As my younger siblings get ready to attend their first concert this weekend, I am preparing to see my favorite band live for a second time around, and I couldn't be more excited.

My eight-year-old brother has been particularly concerned with the details, asking a multitude of questions: How long will it take to get there? How long is a concert? Why does it have to be so late in the day? I don't want to stay up that late! What is an opening act? Will it feel long? Can I sing along?

My brother's questions have left me wondering why I keep going to these events. Most people have some sort of music that resonates with them, but why is it that we feel the need to see these performances in such a new, raw and intimate way?

Maybe it's because the studio version of the music sounds so perfect that we feel it can't be real. Maybe it's because we are ready for something new, or to sound a little different. Maybe it's because the set list changes every night, allowing even more surprises to make themselves known.

Despite the crowds, noise and confetti or balloons that often abound in concerts, it is so easy for me to feel an incredible sense of peace in the couple of hours that musicians offer themselves up each night. I am just as nameless, faceless, and worry free as everyone else in the room as the music swells and surrounds us. There is no need to be anywhere else–– you are home.

Forfeiting my hard-earned cash is never something I do willingly, but I rarely hesitate when it comes to live music, no matter how far the drive. I have left my native Buffalo to view my favorite musicians in Toronto, Boston and even Connecticut, just to name a few places, and every one of those trips has been worth it.

Concerts often grip me with a sort of pre-nostalgia. I am so desperate to hang onto and make memories as I hang onto my phone, snapping photos at least once every couple of songs while also trying to get myself to pay attention and live in the moment. There is something about knowing that the moments are fleeting that makes me so anxious to hang onto them–– to the atmosphere–– to something entirely untouchable and at times, frustratingly ineffable.

It is so comforting to know that the strangers around you know just as many of the lyrics as you do, and sing them just as enthusiastically. That watching a show in person is infinitely better than watching it on someone's snapchat story.

Whatever the feeling is, I just hope my brother feels it as strongly as I do.