This is my account of a concert that I went to recently:
I recently spent an evening at a musical performance of Maryland-native jam-band O.A.R. (Of A Revolution). The concert was solid, the crowd friendly, and the bros out in full force. Yes, you read correctly – the bros were in their element.
As I pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I saw made my (strong, well chiseled) jaw drop to the floor (immediately followed by uproarious laughter) : An approximately 22 year old Caucasian male, shirtless, sitting on the roll bar of his jacked up yellow convertible Jeep Wrangler, complete with a can of bro-favorite Natural Light – more affectionately known as Natty. This is too good (funny) to be true.
Apparently, beautiful (often scantily clad) girls go for this, because there was one nearby every bro.
I decide that I can have too much fun with this: I will join them. I make a solemn promise to myself to “bro out” until the night is finished. I remove my shirt, grab a solo, and begin what seemed to be a never ending evening of guys chanting, arms slung over one another, in the bliss of drowning away insecurities with beer and “Bro-therhood.”
After 3 solid hours of tailgating, my friends decide that the crappy opening band is done, and that those of us with lawn seats need to get a good spot. We get a good spot – front “row” of lawn seats, but to our dismay the opening act is not finished. We are happy to hear them announce that this is their last song, and that they are from Sydney, Australia. OK, so the Sydney thing isn’t that great, but we are certainly glad to hear that they are soon going to shut the hell up. Their “last song” is a 20 minute slow jam that nobody there liked. Their feet apparently were cemented in place, and there were no words. Then they decide to tell us again that they are from Sydney, and that this is their last song. Everyone there though that they played the same song again.
After the set change, the lawn starts to fill up. This is a homecoming show for Rockville, MD darlings O.A.R., and people are excited. The energetic jam-band has grown recently in popularity, famously being one of the “smallest” acts to sell out Madison Square Garden. By the time the lights dim, you cannot sit down. Merriweather Post-Pavilion is at capacity.
O.A.R. plays a great show for their voracious hometown crowd, but I think that the real show was not on the stage, but in the crowd. My buddy’s friend is truly enjoying himself. I turn around and see him talking to two girls who had been hitting on us earlier – I tried to keep my distance. They were nothing special. I turn around again a few minutes later, and Jared is making out with both incredibly below average girls. They had tried to say that he was gay, and he later told me that he had to “prove them wrong.” This saddens me in a way, because I had been told multiple times that night that we both looked and acted the same. I feel like my allowance of him to make this grave mistake was similar to me doing it. I felt better about a half an hour later, when he was dancing with what I will refer to as a “Babraham Lincoln.”
At least 75 percent of the people there are not wearing shirts. And if they are, they are either lacrosse jerseys or have a popped collar.
I did not break character. I am a method actor. I feel like the Daniel Day-Lewis of investigative reporters. A guy spills some beer on me, and apologizes. “Sorry bro – my bad.” I break into a brief but severe fit of laughter (as do my friends who are aware of my objective). “No problem bro,” I reply, huge grin on my face. He offers me a cigarette, which I decline. I decided not to call him “bro” again, lest he catch on to my thinly vailed “bro-verload.” (Note: Bro-verload is the abundance of bro related topics, or conversational over usage of the word itself.) I’d like to see Geraldo’s mustache do that.
As I lay in bed that night, I thought to myself, “I had a great time.” I had a great time… pretending to be a bro. Oh no.