This was written ages ago, while I was waiting for the Michael Franti & Spearhead / Jason Mraz concert in Seattle to start.
With nothing better to do, I’m writing while I stand. I’m on my 2nd or 3rd hour of standing, but all is good with the prospect of seeing Jason Mraz… again. Number three, baby. I guess I’m kind of a Jason Mraz hog [or maybe hag? I can’t read my writing], but what do I care?
I smell weed, who knows where it comes from.
Oh, I just found out. A dreadlocked guy who rose a bit of havoc trying to get more to the front. His famous last words: “I’m not a dick but…”
The poor, clean-cut Mraz crowd doesn’t know how to deal with these hippies. The show goes on.
The air is warm with body heat. What a nasty description, I know. It’s a nasty feeling, too.
I wore my best shoes, as in, the most comfortable and functional ones I have. But I’m finding myself wishing a band would start so I can’t feel my feet.
Up first is Michael Franti and Spearhead, with whom I’ve only really acquainted myself in the past few nights. As I told my mom, it’s sort of music with a message crossed with reggae.
In pure Seattle fashion, fans have blown up a large trash bag, which would otherwise be used as a makeshift poncho, and are using it as a beach ball replacement, bouncing it around the crowd.
I’m hoping Spearhead isn’t so crazy, but after Gogol Bordello, I think I could handle anything.
Oh, was I wrong. There was mosh pit mania all over again during Michael Franti, and by the time Jason Mraz started, the crowd was packed so tightly that I could not breathe, let alone move. Most people had to crowd surf to get out, but I was all alone and didn’t want to do any such thing. So I tagged along with a couple who were standing near me, and we made our way to the back. We got death glares and a few possibly intentional shoves, but we were just glad to get out of there to breathe.
That was the farthest back I’ve ever been during a Jason Mraz concert, and it was still fantastic.