Young people at a concert shouldn’t have to worry about terror

DO YOU remember your first concert? There’s something magic about that moment as a teenager, writes Jamila Rizvi. Now imagine a bomb going off.

DO YOU remember the first time you went to a concert?

I bought blue hair mascara especially for the occasion, in the hope that Darren would notice me.

Darren Hayes was the lead singer of 90s pop band Savage Garden and my future husband. Nearly two decades later (in what still came as a devastating blow) I’d learn that he wasn’t interested in women.

But at that moment in time, I was certain our fate was to be together. All that needed to happen was for him to catch a glimpse of me in seat H17 of the Canberra Theatre. His interest piqued, of course, by my painted strips of electric blue hair.

I was 11-years-old when I went to my first concert. Despite tearful protests that we were absolutely, totally and completely fine to go alone, my friend Sarah and I were accompanied by her mum. This didn’t fit with the cool, older girl image we were cultivating but sadly, parental oversight proved an immovable roadblock. Determined to persevere, Sarah and I made a pact to pretend like her mum wasn’t there and that this was just someone else’s mum who was hanging around near us.

I remember being disappointed when we first arrived that there were seats and that people were actually sitting in them. I’d expected it to be like the video clips on Rage where everyone danced with their hands in the air.

My cynicism evaporated when Darren walked onto the stage. It was like a dream. I could feel the heavy thump of the base deep in my chest. There were swirling lights mixed with smoke-filled haze. My head was full of the songs I’d played on my Discman over and over and over again.

The first concert is so different, so entirely separate from your everyday life that it can be utterly transporting. The magnitude of seeing your idols in the flesh feels bigger than anything else could ever be.

There’s a kind of fervour, more powerful than any illicit substance, that I suspect only comes about when fuelled by puberty. That’s really them. There. The one person in the world whose lyrics and music prove they truly understand you. You’re pumped full of hormones and anticipation. It’s magic.

And that’s when the bomb would have gone off.

The Manchester Arena was filled with children and teenagers. It’s too awful to imagine. Picture: Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

So far, the death toll stands at 22 with more than 50 injured at an Ariana Grande pop concert in Manchester overnight. Police suspect it was a terrorist attack and witnesses claim to have seen a bomb explode at the venue.

Grande became famous as an actress on kids television network Nickelodeon; most of her music fans are teenage girls. It is widely expected that children will be among the dead.

Young concertgoers and their parents leaving the Manchester Arena after the bomb. Picture: Dave Thompson/Getty Images

We all experience the same reaction when we hear about tragedies like this one. “Lost for words” are the only words that seem apt given the enormity of what’s occurred.

We imagine the victims and the fear they must have felt before turning our minds to something else because it feels too much to bear. We imagine the families, scared and searching; unable to get their hands on the information they desperately need. We ask ourselves how this can happen and who could desire something so awful.

When a tragedy happens to people whose lives could have been ours, the normality of their activities starts to feel dangerous. Innocuous events like concerts, or football games or festivals become distorted.

They are no longer just avenues for fun and silliness but vehicles of potential destruction on a massive scale. That sense of remoteness we associate with death and destruction in other circumstances isn’t there. That shouldn’t be the case, of course, but it is.

Each of us remembers our first concert: The buzz, the excitement, the preparation and eagerness. I don’t know about you but today I feel oddly close to those teenage girls and their families on the other side of the world. Another time, another place, another superstar beloved by their fans and that could have been us, that could have been someone we love and someone who we hold dear.

How, oh how, oh how is this the world we live in.

Jamila Rizvi is writer, radio presenter and news.com.au columnist. You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter.