Music has flowed through my veins since birth. That’s what I believe, at least. As a little girl I would dance through the house with my dad as one of his old rock albums played from an old radio. My parents and I would sing made-up songs for occasions such as snow days or the first day of school, and we would sing hymns on the drive back home after Sunday morning church. I have yet to grow out of this affinity for music that was instilled in me as a child. Hours upon hours of songs have played from the speakers on my phone while I drive, study, and write stories. My love of music is obvious to anyone who knows me, so it doesn’t surprise anyone when I tell them I’m going to a concert.

A love of concerts, of seeing music performed live and in person, was passed down to me from my father, and many times a year he and I drive to Tulsa, Oklahoma to see a live performance. We go to concerts so frequently that that we’ve developed a concert routine. We leave our house with drinks, quarters for the toll roads, and fully-charged phones. We make the drive to Tulsa in the afternoon and enjoy an early meal at one of the two Italian restaurants downtown. Then we walk to the dessert shop to get cupcakes (I always get cookies ‘n’ cream).

Satisfactorily stuffed, we waddle across the street to stand in line for the show. I love this part, because I get to watch the other concert attendees and try to figure out who they are. I like to find those who are attending their very first concert, the excited gleam in their eyes spreading joy throughout those around them. It’s easy to spot the parents who were dragged there by children who can’t drive yet. These parents keep checking their phones to see if the doors will open at six o’clock on the dot. Finally, there’s the women who are approaching their thirties, but still think they’re in college. They talk too loudly and wear clothes that were made for actual college students. What do people think of Dad and I when they look at us?

Although my routine for concerts never changes, there was one concert I attended that I knew would be unlike any other. U2 was on a world tour, and Tulsa was the location of the opening show of the North American leg. Dad and I both liked U2 and knew we had to see them. Nerves settled in when we realized that there would be storms in the Tulsa area the night of the show, but we wouldn’t let a bit of inclement weather deter our spirits!

We had just arrived in Tulsa when we saw the huge crowd standing outside the BOK Center. It was insanity; there were people there from across the world. After waiting in line and people watching, we bought some shirts, a program, and a special edition pin to add to my collection. We grabbed some drinks and found our seats. As I looked around, I couldn’t see a single empty seat. It was one of the most crowded concerts I’d ever attended. Only one thing about that night made itself clear: this would be unforgettable.

As soon as the lights began to change from dull yellow to bright white, signalling the start of the show, I had my phone out, recording. There was no way I would miss a single second. I yelled and took pictures, sand along and recorded, clapped after each song and posted on social media. I was having the time of my life. I remember being able to sing along with more songs than Dad could, which was quite the victory for me, and how Bono mentioned the tornado warning that we were in. No one had a care in the world, despite the storm. Everyone, that is, except for Dad and the man sitting in front of me. Both of them were constantly checking their phones to look at the local radar to make sure a tornado wasn’t barrelling towards us. I remember crying when videos of white supremacists and neo-nazis were shown on the huge screen by the stage, and feeling so much joy when videos of Black Lives Matter and March for Our Lives activists played. I remember that as everyone was leaving the BOK Center a huge streak of lightning illuminated the downtown Tulsa skyline, eliciting an ooooh from all the concertgoers, including myself.

The next day, I walked into my third period class wearing my new shirt and gorgeous dark circles under my eyes. People asked me about the concert, and I told them it was awesome, which it was. However, when people asked for a more specific recount of my night, I found myself drawing a blank. There were bits and pieces of the show that I just couldn’t remember. What was the first song they played? Did they have an encore? Did they play every song that Dad and I were hoping to hear? I told people about what I could remember, but those fragments of the concert that I couldn’t recall haunted me. I couldn’t tell why I couldn’t remember the whole concert, so I sought refuge in the videos and photos I took.

As I watched a video of U2 performing their song “You Are Rock ‘n’ Roll”, the truth revealed itself. I felt short of breath as I realized that the cause of my supposed memory loss was due to the abundance of videos of the concert I was watching at that very moment. In my desire to capture every moment of the concert so that it would always be a part of my memory, I hadn’t really experienced the moment for myself. I watched everything happen through a phone screen and not with my own eyes. I clapped at times when everyone else clapped, because I wasn’t totally aware of what was happening; I was too busy uploading a video onto one of my profiles. I had missed so much of the concert that I thought was going to be unforgettable, and now I would never get a chance to do it again.

At the next concert I attended a few months later, I had the same excited feeling as I have at every other concert. Dad and I went through our regular routine; the only thing that really changed was where we were sitting and who was performing. This time, we were seeing Imagine Dragons, who I had wanted to see live for a very long time. After the opening act performed, that familiar feeling crept upon me: the show was about to begin. I reached down to the ledge in front of me where my phone was lying face down, dutifully waiting for me to use it. I frantically typed in my password and searched for the camera so I could begin recording before the first song could start. If I was too slow I would lose my chance for a great video; so much was on the line. My finger hovered over the button that would start recording as I waited. Suddenly, I realized that I was about to watch yet another opening song through a phone screen when the real thing was right in front of me. It was exactly what I did at the U2 concert. I had recorded nearly every minute of that show, and as each day went on I remembered less and less of it. I looked at the stage and at the band preparing to go on. It was obvious what I needed to do. I put the phone back on the ledge and stood up, taking a deep breath before I yelled as loud as I possibly could.

The show had begun. I was there, living in the moment and experiencing it for myself. I wouldn’t need a phone for the rest of the night. It was yet another concert with Dad, and this time, I wouldn’t forget the opening song.