For the first half of the acoustic show, the screams and cheers are tolerable. After the intermission, a switch flips and I have to put in earplugs. The last time I tried to do this was 2021, and I got blackout drunk to deal with my overbearing date. I’m nearly 60 days sober, so there will be no repeat of that tonight. I thought I needed to be in the front to experience this spectacle, but by the beginning of the second act, I think I may have made a mistake and instead of speaking to fans before the show, Julian and I had a picnic.
When Alex Greenwald of Phantom Planet appears on stage, the girl next to me screams. But when Ryan Ross walks out, she goes feral. She shakes so violently that I think there might be a minor earthquake. She waves at him and says hi, and he smiles and waves back. The noise she makes is somewhere between a squeak and a moan-—a sound I never even imagined before this moment. From that moment on, she’s unable to remain in her seat because every song is her absolute favorite song ever.
Squished between this exuberant fangirl who camped for hours in an organza maxi dress to be in the front row and Julian with his service dog, is me: wearing a leopard coat, sheer mesh dress, cowboy boots, and a facial expression that is probably 15% amusement, 15% horror, and 70% feigned disinterest (but that’s just my normal face). I clap politely and stare at the performers’ feet.
***
To my left, Rachel picks tater tots from a grease-stained brown bag, her sequined bomber catching stray rays of golden hour sunlight and reflecting sparkles into the pines surrounding us. We’re waiting in line, just under two hours before doors open for night two of Z Berg and Friends Full Moon Fever and I haven’t queued for a show since I was 20 and spent eight hours in the rain to see My Chemical Romance open for Green Day in Massachusetts. It feels a little silly to be here this early since I have no intention of trying to sit near the front again.
Rachel and her mother flew from Pennsylvania to Los Angeles to see this show. Three thousand miles seems tame when there are people who flew from the UK to be here. Rachel tells me she’s a huge fan of Z Berg, but then she also shows me the Panic! at the Disco tattoo she got on Friday to celebrate her 31st birthday and talks about stage door antics waiting for Brendon Urie. She asks how long I’ve been a fan, and I explain that I’m really interested in the fans and I’m there to write about them.
“The first time I met Ryan Ross,” she says as she laughs. “My friends and I were standing outside Bootleg [Theater] and the doors were locked and I was complaining to them and said, ‘I really have to shit,’ and then this man behind me says, ‘if you’re locked out, then I’m locked out.’ We turned around and he was just right there.”
Ryan Ross, who stepped away from the spotlight nearly a decade ago after leaving Panic! At The Disco in 2009 and discontinuing his follow up project, The Young Veins, in 2010 has an active, adoring fan base, despite his general state of seclusion. There is a Twitter account dedicated solely to posting daily updates about whether there’s proof he’s alive. In this fandom of unswerving adoration, Rachel comes across as refreshingly self aware. She makes more than one joke calling Ross a “mediocre white man” but it’s always said with fondness and she came to LA with handmade Christmas stockings for his dogs.
I spend my days in a world of literature, Spotify playlists of psych and power pop, and my own hyperfixation, Arthur Rimbaud. My blindness to most contemporary pop culture is apparent: I never imagined I would see someone wearing a Folklore cardigan in person, nevermind a girl wearing a Folklore cardigan while posing with a glossy photo of Ryan that she brought for him to sign. But it makes sense that the people who idolize a “tortured poet” billionaire would also hold tight to the belief that Ryan Ross was a sensitive boy who was later forced out of the band he created.
He is a living, breathing example of the scarcity principle: making the choice to live privately means the rare photo of him that becomes public these days makes a certain corner of the internet go crazy. And it’s the reason that an even more rare public performance will prompt people to spend thousands of dollars to come to a park in Los Angeles. I have no room for judgment in my heart. I went to Camden Town solely to photograph the house that Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine occupied for a few months in 1873.
A lot of the kids in line look like someone had to tear them away from writing My Chemical Romance fanfiction in their parents’ basements. A teenager with greasy green hair and harlequin makeup stares at me. Some have recreated costumes and makeup from Panic! At The Disco tours that happened when they were wearing diapers, if they were even born yet.
“I don’t get the cosplay,” I say to Rachel.
She nods. “That was never a thing before. We dressed up for Christmas Prom. But it wasn’t like that. It’s a lot.”
“It is a lot.” I sigh. “Maybe I’m just too LA now.” I’m mostly joking, because I have a haircut that could theoretically belong to any girl in 2006, complete with extensions and coon tail section. The only thing making it clear that I’m not poorly imitating a scene queen is the cropped Gun Club hoodie with tennis skirt instead of a youth XL band tee and studded belt. It’s pretentious and contrived in a different way.
After we find seats in the auditorium, Rachel and her mother debate whether they should switch seats to be closer to Ross’s girlfriend, then Rachel leaves to find her during intermission. Rachel tells me she calls Z Berg her friend when talking to strangers, then clarifies “because we’ve DMed on Instagram, you know…” I don’t know, but I nod anyway.
***
After the show, I’m outside again with Rachel and her mother. When I reach the front door, there are roughly 200 people in line, waiting for Berg and Ross to come out and meet fans. The mood is electric and I stare as the line wraps around the perimeter of the yard. Rachel doesn’t join the queue, in favor of standing right by the door. It’s so orderly until Berg and Ross come out and Berg announces that they only have a few minutes. Then, kids rush at them. Despite being asked repeatedly not to crowd them, people continue pushing forward. I stand in a corner filming the crowd. Rachel and her mother have disappeared, edging out children to get to Ross and Berg as quickly as possible. I keep filming as girls with shaking hands push various objects at Ross to sign: records, photos, scraps of paper. At one point, Ross glances over at me, filming the crowd and laughing to myself. He smiles before turning his attention back to the fan in front of him. I wonder if he finds all of this as silly as I do. I can’t hear anything that’s being said, but I don’t see anyone crying and everything seems pretty chill.
How does the object of that love even live up to anyone’s expectations?
I think about Beth, a fan I met on Reddit, telling me how much she wanted the chance to tell Ryan how much his music meant to her. The last time I tried to tell anyone how much their work meant to me was October 2018, and I blamed alcohol and my friends bailing on me when I cried after I met the singer of the band that inspired me to play music. The reality was so much worse: he meant so much to me, but I was one of countless people who had been inspired by this man. How could my love and admiration even compare to the likes of Kurt Cobain or Thurston Moore?
I think I’m just jaded. Whether it is from living in LA or having been an active participant in the music industry from the age of 16, I’m not sure. The magic fades when you hear the guitarist of your favorite band ask your 14-year-old sister to sit in his lap, or realize that it’s actually kind of weird the bassist of that famous Midwest pop punk band asked if you were going to your senior prom. And once you gain the tiniest bit of life experience and realize even the most sensitive of these poets view women, and by extension you, as disposable, all bets are off.
When I was 16, a girl on a message board told me the best way to get into shows for free was to start a webzine and interview bands. The first time, I was so nervous I couldn’t stop shaking and could barely hold my tape recorder. Less than six months later, I was sitting in the back lounge of a Prevost, drinking vodka from a water bottle and asking nonsensical questions for my amusement. But spending all of my time with adult men in Ford vans or dressing rooms with suspiciously stained carpets (or tour buses) spurred me from being the kind of shrieking, flailing fangirl these men dreaded and mocked to someone who nodded quietly at musicians when I encountered them on the street while smoking a cigarette. In some ways, I guess it’s like I grew up too fast.
It’s not all lost. I still get emotional at a good show. At When We Were Young in 2022, a man a few feet in front of Mallory and I kept turning around and cheering specifically for me and the reaction I was having while watching My Chemical Romance. Maybe he was making fun of me. I didn’t really care then, and I still don’t. In 2023, Lindsey and I went to see Fall Out Boy and The Academy Is…, then took drunk selfies at Emo Nite LA and she DMed them to William Beckett while I laughed. Nick and I impulsively drove to New Jersey to see Midtown last December.
Even though I don’t really understand fans’ desire to stand in the cold to get a photo with Ross, I still believe in music. I’m working on being less self conscious because I’m not watching from the side of the stage anymore. I’m just a face in the crowd and no one on the stage can see me cry.
