BAND AIDE ORIGINS: My First Linkin Park Concert, Roadtrip and Love Affair with Live Music

A Place for My Head

My first CD? Green Day’s Dookie at age nine (which my mom promptly made me return, the first of many battles over music taste). My first concert? No Doubt at the Delta Center when I was eleven. My first job? Selling tickets at that same arena, purely so I could score free shows.

But the real turning point came at seventeen. My dad and I drove from Sandy, UT, to Phoenix, AZ, to see Linkin Park. That road trip cracked my world wide open. Without that trip, my father, and the bands I chased across the country after, I wouldn’t be who I am today. That one Linkin Park concert was the spark that ignited everything, my gateway drug that led me to My Chemical Romance, Coheed & Cambria, Alkaline Trio, Circa Survive, Thursday, and it was the start of my lifelong love affair with live music.

First Taste of the Pit

At my first Linkin Park show in 2001, I watched the pit from my seats at the Mavrik Center (the E-Center back then), and I remember looking down at the GA pit and thinking: Damn, that looks like fun. That’s where I want to be.

The pit was calling.

Bodies slamming together. Electricity buzzing. The band hyping the crowd, grabbing hands, passing the mic to fans. The connection between the band and fans, it was irresistible. It was chaos, and it was beautiful.

So when Projekt Revolution hit in 2002, I made damn sure I was in the pit. I had just gotten my license, and there was no better way to break it in. My dad understood the assignment; he saw this was gonna be my thing, and he fully supported it. We crossed state lines into Phoenix, AZ, and that’s where I learned what live music is really about: connection, respect, and community.

Meeting Linkin Park Backstage

At the venue, my pre-show ritual began: lining up all day, making line friends, braving the blistering heat or freezing cold, no bathrooms, no appetite, fueled by just pure adrenaline and anxiety.

That night I’d scored a post-show meet-and-greet through Linkin Park’s new fan club, LP Underground, and I was proudly rocking my exclusive t-shirt. After securing my spot at the barricade, something unexpected happened: Chester Bennington’s brother, Brian, came out from backstage and started hand-picking fans for a pre-show signing. Somehow, he chose me.

Suddenly, I was backstage. Heart pounding. Excitement at peak levels.

Adrenaline having taken over, I spaced the Hybrid Theory CD booklet in my pocket, and with seemingly nothing to sign, Brian handed me a copy of Linkin Park’s first demo tape. When I held it out for signatures, the band was floored. Chester thanked Brian, and when I told him I’d driven from Utah with my dad, he smiled: “Your dad must be a cool guy.” He had no idea how right he was.

The Rules of the Pit

Soon I was back at the barricade, back in my spot, ready to lose myself, the energy at volcanic levels. With You opened Linkin Park’s set, and the pit erupted into chaos. Fists flying, bodies slamming, guttural screams echoing in unison. A tidal wave crushed me against the barricade, and I loved it.

By the third song, it was so wild that Chester stopped the show. And that’s when I learned the rules of the pit:

“If somebody falls down, you pick them up. We value you; we want you to value each other. We don’t want you to get hurt... We don’t care if you don’t like the person standing next to you, but you gotta respect them… If you feel upset where you're at, then leave. And if a girl is on top crowd surfing cause she’s hardcore and crazy, that does not give you the fucking right to grope her anywhere on her fucking body. You will fucking respect each other, or we will stop the fucking show.”

And that’s all I needed to hear. That was my initiation. That message shaped me. The pit wasn’t about violence or rage or any of the “scary” things my mother swore it was; it existed as a form of self-expression, community, and most of all, belonging.

Why Live Music Matters

For a teenage girl raised in the suffocating community of the Mormon religion, finding a band that validated my anger, my grief, my joy, was like finding salvation. 

Screaming face-to-face with Chester Bennington was therapy no counselor could’ve given me. It was during this moment that I came to the profound realization that this was what it meant to feel alive. The way Chester and I locked eyes, screaming every word of my favorite song at each other, his hand in mine, it gave me permission to feel everything. I had finally found a place I belonged, and it rewired my brain chemistry in the best way possible.

Live music became a sanctuary; intoxicating and cathartic. The kick drum you feel in your chest, the thumping bass reverberating through your body, the riffs that make your eyes roll back in ecstasy. It’s a feeling I’ve been chasing ever since. Experienced with only a handful of bands throughout the years, but powerful enough that I’ll never stop running toward it…