by Esther C. Baird, first published in the Ipswich Local News, June 14, 2023
In recent days, there have been a handful of articles about “event amnesia” amongst those who attended Taylor Swift’s Eras tour. Apparently, the concert created such a frenzy of emotion that memories flew off into the night like so many pieces of giant confetti shot out during the final number.
But this middle-aged mom, with a selective memory for what’s for dinner and when the trash has to go out, was there and firing on all cylinders alongside our 16-year-old daughter, who, most assuredly, was not. To be fair, even before the amnesia, there was a pre-concert suspension of reality.
For example, the outfits.
Look, I’ve been to a LOT of concerts, and I have worn jeans — or jean shorts — to precisely 100% of them. But ‘Swifties,’ I was informed, dressed up. The style was sort of Met Gala meets the craft aisle at Michael’s and they go to the disco. It was glitter, sequins, bodysuits, capes, fur, cowboy boots, and fluttering dresses. Each outfit was more amazing, dazzling, and outrageous than the next.
I transformed the White Whoosh, our trusty minivan, from its regular YouTube studio, dog kennel, and volleyball locker into a full-service salon. Our daughter brought three dresses and a full range of products in order to get ready. (Here’s a pro tip: curling irons can melt food coolers.)
For my part, I went with my 1992 senior high-school prom dress, a spectacle of sequined teal that clearly was designed for this concert (though at the time of purchase, Swift was only three).
Then there were the friendship bracelets. Concertgoers were dripping with album-themed, lyric-embedded homemade bracelets meant to be traded with other Swifties. Not sure how seriously to take this, ours were made using a Walmart kit from the toy aisle — and they looked like it.
Nevertheless, fans swarmed us in the concessions, stairs, and bathroom lines. “Can I trade one of yours for 50 of mine that I macramed and bedazzled with actual gemstones?”
Sure … I guess?
One little girl offered to trade with my daughter, handing her a single string with three beads that spelled D—E-R, awkwardly spaced out.
“Ohhhhh!” my daughter exclaimed. “RED! Her album! It’s beautiful!”
They traded, and my daughter rocked out her D—E-R like it was made of gold.
Lies. All lies. But this was the amnesia settling in as the night built to a fever pitch.
As a frequent concertgoer — but also a mom — I was particularly enthusiastic about Taylor’s punctuality. Exactly two minutes before 7 p.m., a giant clock displayed on the Jumbotron with a countdown. Oh, the hysteria — the tears, shrieks, and swooning of 70,000 people well past the point of no return, our daughter included. She could not actually conceptualize she was about to see Taylor Swift in 60 seconds, 50 seconds, 20 seconds …
And that’s the moment when the crowd at Gillette collectively lost its mind. They became a singular, buzzing, quivering consciousness on the verge of a giant 70,000-person blackout. Even I was shaky, thrilled to see my daughter so excited and, perhaps more likely, the double-shot espresso combo energy drink I’d thrown back to stay awake was hitting my system.
But boy, did Taylor Swift glow. The concert was, as has been reported, flawless. Sheer perfection for 44 straight songs! Spotlights, fireworks, color, all pulsing to a pounding beat. Three hours of happiness, laughter and a sense that maybe if we wore sequins in real life, things could be easier and lighter, with a touch of badass whispering at the edges.
When it finished on time (Hey, Taylor! Do you want to run a travel sports team? Come be a parent volunteer?), we left in a swirl of wrung-out emotions and afterglow. We walked across Patriot’s Place with the only people in the WHOLE WORLD who could ever really know our post-Taylor life.
We loved them all, and they loved us.
On the long (but well caffeinated) drive home from Foxborough, we sat in almost total silence. It was the silence of one perfect night being processed and filed away into memories that, whatever the reports say, we’ll remember … “all too well.”