Aging emos find solace in nostalgia, even as backaches replace mosh pits.
It’s about 11 PM, and my lower back is killing me. I’m debating whether to splurge on a Herman Miller Aeron chair—assuming I can budget for it after setting aside money for air-conditioner servicing. Perhaps I’ll wait until I finish paying off the loan for my refurbished kitchen cabinets.
The pain is courtesy of an evening spent watching Saosin play live at *SCAPE. Between thoughts of housing finances and the lingering echoes of Seven Years in my head, a sobering realization hits me: we emo kids have grown up.
At the Saosin show, it already felt like an out-of-body experience. Half the crowd was holding up their phones, capturing Instagram stories of the band’s 2000s hits. A glance at their phone wallpapers revealed snapshots of spouses and kids.
Cue the existential crisis.
Lost Symphonies
Fine, call me melodramatic. But can you blame me? I grew up worshipping bands with lyrics like, “Your tears don’t fall / They crash around me,” and “You could slit my throat / And with my one last gasping breath I’d apologise for bleeding on your shirt.”
Emo music was synonymous with teenage angst. Back in the 2000s, the likes of My Chemical Romance, Silverstein, and Alesana crooned and screamed anthems of unrequited love and adolescent despair, amplified by distorted guitars and dramatic lyrics.
Fast-forward to today, and those same emo kids are now Standard Singaporean Adults, bogged down by housing loans, job security, and CPF retirement planning. Yet, here I am, finding comfort in Fall Out Boy crooning about going down swingin’.
Clearly, I’m not alone in clinging to emo nostalgia. Saosin managed to sell out their Singapore gig last year (before exhaustion and COVID nixed the tour). Earlier this month, Silverstein played to a packed house. Emo Night remains a hit, drawing a mix of old-school fans and a younger crowd who might not recognize the likes of Thursday or Thrice.
Voices
It’s this clash—between the genre’s adolescent roots and the physical limitations of adult life—that underscores our mortality. We’ve stumbled through awkward teenage years, only to stumble into the equally baffling world of adulthood, now with backaches and responsibilities as constant reminders.
Yet, nights like these—screaming along with our old musical heroes—offer a reprieve. It’s a chance for elder emos to step back from adulthood and embrace the melodrama of youth, even if just for a moment.
It’s a time to remember the thrill of discovering someone else shared your angsty taste in music. The solidarity of local gigs, where fellow misfits gathered. The simpler worries, like wondering if your crush liked that song you sent on MSN Messenger (Ghost_of_You-MCR.mp3).
Though we miss those days, we’re also relieved they’re behind us. Because now, we know we’re not navigating life alone anymore.
