A tribute to the first-in-line, and the biggest fan Anna Rawhiti-Connell knows.
At 2.27am on Tuesday morning, I woke to a man in a black hoodie moving around my bedroom.
The dogs weren’t barking madly. One was honking like a goose – a sound made when demanding food – and the other was marching around the bed wagging his tail, the chaotic choreography performed every single time my husband Troy walks into a room.
Despite being wrenched from an amitriptyline dream, the man was lucky my wits were about me. I knew there was a chance it was Troy. Unfortunately for him, my dreams are very real, I can’t break out of the in-between state for a few minutes, and I am often full of rage.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I croaked at the man, who I was 99% sure was my husband. “It’s 2.27am. IT. IS. 2.27AM!”
“I am going to be the first in the queue at the Metallica merchandise pop-up.”
“Where are you going??? Where is this??”
“To the city.”
“You’ll be murdered!” I shrieked hysterically, proving the subconscious power of New Zealand’s news media.
Proof of life was cited on Instagram when I woke at the correct and humane time of 7am, and again that night, his limited edition vinyl propped on the dining room table when I got home.
I often ask Troy how he would identify me if I was found dead, testing his knowledge of all my weird moles and tiny scars. If, god forbid, someone is ever found dead in a queue for Metallica, Pearl Jam, Alien Weaponry, Shihad or Fear Factory 10 hours before gates open, there’s a good chance it will be Troy. There is no marker of his identity stronger than his love of being a fan of those bands.
As far as I know, those are the five bands my husband will move heaven and earth not just to see live, but to prove his love runs deeper than anyone else’s, by always being as close to first in the queue as possible. I say as far as I know, because Ben Thomas once expressed something close to disdain about me not knowing who Troy Superstar Daniels was. Troy Superstar Daniels is my husband’s wrestling name, and I was married to him for three years before I knew of his past life as a stalwart of New Zealand’s professional wrestling scene.
Troy’s unceasing commitment to being a true fan has never been hidden from me. He flew to Melbourne for less than 24 hours to see Fear Factory a few weeks into our relationship. I went to Shihad with him in 2018 and experienced the pit – I spent most of the gig in other people’s pits. At one of Shihad’s farewell gigs at Black Barn I left him to ride the rail on his own. He made the enormous sacrifice of returning to my sedate spot to spend half the gig with me and was, thank God, rewarded by a side stage visit from bassist Karl Kippenberger.
Troy has given up afternoons to feature in Shihad music videos. He will attempt to sell anyone, including my Dad, on the merits of Alien Weaponry. He delights in the odd DM or thumbs up from Jon Toogood, the Alien Weaponry guys or Fear Factory guitarist Dino Cazares. We both went to Pearl Jam last year, a rare musical crossover event for us. He was there at 8am, first in line. I met him after, having turned up at the normal time of 8.10pm, enjoying the nostalgia from the comfort of the seated section.
I enjoy most gigs from the seated section now. So do most of my friends. Some of the fittest people I know wouldn’t brave a Metallica mosh pit these days. Troy isn’t having it. Despite the symphony of groaning that bursts forth from both of us as we set our middle-aged bodies on the world each morning, he will still throw his whole body into being a fan. He returns from the rail, bruised and sore.
By the time you read this, Troy will have been at Eden Park since 10am. Metallica haven’t been to New Zealand since 2010. Troy has seen them three times already – at ages 16, 22 and 29. He will see them again at age 44. He and 39,999 other fans have waited a long time for them to return. Troy’s biggest dream has been to see Metallica from the snake pit, the legendary centre-of-the-stage location for all Metallica gigs. He went in on every pre-sale going but didn’t get a ticket, so signed up to volunteer at Eden Park via their fan club. For that, he will get snake pit access. After 28 years of waiting, he gets to join a seething throng of bodies smashed together, going hard for Metallica’s heavy rock. He might not be the 16-year-old he was when he first saw Metallica, but he is as giddy with excitement now as he was then.
At lunchtime, I popped over to The Spinoff’s local, The Beer Spot in Morningside. At 1.30pm it was already heaving. A sea of black T-shirts, glorious beards, and cigarette smoke surrounds Morningside right now. Metallica fans used to be called the metal militia; now the band refers to their fans as family. I’m no big Metallica fan, but I’m a big fan of their fandom – their family – most especially the one who is also part of mine.
It feels easy to be cynical about so much right now. Earnestness has fallen out of style. Unvarnished posting about your life on social media is cringe, competing as we mortal folks do with slick creators and influencers. No one likes photos of your dogs anymore, and no one responds to your attempts to share the things you love with pure, unbridled enthusiasm.
In the face of all that, there’s something quietly radical about people who live their fandom out loud, unperturbed by what anyone thinks. People who wake up their wives at 2.27am and get yelled at just to be first in line and throw their bung shoulders and arthritic knees into mosh pits. People who wait 28 years for snake pit access and consider the time they gave up to get that, time well spent.
The algorithm can’t touch that kind of unpolished and deeply earnest devotion. Thank the gods of rock for that.
