NOVEMBER 8, 2017. One year since the election of Donald J. Trump as President of the United States. A year marked by environmental catastrophe, overt racism, rampant misogyny, and increasingly irreconcilable political divisions in a country that has lost its capacity to speak with those who hold opposing views from whichever echo chamber is currently disseminating its version of reality.
This feeling of despair casting a cloud over our collective consciousness was exacerbated by a recent few weeks that saw a horrific mass shooting at a music festival, followed by a horrific terrorist attack on a bike path, followed by a horrific mass shooting at a church. Followed by an unknown number of episodes of regular run-of-the-mill violence in a country awash in guns, paralyzed by partisanship, and increasingly incapable of outrage.
Yet for two hours on a Wednesday night in Chicago, it didn’t matter that America had stumbled into electing a small-minded, self-obsessed, orange-tinged national embarrassment as its commander-in-chief. No, for two hours on a Wednesday night in Chicago, none of that mattered. Because I got to see my favorite band.