The fact that there are bugs that look like leaves and eels with electricity and frogs that ooze out crazy psychedelic poison makes me soo mad like humans don’t have shit ooo my big brain whoopee where’s my fucking night vision or my wings to fly with what the shit evolution u blew it buddy
You visit PropertyOfZack for a reason. It doesn’t matter whether you visit for blink-182, Brand New, The Wonder Years, Paramore, or our original content. What matters is that when you boil down all those bands into one thing, a general ethos comes from it. It’s punk-driven music and what that entails.
The backbone to the music we all love is the experience we take away from it in its live environment and the way each of us as fans interact with our favorite bands. In light of a well publicized event this weekend, PropertyOfZack is rolling out our second In Defense Of… feature where we give much-maligned underdogs of our scene a fair shake — and try not to embarrass ourselves too badly in the process.
We’re continuing the series with the give and take between a band and their fans, and where lines are met and/or crossed. Let us know what you think of the feature, and feel free to reblog or comment back with your thoughts.
This is, for want of a better title — “warning” sounds too severe, “cautionary tale” too late-90s after-school-special-ish — the Parable of the Errant Smoocher, and it goes a little something like this:
The concertgoer-band theorem is a relatively easy to grasp mathematical equation. When you shell out your fifteen bucks to catch The Story So Far in concert, you’re paying to watch the Bay Area pop-punkers play songs (and probably to sing along to “Mt. Diablo,” but that’s beside the point). And when a venue books The Story So Far, the band is (hopefully) getting paid to play a concert. That’s it. Simple enough, right?
Where the equation gets complicated (and since I haven’t taken a math class since freshman year probability and statistics, the math metaphor ends here) is when you start factoring in frontman Parker Cannon’s status as an object of fan obsession — a side effect of The Story So Far’s meteoric climb in scene popularity for sure, but one that can’t — and shouldn’t — be overlooked. So when a fan in Texas last week decided that her price of admission included the right to jump on stage and kiss Cannon mid-song, well, the equation fell straight to pieces.
Now, I’m not calling for bands to beef up their barricades and play sets physically separated from fans — if my stance was any more polar opposite to the idea of propping up barricades at every show, it would be frozen at absolute zero. When bands like The Story So Far play barricade-free venues, it’s a magical thing. Heck, some of my best concert stories start with some iteration of, “I stage dove to ‘Living Saints’ and it was awesome.” There’s something special about when a band closes the distance, removes barriers keeping concertgoers from the stage, and lets fans take a more proactive role in the experience.
The problem is that when the physical boundaries are stripped away, the equally important invisible boundaries — that pseudo-sacred contract between concertgoer and band — can get lost in the shuffle. The lack of separation between stage and pit is, at its heart, an emblem of trust. The band trusts its fans to not abuse that shared space (where stage dives and crowd surfers abound), so when a crowd-surfer rides a crest of flailing arms up to the stage and plants a kiss on Parker Cannon’s face, it’s a slap in the face to Cannon’s right to personal space.