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Everyone knows that the best time to discuss your personal problems at ear-splitting volume is while standing in a room with hundreds of other people who are all intently trying to focus on something. This is the mantra of The Conversationalists, most of whom have heard exactly one song from the band they are there to see, and don't give a single solitary shit about paying attention until that song comes on. They'll stand as close as they possibly can to your ears, yammering about how the omelet they ordered for brunch was pretty good but not really the best and they wish they would have ordered the eggs benedict instead, and this will go on and on until you pray for the sweet release of death. That is, until THEIR SONG comes on, at which point they will "WOOOO" at the top of their lungs and then scream along in a key of their own invention until the song ends.

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Through some combination of over-stimulation and a disturbing lack of self-control, the Premature Mosher will launch himself into a fit of flying limbs and misplaced aggression at the first sign of a drumbeat. This inevitably results in the rest of the crowd spreading itself away from the culprit, leaving him to throw elbows and do stupid karate kicks alone, ineffectually, until he finally remembers how to be embarrassed and recedes into the crowd with his head hung low. Somehow he will not learn from this mistake, and continue to repeat this exact process at every concert he attends for the rest of his life.

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No matter what type of show you're seeing, you will inevitably be dealing with at least 5 of the tallest people you have ever seen in your entire life, and they will always, ALWAYS find a way to be right in front of you. You would think that, statistically, there couldn't be enough giant humans to block your view at EVERY concert you attend, but you would be incorrect. The only possible explanation is that they possess an array of mysterious powers that people of average height simply don't have access to. Regardless, I hope you enjoy staring at a huge dude's sweaty back while listening to songs you love really loudly, because that's what you're getting.

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There is nothing in this world that The Impulsive Shouter fears more than the quiet moments of a show. Whether it's while the band is playing a soft ballad, or tuning their instruments between songs, a Shouter will take their opportunity to unleash a guttural, animal howl for no purpose other than to quell the raging storm of drunkenness that plagues their thoughts. It's like they have a constant decibel monitor in their head, and if that number goes below a predetermined point, their brain automatically forces them to scream nonsense to maintain the status quo. No matter how many people try to shush them, and Impulsive Shouter will never learn their lesson, because in their minds they are just compensating for the crowd's lack of enthusiasm by being as drunk and loud as everyone else combined. Besides, if THEY don't request Free Bird, then who will?

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The lights go down, the band takes the stage, and this amateur filmmaker's iPhone goes up. And trust me, it will stay up for the entire duration of the show. The noble Cameraman is willing to sacrifice his own viewing experience, and the experience of the real life people around him, all so the 12 people on youtube who will watch his video can relive the whole magical journey. And by "magical journey," I mean a vertically oriented, incomprehensible, pixelated mess of a video that sounds like jamming silverware into a garbage disposal.

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After the band is a few songs in, you'll start to really get into the groove of the show, finally forgetting about the other annoying people you've had to deal with. The Serial Surfer can sense your satisfaction, and he will do everything in this power to destroy it. The audience is his ocean, and he must surf. Usually this means he'll come flying from behind with no warning, landing on your back and neck, and forcing you to bear his full weight like an unwilling Atlas until other concert patrons come to your aid and toss him forward. Even if you're not his direct victim, he'll be easy to spot; he's the one crowd surfing during the slow songs, during the breaks between songs, and even while waiting for the encore. If you ever CAN'T spot The Serial Surfer, however, it's safe to assume he's in mid-air behind you, about to come crashing down on your skull.

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Those two people to your left that seem to be nothing more than an affectionate couple are just waiting for the lights to go down before they transform into uncontrollable, face-sucking slobmonsters. It's one of life's great mysteries as to why they paid 30 bucks to stand in a crowded, public place and make-out instead of just getting busy at home with an album playing. Maybe they just can't really get into it unless they are interrupting a musical experience for complete strangers? You'll never know the true answer, because there will never be a--OH GOD IS SHE GIVING HIM A HANDJOB? UGH, JESUS, REALLY? HERE? GOD.