Photograph by Ashley Rosas @ashleyrosas​ (instagram)

“Ashley Rosas… And this is my plus one,” says Ashley looking over at I.

“You don’t have a plus one,” says the list barer. Ashley rolls her eyes to the ceiling, “Yes I do, it was very clear on the email…” “You can’t go by the email,” stammers the hands, curling paper where Ashley’s name has a little check beside it. Thinking I snuck my way in among the chaos, I walk into the Baby’s All Right venue space. Alas, I was not so clever. Though beyond the list, the thudding feet, and my hearing (of course), the voice of a new long haired concert acquaintance announced, “They are my plus one,” and that’s actually how I strutted my way mid-stage.

***

I, half on my knees with an immense need to pee, stand awaiting to enter the intimate Third Man Record’s Vault member’s only Raconteurs record release show for Help Us Stranger at Baby’s All Right. The lucky plus one, I smile in the understanding that I am about to experience something special.

Ashley loves Jack White. She loves his art just about as much as I love watching Courtney Barnett push her whammy bar into the screw of the upper left pick guard of her lefty Fender Jaguar 20 feet from the stage. To experience the luck of the draw with a truly dear friend brought sunshine to glistening shade—I distracted from any need to use the bathroom.

Tapping my feet to the concrete, I watch a videographer take to the streets just before entering the venue. He walks parallel from where Ashley and I stand on the sidewalk. He is looking for his shot—studying the line as he walks. He stops mounting his camera to his right shoulder. “I think its first come first serve,” says someone ahead in line waving a twenty-dollar bill in the air.

Ashley, I, and the kind concert acquaintance, Shaun, relax our shoulders in the Vault privilege of prize entry.

Locking our place in the crowd, Ashley and I take turns to use the bathroom—what a relief. Making the next focal point the drinks.

“Who wants a beer?!” I stating with jubilance—my forehead lines rising smoke to the ceiling. “Get me the cheapest beer they got,” says Ashley with a glimmer in her eye. With all hands raised, I return with three beers in the knick of time to be barricaded by the barricades of human. It’s as if people would meteor strike into the pit of endless fall if they were to crank their shoulders open and push their feet together. I find concert crowds amusing.

They have such strength to be one while also will to be territorial in a-round-about of house rules that either a select few hold or most all seem to carry on the lips of their tongue and the bounce of their feet.

In this case, the audience was rightfully protective and just as warm. The long haired, presumed man in front of I and his friend danced gallantly. Jumping high and singing low, I could feel the energy of the room swirling around the body as concert acquaintance Shaun hands me his oil pen. I feel an observer, as this is my first Jack White experience and to be frank, the best kind.

The guitars vamp those down strums, the drums rattle on the high hat, the bass rumbles, the lights calm. Actually, the light show is quite literally one of my favorite parts of the entire set. I look up at the saturation. The band looks as if they are floating, magnified in red, orange and green. Immersed from head to toe. Nevertheless, every dies down. I am unsure of the time and I am unsure of what to expect next. Half the crowd screams for one more song, while the other half (closest to Ashley and I) start, “What do they mean one more song, I want the other half of the set!” I enthused, smile in observation. I hope the band plays one more set, but here I am a guest of a guest—content.

I can hardly hear out my left ear on account of some wisdom teeth coming through, so speaking to Ashley was like responding to someone speaking to you in their sleep. “You want to move up?” asks Ashley.

Suddenly, the lights redirect, the band reenters drowning in green.

Ashley grabbing my shoulder with each guitar punch; Jack White moving with fluidity up and down the fret board; his face wide singing into the lights about Billy and his “Carolina Drama.” Whilst a listening, I cannot help but notice two photographers. One very tall body who takes their camera to the hip of their bag just to shove the lens back to the sky over and over. I imagine them saying, “This is the one, this is the one… No this is the one!” Another photographer stands in front of Ashley over to the left. “That’s Ray Neutron,” voices Ashley in a near whisper that in any other environment would’ve been a shout.

Photograph by Ray Neutron, @rayneutron (instagram)

Ray flipped his camera behind and backwards, to get a shot of the crowd. I stood there thinking, “What is this human doing?” However, witnessing the photograph, I saw their vision. Their way of working with red light warmed me as did the upside down smiles facing the stage. The one audience member in the front middle of the photo would be my mosh bounce trampoline. Ashley throws me in with the jumping beans, mush moshing into the glasses wearing, jumping tummy as so to catapult into the long haired friend I would soon make. Ray also shot for the Rough Trade show the very next day.

The Raconteurs are focusing on their performance—on putting on a good one. Jack Lawrence specific to my line of sight. I don’t think he looked up from his bass once, rocking back and forth to grooves like “Only Child.”  This is an intimate show, one that I find extremely valuable to the crowd and even the venue itself. “Help Me Stranger,” rattles the floor,  and I, learning the words, place my arm around my dancing partner who, in this particular moment, could not be happier. I fly two and fro the rotund tummy behind, I and the jumping bean in front of I. The end is near, so we swing round and round until the lights go down.

The band, unified, bow in thank you. 

“Oh my God,” mouthing Ashley as she looks into my eyes. A split set ends and the crowd unanimously roars, waiting if not eleven years than some odd less to feel this feeling again. The intimacy of The Raconteurs coming to a stage near you.

Photograph by Ashley Rosas @ashleyrosas​ (instagram)

“Ashley Rosas… And this is my plus one,” says Ashley looking over at I.

“You don’t have a plus one,” says the list barer. Ashley rolls her eyes to the ceiling, “Yes I do, it was very clear on the email…” “You can’t go by the email,” Stammers the hands, curling paper where Ashley’s name has a little check beside it. Thinking I snuck my way in among the chaos, I walk into the Baby’s All Right venue space. Alas, I was not so clever. Though beyond the list, the thudding feet, and my hearing (of course), the voice of a new long haired concert acquaintance announced, “They are my plus one,” and that’s actually how I strutted my way mid-stage.

***

I, half on my knees with an immense need to pee, stand awaiting to enter the intimate Third Man Record’s Vault member’s only Raconteurs record release show for Help Us Stranger at Baby’s All Right. The lucky plus one, I smile in the understanding that I am about to experience something special.

Ashley loves Jack White. She loves his art just about as much as I love watching Courtney Barnett push her whammy bar into the screw of the upper left pick guard of her lefty Fender Jaguar 20 feet from the stage. To experience the luck of the draw with a truly dear friend brought sunshine to glistening shade—I distracted from any need to use the bathroom.

Tapping my feet to the concrete, I watch a videographer take to the streets just before entering the venue. He walks parallel from where Ashley and I stand on the sidewalk. He is looking for his shot—studying the line as he walks. He stops mounting his camera to his right shoulder. “I think its first come first serve,” says someone ahead in line waving a twenty-dollar bill in the air.

Ashley, I, and the kind concert acquaintance, Shaun, relax our shoulders in the Vault privilege of prize entry.

Locking our place in the crowd, Ashley and I take turns to use the bathroom—what a relief. Making the next focal point the drinks.

“Who wants a beer?!” I stating with jubilance—my forehead lines rising smoke to the ceiling. “Get me the cheapest beer they got,” says Ashley with a glimmer in her eye. With all hands raised, I return with three beers in the knick of time to be barricaded by the barricades of human. It’s as if people would meteor strike into the pit of endless fall if they were to crank their shoulders open and push their feet together. I find concert crowds amusing.

They have such strength to be one while also will to be territorial in a-round-about of house rules that either a select few hold or most all seem to carry on the lips of their tongue and the bounce of their feet.

In this case, the audience was rightfully protective and just as warm. The long haired, presumed man in front of I and his friend danced gallantly. Jumping high and singing low, I could feel the energy of the room swirling around the body as concert acquaintance Shaun hands me his oil pen. I feel an observer, as this is my first Jack White experience and to be frank, the best kind.

The guitars vamp those down strums, the drums rattle on the high hat, the bass rumbles, the lights calm. Actually, the light show is quite literally one of my favorite parts of the entire set. I look up at the saturation. The band looks as if they are floating, magnified in red, orange and green. Immersed from head to toe. Nevertheless, every dies down. I am unsure of the time and I am unsure of what to expect next. Half the crowd screams for one more song, while the other half (closest to Ashley and I) start, “What do they mean one more song, I want the other half of the set!” I enthused, smile in observation. I hope the band plays one more set, but here I am a guest of a guest—content.

I can hardly hear out my left ear on account of some wisdom teeth coming through, so speaking to Ashley was like responding to someone speaking to you in their sleep. “You want to move up?” asks Ashley.

Suddenly, the lights redirect, the band reenters drawing in green.

Ashley grabbing my shoulder with each guitar punch; Jack White moving with fluidity up and down the fret board; his face wide singing into the lights about Billy and his “Carolina Drama.” Whilst a listening, I cannot help but notice two photographers. One very tall body who takes their camera to the hip of their bag just to shove the lens back to the sky over and over. I imagine them saying, “This is the one, this is the one… No this is the one!” Another photographer stands in front of Ashley over to the left. “That’s Ray Neutron,” voices Ashley in a near whisper that in any other environment would’ve been a shout.

Photograph by Ray Neutron, @rayneutron (instagram)

Ray flipped his camera behind and backwards, to get a shot of the crowd. I stood there thinking, “What is this human doing?” However, witnessing the photograph, I saw their vision. Their way of working with red light warmed me as did the upside down smiles facing the stage. The one audience member in the front middle of the photo would be my mosh bounce trampoline. Ashley throws me in with the jumping beans, mush moshing into the glasses wearing, jumping tummy as so to catapult into the long haired friend I would soon make. Ray also shot for the Rough Trade show the very next day. 

The Raconteurs are focusing on their performance—on putting on a good one. Jack Lawrence specific to my line of sight. I don’t think he looked up from his bass once, rocking back and forth to grooves like “Only Child.”  This is an intimate show, one that I find extremely valuable to the crowd and even the venue itself. “Help Me Stranger,” rattles the floor,  and I, learning the words, place my arm around my dancing partner who, in this particular moment, could not be happier. I fly two and fro the rotund tummy behind, I and the jumping bean in front of I. The end is near, so we swing round and round until the lights go down.

The band, unified, bow.

“Oh my God,” mouthing Ashley as she looks into my eyes. A split set ends and the crowd unanimously roars, waiting if not eleven years than some odd less to feel this feeling again. The intimacy of The Raconteurs coming to a stage near you.