Dave at the Gorge, front row center
How to: Get front row, center tickets when you least expect it.
My freshmen roommate ignited my obsession with the Dave Matthews Band. During the fall of 2005, Kelly displayed her love for Dave by covering her side of the room with band posters, recalling in vivid detail the annual Labor Day concert at the Gorge and even naming one of her fish Dave (the other was named for Jack for Jack Johnson). Living with her, I couldn’t help but grow passionate toward a group I already liked. For Kelly’s birthday and holidays, I would find Dave trinkets, like magnets, to give her and by the end of the year, I could sing you almost any DMB song you named. Then, Kelly introduced me to the Gorge.
I liken “the Gorge,” a camping and concert venue in Central Washington, to a mini-Woodstock experience. Everyone pitches tents in an open field and an intergenerational (but mostly college-aged) conglomeration of free spirits indulges in a weekend of debauchery. Among the wild folk are bong vendors, beer pong champs, middle-aged groupies, and an eccentric falafel man who asks you if you want some “cock sauce” (hot sauce) in your over-priced, made-in-unsanitary-conditions but still delicious pita wrap.
Night one of three at DMB 2008, the golden sunset sparkled across the amphitheater as the opening act, OAR, performed. The floor-level metal chairs and grassy general admission knoll quickly filled. The four of us––Kelly, Renee, Nicole and I–– danced enthusiastically that night in our 40th row seats and I shook my tangly long hair loose from my cowgirl hat.
Under the glow of summer’s grand finale, we tossed off our inhibitions and grooved about, enjoying fine company and some pretty decent seats.
We thought we were in trouble when a ticket official with silver long hair approached us. Kelly and Renee had moved up five rows to join Nicole and me for a while. But, instead, he asked where we bought our tickets.
“Are these Warehouse?” he asked.
“Yeah!”
“Don’t make a big scene but I’m upgrading your tickets,” he said.
Our eyes lit up but we tried not to get too excited. ”Riiight,” we each thought to ourselves.
“Where?” we asked, skeptically.
“To the front row. Center. But you can’t make a big deal, please.”
My heart raced and adrenaline rushed. ”Ahhhhhhhhhh!” we shrieked in unison, flailing our arms dramatically.
We continued to scream at the top of our lungs, grabbed the tickets, and plowed through the crowded aisles up 40 rows. There, we hugged every person around us.
I was so close to Dave Matthews that night that I could see the sweat beads on his brow and admire his theatrical facial expressions and smooth dance moves. We all had to pinch ourselves throughout the night and perpetually review our photos that weekend to convince ourselves we didn’t dream it.
Then, Sunday night, our camping neighbors gave us 14th row tickets they had found on the ground. We upgraded from our general admission lawn tickets.
Kelly, our mutual friends and I have no idea where we’ll be next fall after graduation. One thing’s certain: we’ll be going to see Dave at the Gorge, just like we have the past three Labor Day weekends.
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