Dear Rocka readers,
Back on my sporadicly creative grind, coming to you almost 2 weeks late. But I’ve got a few interviews under my belt and am excited to share some articles soon. I have far too much on my plate at the moment, my health is deteriorating, but for the most part I am happy.
Today I’d like to dance around one of my favorite topics: weird older guys at concerts.
This morning, I was reminded how horrible of a state I was in mentally two years ago. I nearly dropped out of college and moved back home to work my old barista job and eventually enter into a loveless relationship with a military man. So it goes. Luckily, I managed to stay afloat due to some great friends, a whole lot of Phoebe Bridgers, and three consecutive weekends spent in Chicago seeing shows.
The third of these shows was The Brian Jonestown Massacre. I dragged my poor normal sister to the show at the Vic Theatre, and we were two of ten women in the whole venue. Unsurprisingly, we were surrounded by middle-aged men in various hats. Baseball caps, berets, fedoras. You name it. Just some dudes in hats.
The one who cornered me in the pit luckily didn’t have a hat on, but spiritually he did. When he asked me for my Facebook (aka my whole legal name), I realized quickly that he was much older than his Patagonia windbreaker and youthful gleam let on. I gave it to him, craved for attention after spending my first winter in Michigan with boys who thought I was a witch.
We’ll call him Joe.
The first thing Joe sent me was a playlist, and a good one at that. I hate to report that I often still listen to it. But three paragraphs followed — edits for my Rocka, including screenshots that were marked up in red.
To paraphrase: a dude I just met sent me unsolicited edits on my music blog.
This was far better than other unsolicited content, and yet the edits disturbed me more. I wasn’t sure what about me welcomed criticism from a guy who didn’t have a real job and was lurking for hardly legal girls at shows.
Joe was not the first, nor the last, random older man to think he was doing the world a service by taking Young Budding Music Journalist Ally Hall under his wing. Some meant well and were good. But most were filled with a patronizing desire to use me to fulfill some sheepish fantasies about dreams abandoned in their college days. Lots were just sexually charged conquests of “schooling me” about music. Very, very rarely did I ever ask for input from strangers about my work.
When Joe referred to me as his “butterfly” and sent me “Butterfly” by Crazy Town, I decided to end our short-lived friendship.
A) Because that is creepy. But mostly B) because if I were a bug, I’d obviously be a bee.
Joe is now 34, and I still get his Facebook birthday notifications. There is a strong chance he is reading this now, as half of Rocka followers are strange men I met when I was a disturbed teenager with niche interests and the cynicism of someone three times my age. I call them my “Poke-men” because I collect them like Pokémon.
My point in all of this is that often the worst people share your most sacred joys in life. Just because someone has a good music taste does not mean they are a good person — in fact I’d go so far as to say that often artsy people are genuinely a little worse than the average Joe. (see what I did there?)
I used to be one of those people that would think a person’s music library would forecast our love story. But that, my friends, has only left me bitter and attached to people who don’t care about me. They are just listening to Cigarettes After Sex on their own accord on the Spotify Friends tab. They are not writing poetry about me.
So if there’s a fellow young gal reading this — those men do not like you, much less love you. They just need help. Don’t get coaxed into strange friendships that are just shams in the end just because a guy ten years older than you tells you you’re an old soul. You’re not. You’re just a girl.
Rocka out,
Ally
This month’s playlist, “whole lotta love,” has a mix of some of my favorite love songs like “5 Years Time” by Noah And The Whale and the spotlight track “Loves Me Tenderly” by the Felice Brothers. Do yourself a favor and check out Paige Plaisance’s “Bayou Moon” if you’re in need of some fresh, Americana vocals from someone who hasn’t blown up. If you’re feeling masochistic, give “Still a Friend” a spin.