Undead

“I took the chance, I paid the bill, I nearly died for this music.”

Undead, Hollywood Undead 

Before anything else can be said, I gotta say how funny I think it is that my last post says I'm back… and it was dated 2 years ago. Oops. 

And you may think my title is referring to my blog rising from the dead but not really being alive, which is likely, but nope! That's just serendipity. This is about Hollywood Undead. 

One night, while doom scrolling, I see that Hollywood Undead will be in Noblesville, Indiana. I pause, I click the link, I dream. I move on. A couple of nights later, I’m a lil tipsy and can’t stop thinking about that upcoming performance near me. I find the details, I see it’s with Halestorm, I send the link to my dad. This is March 10th. 

A few days later, we talk about it; Dad is interested but still thoughtful. Then he gets tipsy and texts the link to his friend. A deal is struck: you drive, I buy the tickets. I find myself in a plan to go see the concert with my dad and two of his friends. I’m not mad; in fact, I’m very excited. Is it weird that I’m going to see my decade-and-a-half obsession band with dads? Yeah sure, but I don’t have to pay for anything, so who cares? 

I have wanted to see Hollywood Undead since I was thirteen years old, and, finally, I would be able to. I just didn’t know it would almost kill me. 

We need a content warning before we go further: for the blog post: medical and health issues (no needles, no blood, nothing graphic) and substance consumption (alcohol and cannabis). For the band in question: suicide ideation, homophobic language, substance consumption. Honestly, if you're reading this, you probably shouldn't look up Hollywood Undead; I know my audience. I love them, but your wellbeing is more important than my story. If you do, well, don’t blame me for the pearl clutching to come. 

ANYHOW. 

While this story is about July 11, 2024, it really starts over a decade before that. So we need a detour: 

Let me introduce you to teenage Abby; 

(cue: Teenage Dirtbag by Wheetus) 

Gorgeous. Beautiful. So very emo.

Let me try to explain my trauma in a succinct way: I was homeschooled in a conservative, evangelical Christian church. I'm queer and neurodivergent, and now, I'm also a pagan Witch. You should get the idea. I tried SO HARD as a young teen to understand what I was missing so I could be the good Christian girl I was supposed to be, but I failed spectacularly… and it was in this time of confusion and depression, I found Hollywood Undead. 

And dear God, did I love “Swan Songs”, Hollywood Undead’s debut album (2008). I loved that they sang about being the outsider, about wanting it all to end. I loved that they felt risky and debauched. I loved the mystery of the men behind the mask. (Did this start me on my dark romance path? No, I blame that on my love of Tommy from Mighty Morphin PowerRangers. There’s just something about the bad guys, you know?) 

And I wanted to see Hollywood Undead live. 

This was about the time my dad started taking me to concerts, thrilled he had a buddy who liked rock. Yet, sadly, Hollywood Undead didn't come near me, and the few times they did, they went to 21+ only places. So I had to wait.

During this time though, I got to see Green Day, Staind, Shinedown, Skillet, RED, Trapt, Kings of Leon, Powerman 5000,  Egypt Central, Godsmack, and many, many more. And, I saw Halestorm three other times before this. (The first time I saw Halestorm it must’ve been around 2009-2010 or so, and it was in a rather small, outdoor setting. Being a closeted queer girl* standing ten feet about from Lzzy Hale stomping around the stage in a tutu and thigh-high leather boots? I saw God that day, and she was hot.) 

The point I want you to take away from this section is that if you’ve only ever seen me as the mom-ified book nerd I now present as, I am, and always will be, an emo kid at heart. You need to understand how much I wanted this, how much I needed to see this teenage-dream band. Feel my angsty desperation; it smells like hormones and has the vague taste of too much caffeine. 

End detour: 

Back to 2024, and I’m sitting in a car with three men in their 50s finally on the way to see Hollywood Undead. Then tailgating outside of the event space. Watching the thunderstorm roll in. It’s important to note here that Ruoff Music Center is an outdoor amphitheater. Thunderstorm is not something we want. Thankfully, we have coolers, games, and snacks. Truth be told, I sat in a lawnchair drinking White Claws and reading smut on my phone. It was fine, but I was worried. 

After waiting over 15 years, was I going to have to wait longer? 

(Ruoff Music Center parking area. Look at those clouds, man.)

The doors were supposed to open at 5; they did not open until 7. But they did open. 

I knew they’d already canceled the opener. Don’t ask me who it was; I neither remember nor did I care at the time either. Hollywood Undead was supposed to be playing next—Did they cancel them as well? 

The walk in the rain from the grass and mud covered parking to the doors of Ruoff was exciting and nervous. 

As we entered, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Hollywood Undead playing. They were not canceled, but they were already on the stage! Thankfully, it didn’t take long to find a spot on the lawn where I could see the band I’d been waiting so long to see. Cue the dancing/jumping and singing/screaming that only happens at good concerts. I might have missed the beginning of the set, and they weren’t wearing their masks (which is fine, but like, as a young teen I had them memorized, okay). But I was there. Hollywood Undead was there. 

Unfortunately, that’s when things started going wrong. I could smell weed.

Oh wait no— We need to detour the story again. I have asthma. I am allergic to cannabis (it makes my throat close). I also have long-covid. I have not been near cannabis since the covid thing happened. I knew there would be pot at Ruoff, there always is, but I assumed it would affect me like it always did: I’d cough, I’d move away from it, I’d use my inhaler, I’d be okay. In the past, moving into fresh air would be enough most of the time; when it wasn’t, my inhaler would take up the slack. 

It was a conscious decision to go somewhere I knew there would be allergens. I’d made sure I took all of my allergy medicine (Claritin, Zyrtec, and Singular, because I'm a sniffly bitch), and I had my inhaler and a few Bennadryl just in case. I was determined to be okay. 

And it was, for a while. 

At first, it affected me exactly as I thought it would. I used my inhaler, moved over a bit, crouched down (smoke goes up, so I go down), caught my breath, went back to dancing and singing. Then it happened again, and I did it again. Then I couldn’t catch my breath, so I just knelt in the grass and took a Bennadryl, still enjoying the concert. 

(Hollywood Undead, Ruoff Music Center)

And I did enjoy Hollywood Undead. I knew every song, every lyric, every beat. I was filled with joy, overflowing with excitement. That sort of happiness which feels like a full chest and a light, floaty heart. Nothing quite like singing songs about suicide with a big, dopey grin on your face, huh?

(Dopey grin for reference, please note the dampness as well.)

Their act was shorter than expected, which I assume was because of rain, but they weren’t canceled and I saw them. And I was only a little out of breath. My throat was scratchy but not unbearable, I wasn’t so oxygen-deprived as to be light-headed. Light-hearted, but not light-headed. Yet.

So as the roadies broke down their set and the other concert-goers went to get in beer lines or merch lines, my dad and I moved to another spot on the lawn, hoping to move away from the cannabis, hoping to put distance between me and what was making me sick.

That was such a good idea, and it turned out so bad. 

We ended up right in front of a couple smoking a joint. A whole-ass joint. 

Now I need you to understand, I think cannabis should be federally legalized and those incarcerated or previously charged should be freed and cleared. I think it should be federally regulated, like alcohol or tobacco or even Sudafed. But, in Indiana, it is not legal. So most of it comes over state lines in the form of gummies or vape charges. So an actual joint right there in public is rare and wild. 

And that's the form I'm most allergic to. 

I start wheezing. Bad, bad wheezing. 

With a curse, my dad takes my arm and leads me away, half-supporting my weight because I'm losing oxygen and therefore balance. I'm leaning against the fence at the very back, desperately trying to catch my breath.

I don't know if you've ever had an asthma attack or breathing trouble before, but if you haven't, 1) I hope you never do, and 2) it's scary. Scary in a way that's hard to describe because it's entirely physical. When you can't breathe, your body freaks out. All focus turns to air, to getting that next breath, to trying to find a way, a position to hold your neck to inhale. 

I start crying. 

Crying doesn't help breathing whatsoever, but I had no control anymore. Panic had set in my bones. I'd used my rescue inhaler 3 times in the past 20 minutes. That's too much. It wasn't working. Also, it's steroids which can cause a fast heartbeat and a jittery feeling anyways. Panicking, gasping, wheezing. 

A worker walks by. Dad tells them to call medical. A woman sitting nearby hears this, looks up, comes over. She's wearing a medical personnel shirt. She says she works there but it's her day off. She says she'll stay with me until the medical shows up. 

I wish it knew her name, I wish I could thank her. She sat with me, held my hands, coached me to breathe slowly, and breathed with me, helping me calm down, helping me get some air. 

While she's helping me, my dad goes to the nearest place with workers, where the one who was supposed to call medical went, and tells them again to call. When he's back and there's still no medical, the woman pulls out her cell phone and calls someone, telling them where we are and that I need help. 

Very soon there's two medics there, having listened to her. 

I'm walking between one of the medics and my dad, both holding an arm, both holding me up, while the second medic walks ahead of us, cleaning a path. Then, we're in a golf cart, heading towards the medical center, a low building with white siding and a metal ramp, which was slippery because it was still raining. 

My dad was not allowed to go in with me, which is fine, I'm an adult, I'm nearly thirty. Who cares if at this point I can barely walk, barely talk, barely think? It was fine. 

Anyhow! 

It was inside, in air conditioning, out of the rain. Blessedly, out of the rain. 

Someone takes my ID to enter in my information, another gets an oxygen tank for me, and I find myself sitting alone, cold and wet, with a cannula in my nose, which is also rather cold. I’m trying to breathe, to focus on inhaling through my nose, trying to not cry, trying to pay attention to what I’m being asked. 

I decline going to the hospital, sign my name to agree that I refused hospital, and talk to a woman who is going back and forth between me and my dad, trying to keep him up-to-date. She thanks me for being so nice to them, for being cooperative. I suppose they have drunk and/or high people throwing fits at being taken away from concerts, but I honestly can’t imagine trying to fight the people who are trying to make it so I can breathe again. She tells me that if I have to leave, she'll refund my tickets or get me tickets to another concert. She tells me if I can stay, she’ll get me seats in the pavilion instead of on the lawn. 

The medic who has been helping me takes the oxygen off, since I’m breathing easier and my head is clearer again. He listens to my chest, says I sound fine now. I stay sitting there, and it’s not even five minutes after the nasal cannula is removed that I start gasping again. He asks if I’m having a panic attack because of the crown or being afraid of going back out there. It’s a fair question, I guess, especially since I told them I take anxiety medication, but no— I am wheezing because I can’t breathe. He takes me into a side room, where it’s quieter and darker, hoping to help me relax. 

The guy who seems to be in-charge (the paramedic versus the EMTs, I think) comes over, and he listens to my chest. And you know what he says? There’s still rattling in my left lung, and he gets a breathing treatment started. Breathing the medicine through my mouth, exhaling through my nose, watching it puff in white clouds. The oxygen helped, it made my head feel clearer and the panic lessened, but the breathing treatment actually made it so I could take a breath without being in pain, fully expand my lungs again. 

My rescue inhaler + the breathing treatment caused my heart rate to accelerate, and I was shaking, my hands unsteady and my legs jittery. But, I could breathe. And honestly, breathing is far more important to me than the ability to sit still. 

I honestly don’t know how long I was in the medical center. It was a liminal space, a purgatory where time doesn’t fully exist. Like an airport. But I was able to walk out of my own volition, with many thanks to the workers. The woman who had been the go-between came with me, leading me to my dad and then both of us to new seats in the pavilion. Chairs set up along the side near the handicap seats, hopefully away from any smokers. We were given speciality tickets that would show that we were allowed to be there, so if we left the area we could get back in, and left to enjoy the rest of the concert. I Prevail was on the stage, I’d guess somewhere around ⅔ and ¾ of the way through their set. 

I was cold, jittery, damp, and exhausted, but I had seen Hollywood Undead. 

(Halestorm, Ruoff Music Center)

And then the end of I Prevail and all of Halestorm— Lzzy Hale is still hot as hell, in case you wondered. I didn’t get to enjoy Halestorm the way I wanted, no dancing or jumping or singing or screaming. Just sitting there, smiling and singing quietly when I had enough breath and energy to do so. It was still good, in an odd sort of way. The concert, the friends, the experience. 

I may not have grown up on drive-by's or L.A. gang signs, but I, too, nearly died for Hollywood Undead's music.

And I had a damn good time doing it, even if all I got was this lousy t-shirt. 

(Don't let the joke fool you; I fuckin' love this shirt.)