There are rituals before shows like these. Guys in denim lining up, smoking cigarettes, shifting from one foot to the other. Exchanging handshakes and talking about the last show they saw.

I walk up Clermont, past a mid-sized American car with the windows rolled down, three men in their fifties sitting patiently inside listening to a bootleg, or rareties, something on cassette. Something one of them brought with them on the train from Philadelphia. "Here, you have to hear this. I just got this from my buddy in Memphis."

Maybe it was something they do before every show. Something they've done before every show they've ever been to together since 1977.

* * *

I like to feel badass before rock shows. Things that make me feel badass:

1. Wearing my hair down.
2. Drinking whiskey.
3. Rolling cigarettes for people even though I no longer smoke.
4. Opening jars.
5. Sinking the 8 ball.

* * *

I meet J at a bar around the corner from the venue. I wait next to the jukebox, trying to feel badass. I know I shouldn't feel badass; I'm sitting next to a digital jukebox drinking Bailey's, for Pete's sake. But still. My boots have enough scuff marks on them to make it work.

This bar is full of guys who have been drinking there since the seventies. They step outside to smoke, come back inside, and pick up the conversation right where they left it. Complaining about the world with one hand in their pocket. The bartender feeds dollars into the jukebox and it spits out something bluesy, something badass.

The bars we meet in suit the bands we're going to see. This is my ritual. Then later I talk in line, trying to sound like I know more than I do about the band, laughing nervously and looking around me. To the point where he sometimes doesn't know who I am anymore. I might as well be throwing devil horns in the air. "Where is this coming from?"

I don't really know what to do with my hands.

* * *

Other people have rituals too. Get the beers in, find the sweet spot. Check out the merch or scope out the toilets. Or push your way up front and set your coat on the stage next to the monitor.

We head straight for the balcony. Two seats, a place to stand and dance if the mood takes us. No one behind me if I want to throw out some devil horns. I start calling the songs as the first notes hit. We sing along. We know this song. I lean into the column next to me, then back onto his shoulder. This is okay. This is good. This is life, and life is ritual.