Before I start, two things:

1. Claiming you liked a trend before it was a trend is one of the most annoying acts known to mankind and makes you look like a major asshole.

2. I am a hypocrite — and possibly also a major asshole.

I say this not because I’m about to rant about knowing about Fun. before “Some Nights,” or even because I had a friend named Molly before everyone else started talking about her. By the way, has there been an influx of Mollys? How do you pop her and why are you sweating?

No, I am saying this because I, Sarah Elizabeth, am a Dave Matthews fan.

I know what you’re thinking.

Boys wearing tank tops and backward baseball hats. Giggling girls dressed like they’re going to Woodstock. Red solo cups amid puffs of sweet smoke. Wooing and yeah–ing, only interrupted by the never-ending chatter of:

“You going to Dave, bra? Yeah, I can’t wait to see Dave. We’re going to get so wasted before the Dave show, man! Tailgate? Dave Summer 2013? ‘Ants Go Marching?’”

No. Stop. Listen.

I went to my first Dave Matthews Band concert when I was 12.

I was with my mom and little brother at some venue in New York state that claimed to have a lawn that was “family friendly.”

They got one thing right — people certainly were friendly.

We found what seemed like the safest square of grass. I was fascinated by all of the people who seemed to be really happy, really clumsy and really liked to high-five.

And although I wasn’t positive, I was pretty sure I could smell the stuff they had warned us about during D.A.R.E.: The gateway drug that would lead to heroin and death. Or was it pregnancy and death? I hoped for the first, since I wasn’t about to get second-hand preggo.

My mother and brother left to go to the bathroom, so I was left alone to fend the lawn for myself. But as soon as they left, there was an eruption of cheering. The show was starting and I was alone on a lawn full of strangers.

I burst into tears.

Not because a few minutes before had a man twice my age yelled “Yeah, little girl!” before asking for a lighter. No — I was crying because the band started playing “Pantala Naga Pampa” transitioning into “Rapunzel,” and it was exactly how I wanted them to start.

Not to be the hipster of Dave Matthews Band, but I totally liked him first.

Since then, I went to a DMB concert every year. My mom and I even flew out to a peace conference in Seattle to see him play with Tim Reynolds. Opening act: the Dalai Lama.

That’s right. I saw the Dalai Lama speak just to see Dave Matthews before it was even cool at Syracuse.

It was in high school when “Dave” became synonymous with “drinking,” and “drinking” synonymous with “cool.” In true hipster fashion, I was bitter as hell.

In protest against mainstream DMB love, I avoided everyone I knew at concerts. I just couldn’t properly worship Dave, Carter, Boyd and Stefan with people my age. It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that I was painfully sober and hanging out with my mother. And while there is 100 percent a picture of me ducking behind a car to avoid acquaintances in some girl’s “DAVE<3” Facebook album, it’s totally not because I’m embarrassed.

It’s that time of year again, and I asked my mom about Dave plans when I saw her this past weekend.

“Well, I got tickets!” she said, and paused before continuing.

“To see the show with my friends.”

Wait.

Her friends. My mom is going to a summer DMB show with her friends — without me.

There has not been a worst betrayal since Scar pushed Mufasa into a stampede of buffalo. And that was huge.

So if anyone wants an original DMB fan at their concert, hit me up. Not that I have anyone else to go with. I’d just thought I’d throw it out there. Because my mom is going with her friends. And I really want to go with someone. Please.

Sarah Schuster is a sophomore magazine journalism major. Her column appears weekly in Pulp. She can be reached at [email protected].

Published on April 18, 2013 at 12:42 am