me talking to one of the drivers about post-hardcore. Afterward, he said, “I’ve never heard you talk so much!”

“Well, you never asked me about music,” I said with a shrug. Music will always be my #1 topic of choice. And not just music, but also the inter-band drama, message-board feuds, the he-said-she-said of band break-ups. It’s all interesting to me. Even if it’s a band I don’t like, if they’re being interviewed by Alternative Press, I will read it. And then I will drone on about it for hours to Henry, poor Henry, who sort of cares sometimes but most of the time not really.

In our house, Rolling Stone magazine is frowned upon. My death row pen pal Greg, knowing that I love music, got me a subscription for it a few years ago and, while I appreciated the sentiment, I could never bring myself to look at any page past the cover. Since the late ’90s, Alternative Press has always been my go-to. It’s kind of like still having those pen pals telling me about bands that I’m sure as shit not going to be hearing on the radio. And from being a faithful subscriber for so long, the names on the cover stories and at the end of album reviews have become more familiar to me than my own family.

So when AP’s editor-in-chief followed me back on Twitter a couple months ago, my heart kind of actually stopped for a second. I called Henry at work to tell him, but I was able to just say “Jason Pettigrew is following me on Twitter!” and Henry, good old Henry, knew exactly who that was. Because this is a magazine that I literally dissect, inhale and discuss. A few years ago, Alternative Press ran a contest to find their #1 fan. I slaved over this essay, cried about it, took it out on Henry, bled a little, because I wanted so badly to find the perfect words. Oh I did, alright! Just about 1000 words too many. So I didn’t win and it was a dark day in this house when I learned that I was beat by some 16-year-old girl from California. Please don’t make me relive that while struggling to find the perfect words again, and let’s just say that Alternative Press is “like Really Important to me, OMG.” And Jason is someone whose words and opinions I have greatly admired throughout the years. He’s been with AP almost since the very start, and I can only imagine the hands he has shaken and the shit he has heard. So on a geeky music-maniac level, this was like the greatest thing ever to me.

And sometimes he would even reply to my tweets!

Then something incredible happened. Jason was in town over the weekend and for some crazy reason, he wanted to meet me, Henry and Chooch. (Maybe now Henry will stop urging me to quit being so obnoxious on Twitter.) However, I knew that if Chooch came along, especially if we were going to any sort of eating establishment and not a park where he could roam free and scare off wildlife with his high-pitched shrieking, conversation would be futile. And bitch, this was about ME! I had nightmares of Chooch monopolizing the conversation, completely usurping Jason’s time and me not getting to hyperventilate while upchucking the laundry list of questions I had been mentally preparing and of course promptly forgot once I was sitting across from him.

We decided to meet at Gullifty’s in Squirrel Hill on Saturday. Henry and I got there a little bit early and sat in the car, listening to Pierce the Veil.

Instead of being nervous and rocking back and forth in the passenger seat like I had suspected, I was actually really, incredibly giddy. Henry kept giving me disgusted looks. He’s not a fan of Giddy Erin.

“Do you think he’ll let me take his picture?” I wondered out loud. “Because my friends will totally be like ‘Pics or it didn’t happen.'”

“What are you, 12?” Henry asked in annoyance. No, but my friends are?

Actually, I can’t picture any of my friends saying that. Never mind.

The next several minutes are a blur. I vaguely remember meeting Jason, who was wearing a My Chemical Romance t-shirt, in front of Gullifty’s, maybe shaking hands? I definitely remember hoping Henry wouldn’t embarrass me. And then somehow I made it from the sidewalk to a booth inside of Gullifty’s without tripping, puking or dying. Things were looking up.

I knew I wasn’t going to be able to eat real food, so I went straight to the dessert menu (I went with some multi-million calorie peanut butter pie). Henry and Jason were discussing the regular food options (they both got soup) and I sat there thinking about all the inhumane, grassroots surgical techniques I would be practicing on Henry later that night if he continued to talk about food when I had 6,879,098 music questions to ask.

And then Jason said that his wife said to say hello and thanks for the laughs and I tried to be all, “Oh cool, thanks” but on the inside I was like, “OMFG.

”

“OK, I’m going to try and not be annoying—” I started.

“You can be as annoying as you want,” Jason said. That gave me great pause; no one has ever greenlit that for me.

“Have you ever met Robert Smith!?” I blurted, which was the #1 question I wanted to ask and I think I said it much more calmly than in all the times I was practicing in front of the mirror. And from there, we talked about bands, Alternative Press, road-tripping for shows, what it was like for Jason growing up in the Pittsburgh scene. Sometimes Jason would try and ask me questions too, like how Henry and I met, but I was like WHO CARES ABOUT US?! TELL ME MORE DIRT! (All of which was off the record. And no, Henry – that won’t work for you.)

“I’m just a dude,” Jason said after I admitted that I was nervous and sort of in awe to be sitting across from him. “Just a dude who hasn’t been to Gullifty’s in twenty years!” he added. I admired that he was humble, and even appreciated his self-deprecation, considering that’s my own modus operandi, but he really isn’t “just a dude” to me! I was trying not to come off as some sort of star-struck sycophant, because I didn’t want him to get some weird impression of me (as if there aren’t a thousand other ways for me to give off weird impressions) but he really has made an impact on my life.

I have so much respect for the guy and the fact that he carved out two hours to spend with us? There is no tangible way for me to express the amount of appreciation I have for that.

Because I guess I feel the same way – just switch out “dude” for “some chick on Twitter,” because I’m not ready to reveal the fruits of my sex-change surgery just yet. I’m just some chick on Twitter, talking shit on Henry, moms, Miley Cyrus and probably you.  And somehow that was enough to make this awesome dude want to meet me.

Maybe my favorite part was when Jason said that if we come to Cleveland, he will go to Melt with us. Melt, the mecca for grilled cheese aficionados, of which I am a big one! It doesn’t take much to please me.

(I’m trying my best to write this as a 31-year-old woman and not a 16-year-old girl. But I keep feeling my maturity sifting through my fingertips as I struggle with the urge to hit Caps Lock.)

“You don’t have any other questions?” Jason asked as we stood outside of Gullifty’s, ready to part ways. “You didn’t really ask me all that much.”

“I’m sure she’ll be going, ‘Shit, I should have asked about—-‘ the whole way home,” Henry laughed, and even though I was thinking, “STFU Henry,” I knew it was true.

Jason told me I could call or text him if I had more questions, and then he joked that when his phone was blowing up with texts and his wife asked who it was, he’d roll his eyes and say, “It’s just Oh Honestly, Erin.”

Then he hugged me!

A few hours later, Henry and I were watching the Penguins play the Thrashers. “Did we really just hang out with Jason Pettigrew today?” I asked, and Henry was all, “He fist-pumped me!” Henry doesn’t get to interact with other men very often.

That was the best peanut butter pie of my life.

Chooch, reading the book Jason brought for him. Thank you so much, Jason! For everything!

I’m not even going to pretend I haven’t been lurched toward the computer, waiting for exactly 11:11am, which is when D.R.U.G.S. promised to finally post a song. Because that’s exactly what I was doing.

You did good, Mr. Owens. But I still think D.R.U.G.S. is a stupid band name.

This whole Craig/Chiodos thing still tears me up inside.

I’m on another Pierce the Veil kick. This happens often and now you must suffer along with me. It’s ridiculous that I haven’t overplayed their new album by now (though I’m sure every time Henry gets in the car, he thinks, “Goddamn haven’t we listened to this album enough already?”). I just don’t think these guys get enough credit. Especially not from a lyrical standpoint. A lot of people can’t get behind Vic’s voice, but that’s one of the things I love so much about this band – they sound like no other.  (Plus, I like boys who sing like girls yet can still fucking scream.)

This is my favorite song off Selfish Machines and I really hope they make a video for it. In Alternative Press’s track-by-track breakdown of the album, Vic said a fan approached him and said that her boyfriend had died in a car accident, and that it had been at one of their shows where he held her hand for the first time. This song was meant to be from the boyfriend’s point of view and it kills me every time I hear it.

Listening to them today has provided a nice bit of catharsis after last night’s volatile post. I haven’t even re-read it so I can only imagine it’s obscenity- and typo-laden. Thank you for making me feel calmer today, Pierce the Veil.  I might die if I don’t get to see you again soon.

Even though I was a yo-girl in high school with a predilection for gangsta rap, I always had a soft spot underneath my Cross Colors hoodie and marijuana pendant for soft rock. I attribute this mostly to my grandparent’s house; they always had Lite FM on in their kitchen, and some of my best memories are sitting on a stool at their kitchen counter, eating a grilled cheese while Phil Collins and Gino Vanelli filled the room.

In the mid-nineties, before my Pappap died, I started seeing infomercials for a new Time Life music compilation called Body Talk. It was chock full of all my favorite Days Of Our Lives power couple power ballads, like Steve and Kayla’s Kenny G and that Joe Cocker song that always played when Doug and Julie had romantic flashbacks. (I recently had a mild argument with a co-worker about this and of course I was right; bitch, I BETTER be right, I kept a goddamn Days of Our Lives scrapbook in elementary school.) And what CD collection would be complete without Hope and Bo’s sex jam “Tonight I Celebrate My Love.”  I begged my Pappap to order it for me, and he did. Because I’m the best.

Every month, I’d get a new double CD in the mail and run up to my room to listen. Richard Marx, Gregory Abbott, DAN FOGELBURG, MOTHERFUCKERS. You want a Crystal Gayle and Eddie Rabbitt duet? Body Talk’s got you covered. It was all there. All my favorite “70-year-old in a 16-year-old’s body” classics. I’d slip in some England Dan and John Ford Coley in between Scarface and Foxxy Brown tracks on my signature mix tapes that none of my friends ever wanted me to play in the car. These tapes could seamlessly soundtrack a drive-by shooting and a quiet evening with knitting needles and a cup of Earl Grey. That’s just how I do.

The fourth collection arrived one day and I can remember listening to it my room and pausing when I got to a song on the second disc that I had never heard before. It was Billy Preston and Syreeta’s “With You I’m Born Again” and it became my new favorite song that I had to listen to over and over and over and over again. And then I made my friends listen to it over and over and over and over again. Of course, none of them liked it. They were teenagers. Teenagers don’t want to listen to some lame love song that their parents probably fucked to in the 80s.

But I just really loved this song. It would make me cry so hard and get all swoony. So it went on one of my mix tapes.

I was at Lisa’s house one day and she had begrudgingly allowed me  to put on one of my tapes in her room while she got ready for us to go out. All of my friends back then typically let me have my way because they knew I was still on the same emotional plane as a five-year-old with Downs. I’m sure the tape was bursting with all of Lisa’s faves, like Bone Thugs n Harmony and 2Pac. (Lisa was into alternative back then and hated rap, but tolerated it in my presence. I guess she never learned that good friends don’t let friends listen to rap.)

Somewhere in the midst of all of this, my love jam came on and I got all somber and melancholy. With me in the background plotting my suicide, Lisa had accidentally knocked her calculator off her bed (do kids in school still use calculators?) and it broke. She picked it up tenderly, cradled it in her arms, and began singing along with Billy Preston and Syreeta in hopes of serenading her calculator back to life.

From that day on, it became known as The Calculator Song.

***

In last night’s episode of “Glee,” the club was doing some duet contest; Rachel and Finn wanted to purposely blow it so Rachel devised a plan where they would sing a really bad song, because that would be the only way they could lose.

They fucking sang the Calculator Song and I almost died. It was after midnight when I was watching it, and I didn’t want to call Lisa that late. So instead, I ran upstairs and woke up Henry, excitedly telling him all about it.

“OK,” he murmured before falling back asleep.

IT WAS A BIG DEAL FOR ME.

I went back downstairs and stewed in my urgent need to share this amazing moment. It was Hell, keeping it to myself.

I haven’t heard that song, ever, outside of that damn Body Talk CD. Up until last night, I couldn’t be convinced that it wasn’t recorded specifically for Time Life.

Finally, I managed to fall asleep around 1:00AM, after some of my buzz wore off.

Once I took Chooch to school this morning, I called Lisa. It was a little after 8:00AM and I figured that was late enough.

I excitedly ran through the story, pausing occasionally to choke on obnoxious giggles.

“And guess what song they sang!” I yelled.

“I don’t know,” Lisa mumbled, clearly not fully awake.

“THE CALCULATOR SONG!” I squealed, laughing all over again.

“Ha,” Lisa said with little conviction. “I’m going back to bed now. I’ll call you later.”

OK FINE. I’ll just be sitting here, listening to my precious slow jam all morning long. Maybe later I might slip some Peabo Bryson into the mix.

***

My Body Talk collection was never completed. After my Pappap died, a few more still came in the mail, but then my grandma was like, “Yeah, I’m not paying for this shit.”

Seriously, I wonder how many scene-babies have been conceived thanks to this song.

Unless you literally know absolutely nothing about me, you know that I have a special place in my heart for Craigery Owens, right next to Robert Smith’s property. But to me,  Chiodos was never just Craig, so unlike all the fans who have been bitching and screaming about the audacity of Chiodos forging ahead without Craig, I’m excited about it. From the live videos and the Equal Vision teaser above, I think their new singer Brandon (formerly of Yesterday’s Rising) has proven to be a great match.

As long as Chiodos continues making music, I’ll continue supporting them! They’ve been too big a part of my life for the last five years for me to stop loving them now.

Not gonna lie, I leaped out of bed at 7:30am on the day of Warped Tour. Never mind the fact that I didn’t even go to bed until after 3:00am, because I was all giddy and jittery like it was Christmas Eve. I had waited an entire year for this year. Henry had barely pulled into the parking lot of First Niagara Pavilion a little after 10:00am and I was already crying. Not bad tears! No, these were “I’m so fucking happy, fucking finally” tears. I can’t explain it, but the atmosphere alone of Warped Tour is like an upper for me. Instant good mood. Huge, goofy smile. Excited tugs on Henry’s sleeve.

And this is just in the parking lot.

It was over ninety degrees that day and I know Henry had to have been broiling a ballsack feast inside his shorts, but he knows by now that Warped Tour is a No Bitch Zone. It was so humid out that some guy in front of us quietly vomited three times.

And this was just in the line to get in.

There’s always that one band I’m dying to see every year, and this year it was hands down, no contest Pierce the Veil. The fact that they didn’t start until 3:40 was a blessing and a curse all at once. A curse because, obviously, I”m super anxious to see them and just thinking about it made me do pee-squats, like I was waiting in the woods for my boyfriend to arrive and steal my virginity. Those kind of pee-squats. Maybe you’re familiar. But it’s also a blessing because the first set of the day start AS SOON AS the gates open. And the line doesn’t always move that swiftly. In 2007, I missed CHIODOS (CHIODOS, YOU GUYS) because Christina’s douche canoe sister pissed around so bad that morning that we didn’t arrive until noon and their set was at 11:15.

So, I was happy that I wouldn’t have to right off the bat grab Henry’s bear-paw and drag him frantically over hills and through droves of scene kids, searching for the right stage. We had plenty of time to mosey around like creepy old people and catch Call the Cops and Dillinger Escape Plan, and then pause to watch some of Set Your Goals, Alesana, and The Pretty Reckless (little Jenny Humphrey can SANG, ya’ll), all in the first 90 minutes. Best part about Warped Tour: bored? Then move the fuck on.

I’ve been to all sorts of music festivals: a bunch of the various radio shows (you know, the X-Fests that pretty much every city had), even driving as far as Wisconsin from Pittsburgh to catch Cold play a 30-minute set at one; Rolling Rock Town Fair; Locabazooka; Curiosa; even Coachella. But none of those festivals ever made me feel like Warped Tour does. Coachella especially, I can remember feeling really insecure and self-conscious. It was hands down one of the most pretentious concerts I’ve ever gone to. Don’t get me wrong, it was worth flying across the country for, because The Cure headlined the second night, but the whole vibe of the place was shitty for me. I spent more time feeling uncomfortable and out of place than actually enjoying the experience for what it was worth (two plane tickets from Pittsburgh, a rental car, a hotel room, and the tickets to Coachella was a LOT OF WORTH). There was a blog post on Alternative Press’s website that I linked to a couple of weeks ago about why Warped Tour is still relevant. And in this opinion piece, the writer mentioned that it’s a place for kids to feel like they belong somewhere, to be somewhere around similar people. I’m far from a kid, I’ll be 31 at the end of July, but this is why Warped Tour is relevant to me as well. I feel more comfortable in my skin on that one day than I do any other day of the year. Even as an adult, I’ve never really found my “place.” I still don’t feel like I “fit in,” (though there’s less of an urgency for that these days) and I still kind of feel unaccepted by my peers at times because there is a large part of me that is forever young. It’s just that now it doesn’t bother me like it did. Now I find ways to get around the fact that I don’t have much in common with people my age, and I’ve learned how to make it work.

Although, it’s still nice to have that one day where I can walk around and hear kids name-dropping Ollie Sykes and Austin Carlile (who wasn’t there, but two of his ex-bands were), or wondering out loud who’s going to be guest-screaming today with Of Mice & Men (because I know you’re chomping at the bit to know, it was Coco from Her Demise, My Rise). It’s like, this is my language. I talk about this shit anywhere else and people are like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you just talk about John Mayer & Dave Matthews Band & health insurance  like the rest of us normal adults?”

And it’s funny because Henry knows all this shit too, just because he has to live in a world strewn with worn pages of Alternative Press, Havoc music videos, and a teenage daughter (THAT’S ME) who reads online music forums instead of Us Weekly like most normal girls her age. He even likes some of it, but he probably wouldn’t admit that out loud.

I like this picture for 2 reasons:

1. you can see tents in my sunglasses

2. Henry looks put-out

Every year, there’s always that one band that I’ve never heard of that I end up falling in love with after thirty seconds. Last year, it was Remember Thy Name. This year, it was Last Call Chernobyl. The singer had a scream that tore the skin off my soul. “That’s my favorite kind of screaming!” I yelled to Henry, and I mean YELLED TO HENRY since we were in the front of the stage by the speakers. Henry of course looked at me like I was retarded for liking screamo so much that I have a predilection for a certain type of scream. And there ARE different types of screaming.

I was excited to see Polar Bear Club, since the previous time was at a really shitty venue in Pittsburgh when they opened for Thrice and I couldn’t actually see the band. They were playing on the AP/Advent stage under the pavilion, so Henry gave a little fist pump because this meant he could sit down. Polar Bear Club is a band that “older people” like too, so I thought Henry would finally get a chance to see something he could enjoy. That motherfucker was snoring within two minutes. Every year he falls asleep! Although this time it wasn’t as impressive as last year when he slept through a thrashing metal set.

At around 3:20, we made our way to the front of the Altec stage and claimed our spots at the barrier. Waiting is the hardest fucking part. I was doing a pee jig and flashing giddy squealing faces over my shoulder at Henry. I was somehow not surrounded by assholes (other than Henry). It was the perfect spot on the perfect day, waiting for the perfect band.

Pierce the Veil was at Warped Tour in 2008. Blake saved me from getting knocked out, but I still took a few shoes to the head that year. Aside from Chiodos (who were there last year), they are definitely my favorite band to see at Warped Tour because their sets are flawless and exciting; even Henry said after the first time that “they weren’t bad.” That’s the best Henry can do when it comes to the bands I like.

They always pretty theatrical entrances. I don’t even know (or care) what this guy was saying because everyone was screaming so loud.

They came out and dove right into “Caraphernalia” and I tried so hard to fight the tears but they started rolling down my cheeks in spite of my efforts. I cried through the entire set, it was so stupid.

• Caraphernalia
• Chemical Kids and Mechanical Brides
• Currents Convulsive
• The Boy Who Could Fly
  
• Yeah Boy and Doll Face
  
• The Sky Under the Sea

I’ve waited almost two years to see them again. The last time was in Buffalo in 2008 with Christina, and that was not so good because of the company. Besides, this is one of the few bands Henry likes too and I like seeing them with him. So many of their lyrics make me think of him. (Don’t tell him that. Well no, you can, because they’re mostly the morbid ones.)

During “The Boy Who Could Fly,” (they used Drake’s “Find Your Love” as an intro which was fucking sick) Vic climbed into the crowd and held out the mic for all the kids to shout a resounding “Without you there is no me” and I lost it. I was crying so hard at that point, that my eyes were burning from the mixture of tears and sweat. I was so grateful for my sunglasses. When they were done, I turned around and put my head on Henry’s belly. My heart hurt so much and I couldn’t remember how to breathe correctly. Essentially, I was just a huge mess.

All the live videos I found were shitty and did no justice.

But there was no time to stand around and slit my wrists because Emarosa was playing next on a stage which required us to hustle to get there on time. It was actually the smallest stage there that day, which made laugh because Jonny Craig, Emarosa’s singer, is so fucking cocky that I imagine he expected to be on the main stage. But no, they were relegated to the tiny stage that folds out from the side of a truck. We grabbed spots next to the barrier and I immediately spotted Jonny in a douchey red trucker cap, hanging out behind the truck. I mean, stage. You might remember a post I had about him last fall, after I experienced his backwoods brand of douchery first hand for the second time. Well, that particular post is one of my top 3 posts, stats-wise, thanks to all the fans out there who Google terms such as “Why is Jonny Craig a dick?” “I hate Jonny Craig” “Did Jonny Craig impregnate a dog?” & “Why does Jonny Craig suck so hard?” See? I’m not the only one. He’s pretty notorious in the scene.

There were a few times we made direct eye contact, and I kept hissing to Henry, “OMG HE KNOWS I WROTE ABOUT HIM!” (Someone involved with the band does, because the dashboard to their bandcamp.com page was a referring link in my stats a few weeks ago, for that specific post. That was awesome.)

It was hilarious to hear the murmurings of “OMG it’s Jonny!” spread like wildfire as kids began noticing his presence.

The moment he picked up the mic and began belting out “Set It Off Like Napalm,” I was in this confusing, twisted agony of love and hate. Never have I experience such conflicting emotions over a band before. They have had a huge impact on my life over the past few years, mostly because of Jonny, and that impact started even before Emarosa, when he was in Dance Gavin Dance. And now, mostly because of Jonny, I almost cringe when I hear them, because of my personal experiences with him. I don’t want that to affect how I feel about the music and it’s a constant battle to keep those things separate. But as a fan, I’m not too proud to admit that he let me down. I don’t like having a foul taste in my mouth when it comes to a singer I admire. I want to respect him as an artist, but it’s hard when I can’t respect him as a person.

I kept turning around and sticking my tongue out at Henry to signify my disgust for who was on the stage, but at the same time, my inner teenager was sighing, “Oh, Jonny.” It was so bi-polar. It was agony.

Luckily, he didn’t do too much douche-drizzling on stage that day, instead opting to put on a fantastic set.  He clearly wasn’t drunk this time, yay! So his vocals were spot-on and the band was sick. I cannot deny that this guy has one of the best, if not THE BEST, vocals in the scene today. I’d be willing to fight about it, actually. I still prefer his early work in Dance Gavin Dance though, because it was more interesting, but that’s just me. My only problem with Emarosa is that the lyrics don’t really strike me; they’re average and at times, contrived. If it wasn’t for Jonny’s voice, they’d be just another band fighting for an identity. (In my opinion, that is; I’m big on lyrics!)

Nice to see he has a mullet now. I would have been happier to see the Jonny-tail of yore. (Which is seriously what the back of Chooch’s head is modeled after.)

• Set It Off Like Napalm
• Heads Or Tails? Real Or Not
  
• A Toast To Future Kids
• Truth Hurts While Laying On Your Back
• The Past Should Stay Dead

I could tell Henry was fighting the urge to scream, “OMG JONNY!!!” with all the other little girls (and guys!) as Jonny walked off the stage. (Chooch just walked over here, saw these photos and said, “Ugh. Jonny’s a bitch.” See?! Even a four-year-old knows.)

After that, we were able to just float around and take our time with things, soak up the atmosphere. Well, that’s what I was doing anyway. Henry was too busy spending all my merch money on $5 bottles of Sprite because he’s too much of a bitch to suck it up and drink water like the rest of us smarties. You know how much I spent on beverages? $4.50 for one bottle of water, which I proceeded to refill at a water fountain all day long.  Henry’s too good for that, though. Thanks Henry, I didn’t really want to buy a t-shirt anyway.

There’s always a Top-40 artist included on Warped Tour (two years ago it was Katy fucking Perry), and this year it was Mike Posner. When the set first started, it was pretty chill. I was actually not minding it. But midway through the second song I was bored to tears. I needed screaming and thrashing guitars. Plus, we were sitting under the pavilion watching him while eating frozen Minute Maid lemonade and I suddenly felt really old, like I should be at a Steve Miller show (which I actually went to when I was 18, so I don’t know why I picked that as my example).

I’m not a fan of chick-fronted bands. Alisha can vouch for that. And there were a lot of girly bands there this year. Fuck Hey Monday and Automatic Loveletter (seen them before, snooze fest). But I did make a point to catch Eyes Set To Kill, because that girl can fucking sing, and they’re not a pussy band.  Alexia has more talent than most of the other Warped Tour girls combined.

I hate when the sky looks like that because it means the day is coming to an end. Leaving is the worst part. Waiting for next year is even worster! I nagged Henry the whole way to his sister’s house to pick up Chooch.

“WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART?” <–He always says “when we left” for that one.

“DID YOU LOVE PIERCE THE VEIL?”

“WHAT DID YOU THINK OF JONNY?

“CAN WE GO TO THE ONE IN CLEVELAND?”

Henry said this was his last year. We’ll see about that.

I have been so sad ever since July 7, 2010. To torture myself, I still get the official VansWarpedTour tweets sent to my phone and I read them wistfully, sighing heavily at all that I’m missing on the other dates. Warped Tour brings on a post-show depression like none other than I’ve ever experienced. My Christmas Day is over for another year.

[There are more photos here! Plus, they’re better when viewed larger. My blog layout doesn’t allow for wide photos, right HENRY?]

Vic Fuentes from Pierce the Veil, fuck yeah.

I haven’t even come close to collecting all my thoughts about Warped Tour 2010, but when I was going through the pictures from yesterday and came across this one, there was no way I could wait to post it. Pierce the Veil’s set was the highlight of the day for me; nothing else came even close. As far as I’m concerned, that one short set was totally worth the price of admission and enduring the unrelenting sun beaming down 100 degree rays of pain and torture on us all day long.

I cried through their entire set.

There’s much more to come! You know I’m a wordy motherfucker. (Plus, there’s still Butler County Fair stuff to post about, including a REALLY MAJOR secret I learned about Alisha!) But until then, anyone who thinks Warped Tour is “gay” or maybe just doesn’t get it should check out this article by Alternative Press’s Scott Heisel, because it made me simultaneously say “Fuck yeah” and cry. Music turns me into a pussy, what can I say.

Time out. I have some stuff to write about, like neighborly happenings and Kennywood,  but right now I’m too busy listening to the new Pierce the Veil album non-stop (and even when it’s not on, it’s on in my head) to think properly. I have waited so fucking long for this. It’s the perfect soundtrack for the dark carnival in my head.

“Fast Times at Claremont High” is my favorite track on the CD (so far, at least). When Vic sings, “I only wanted one dance with you,” I honestly feel like my heart is trying to escape through my mouth. I needed this album right now, so badly. It’s a shame most people can’t get past his voice in order to hear the brilliantly heart-wrenching lyrics he writes. There’s really nothing else that compares to it in the scene today.

Sunday was a shitty day. Nothing major happened, like death or amputation or Miley Cyrus subjection, but it was just one of those hassle-filled days where nothing goes right and you feel lonely and miserable and wonder all day long why you even bothered getting out of bed.

But then that night, after Chooch went to sleep and Blake went out with friends, Henry and I sat on the couch and listened to the Selfish Machines together in its entirety and it was kind of fucking perfect.

Alisha and I saw Of Machines last October, when they opened for Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance. I knew who they were prior to this because I’m 16 and devour all the information I can from various message boards, and I had a bunch of their stuff on the computer but never really gave it my undivided attention.

And when they took the stage, singer all dressed up like Wolverine, I wasn’t expecting to be literally moved to tears during their set. Before they were halfway into the first song, my face was wet, and it wasn’t because Alisha was trying to pee on it again. I can’t explain what it is about this genre of music, and people can scoff at me all they want, say that I have shitty taste in music all they want. But look – I spent years listening to pretentious indie shit and was rarely moved by it. (Except for Xiu Xiu; Jamie’s voice still gives me major emotional spasms.) I still LIKE that stuff, in an aesthetic sense, but if I want to feel like my heart is going to explode, I know where to go. (The Rise Records website.)

There is something about that sort of music that, combined with a boy hitting high notes so hard that it wavers on screaming, massages the right lobe of my brain and releases so much tension, and if the end result of that finds me weeping openly in a public, then that’s alright by me.  This is why I love Warped Tour – by the time it’s over, I feel like I just came home from an emotional spa. Henry just rolls his eyes anymore when I dramatically wail, “This song makes me want to DIE.” He doesn’t get it, why I would want to listen to music that makes me sad. But it’s not so much that it’s making me sad, as it is making me feel less alone. Combined with the heaviness of the music, it’s a release.

Of Machines have since broken up, as so many of these young bands do. But their one and only album will most likely stay in my playlist a lot longer than the few short years they remained a band.

Music, to me,  isn’t just something to have on in the background. It’s therapy.

What song/band does it for you?