Chasing the soundtrack of my youth — one concert at a time

When Oasis took the stage at Metlife in the Jersey swamps, I screamed with joy alongside 60,000 other fans. The spring before, Pearl Jam played “Daughter,” and I quietly sobbed, standing in a sold-out show where the Pittsburgh Penguins usually take the ice. Billy Corgan, your primal wail lit up my world in the dark of the Roxian Theatre. And Lisa Loeb, thank you for locking eyes with me. “Tails” was my first CD, and I tried to telepathically let you know that as you sweetly sang “Stay” for the millionth time.

No, it’s not 1996. It’s 2025, and I am having a midlife crisis.

It all began at my 40th birthday party, which featured a ‘90s alt rock cover band I hired only after they proved they could belt out “Possum Kingdom” by The Toadies. Dressed in flannel, Dr. Martens, my favorite Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and a choker necklace I bought at Claire’s in 1995 — and somehow still have — I dined on middle school staples like taquitos and pizza bagel bites and danced my face off surrounded by friends and family. It felt like finding something I didn’t know I needed.

Since then, I’ve been chasing the high of that night by buying tickets for every beloved ‘90s band coming through Pittsburgh (or close by…or not even close by), where I live an otherwise grown-up life, in a house in the suburbs with my husband and two sons.

Blues Traveler, Gin Blossoms and Spin Doctors played their hits as I double-fisted Iron City in a muddy field alongside 20 friends, all of us around three decades out from the time these bands played nonstop on our FM radios. I knew every Red Hot Chili Peppers lyric by heart. I wildly waved a poster at Better Than Ezra, and the whole band signed it after the show. Nick Hexum (still so tall, still so sexy) of 311 crooned “amber is the color of your energy” as I swayed in a thick, rain-soaked crowd on the beach. I still believe that Mark Hoppus of blink-182 and I have a deep connection and only need to meet in real life to prove it (sorry, husband). And Dave. Oh, Dave (true fans don’t use his last name): you will forever two step inside my heart, and I will squeal every time you kick out your legs in an on-stage jig.

To prep for upcoming shows, I play the songs of my youth as I drive my sons to school. (Bonus: My 7- and 5-year-old know all the words to CAKE’s “The Distance.”) And whereas the last time I went to see Dave Matthews Band or Green Day, my parents dropped me off at Hersheypark Stadium and waited for me in the parking lot, now I hire the babysitters, climb into the Uber, stick in my earplugs (I appreciate my hearing now more than I did at 17) and step back in time for a few glorious hours. It’s all kind of a teenage dream.

My teenage self wouldn’t even recognize the life I lead now, and yet, I still crave her music of choice.

Sometimes I worry, am I living too much in the past? As a grown married woman with a career, children, a mortgage, board duties and little league snack responsibilities, why am I so pulled to escape backwards to 1997? My teenage self wouldn’t even recognize the life I lead now, and yet, I still crave her music of choice. At the end of the day, there’s something so satisfying about simply switching to a Counting Crows song on my Spotify. I know it. I love it. It eases my mind for a few minutes as I sing every lyric, even while somehow I can’t remember what I did an hour ago.

My brain is always on overdrive and listening to my “oldies” — loud, gritty, feel-it-all, flannel-soaked melodies — is like visiting an old friend. I need predictable tunes, run down memory lane lyrics and the whiplash of adolescent emotions to sometimes survive the grocery store and youth sports practice runs. And looking around at these nostalgic shows, it looks like many of my peers do too. Maybe more of us should try scream-singing “Zombie” in the pre-school pick up line. (Just make sure the windows are rolled up.)

In the depths of adulting, we are mentally swaying back to simpler times, when we had the head space to pore over liner notes, memorize lyrics and sink into the abyss of songs that meant the world to us. A time when we had the patience to sit through radio promo spots and commercials in between TRL countdowns, just to hear our favorites. When, hopefully, our biggest problems were studying for the chem test, crushing hard on one of the Matt(s) at school or being told we couldn’t sleepover at a Jen’s that night. For me, at 17, there was an easy remedy for all of that “hardship”: track 3 on my “(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?” cassette tape, played on my boombox over and over again.

Turns out, that comfort still lingers. It’s the soundtrack of my youth played out in front of my eyes, all these years later.

Maybe I’m making up for the fact that my “merch” in sixth grade was writing the names of my favorite bands in gloopy Wite-Out on my zip-up Trapper Keeper and proudly carrying them with me through my middle-school hallways. But while Oasis, Green Day, Jewel, R.E.M., The Cranberries, BUSH, Alanis and No Doubt graced that hunter green fabric organizer, today it’s more about the people I carry with me to these shows, with whom I’m lucky enough to revisit my first loves.

For the Oasis show, two girlfriends from London flew to NYC and we reunited – basically just like Liam and Noel. For two Septembers in a row, my husband and I and three other couples drove seven hours to Ocean City, Md., cherishing our time together as Weezer, LIVE (the pride of my hometown of York, Pa.), The Offspring, Wheatus, 4 Non Blondes and Collective Soul rocked our socks off. Back home, I wear my $40 t-shirts proudly, keeping them warm for my boys to grow into (because everyone knows worn-in t-shirts are better). I’m reliving my glory days while catching up with old pals, planning trips with new friends, educating my boys and continuing to ignore the hit charts of today.

Some might say that these nostalgia tours are lame or money-making schemes, but to that I say, who cares! They’re fun! Do I feel 17 again at these shows? YES. Am I ok waking up to make breakfast and get my boys to school the next morning? Also, yes. Does my back hurt after jumping up and down like a maniac? Double yes. I’ve come to realize that while I’m actively living the grown-up life and rising to the constant wonderful occasion of parenthood and marriage, I’m also forever the same 13-year-old girl dramatically singing along to “Wonderwall” in her bedroom. I can be both people. What a gift.

As beloved bands announce next year’s tours, my friends and I are already hatching plans for party buses (safety first!) and begging grandparents to watch kids. I can’t wait to once again scream-sing alongside my fellow elder-millenials, slam back a (one!) beer, dance too much (in my sneakers!), wave to my past loves on stage and get home at a reasonable hour. Honestly, crisis averted.

And No Doubt, see you in Vegas. After all, I’m just a 40-something girl.