The Palace at Auburn Hills
This beautiful night made walking the parking lot to the stadium a pleasant summer stroll. I loved the people I saw, people older than I and younger than my daughter. Seeing Coldplay was a gift to my daughter for her 16th birthday, and we had been looking forward to it for months.
Before we climbed the stairs to our level, we were handed what we assumed was a bracelet to signify that we had shown our tickets and were officially allowed to be there. We put them on, surprised that they weren’t made of paper. Mine was pink; my daughter’s was orange.
When Coldplay came on stage, they turned us on! Our wristbands blinked fast, neon blinks. Every wrist band went crazy, and the crowd became activated with fun and by waving our wrists. It looked incredible—like fun, like happiness, a vast twinkling in our collective eye.
I loved to know that the people across the stadium were as pleased with the effect from my wrist as I was with theirs. It made you feel giddy. I felt part of something, part of the show. We both did. We ourselves were the special effects.
They didn’t act like we were simply to be tolerated, or worse, invisible. They let us in on it. Chris Martin signaled their intentions and challenged us, too: “Let’s make this a show where you say ‘I remember the show on August 1, 2012 as the most amazing show I ever saw.’ ”
Later, confetti from the ceiling added fun, too, in different colors and shapes,
something to carry out of the stadium like a moon rock or something, evidence. Huge neon-colored balls bounced about, for us to bop in the air. There was even birthday cake, for a Coldplay guy’s birthday.
They were sweating hard and working hard, and they made sure to give us our money’s worth. We worked too, to milk those moments. They gave us the chance to be there now. Using Twitter to light us up, I later learned, they gave us something unattainable through Twitter, Facebook or YouTube—the irreplaceable, being there, in it, part of it, making it happen.