A year ago today, I did something that terrified me. Not in a jumping-out-of-a-plane kind of way, but in a standing-in-a-crowd-with-a-borrowed-camera-I-barely-knew-how-to-use-and-pretending-to-be-a-pro kind of way. It was my first concert review, my first attempt at concert photography, my first real step into the metal scene—basically, a long list of firsts that had me questioning my life choices.
And, oh boy, did I fail. Spectacularly.
The Setup: An Amateur With a Borrowed Camera
Let’s get one thing straight—I didn’t even own the camera. I borrowed it. Because obviously, what could go wrong borrowing expensive equipment for the first time in a packed venue? I was new to writing, new to concert photography, and, to top it off, new to metal.
But at least I knew one thing: no flash. Small victories, right?
The Reality Check: Chaos From the Start
The first band had already started when I arrived, meaning I had to push my way through the crowd. My social anxiety was at maximum overdrive. There was no photo pit, just me standing way too close in the front row, clutching the camera like my life depended on it. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it. I was terrified I’d drop it, break it, and owe someone a very expensive apology. I wasn’t just nervous—I was a wreck. I was standing way too close in the front row, drowning in the realisation that I had the completely wrong gear for the job. I had to push through the crowd to even get a decent angle, and every fiber of my introverted soul screamed, Don’t do it. Stay put. Melt into the floor.
But I didn’t. I dared myself to move. And it felt like I was walking through fire.
The Glorious Photography Fail
If you’re imagining blurry shots, overexposed messes, and accidental pictures of my own shoes—congratulations, you’re spot on. I was winging it. My settings were wrong. My angles were worse. Don't start on exposure. Most of the pictures where just white. And the shots? Pure chaos. A blurry drumstick here, a weirdly cropped microphone there, and at least one photo where I’m pretty sure the main subject was a random person’s shoulder.
I was a nervous wreck, but there was no way I was letting go. I had made it this far. I wasn't goint to back out. I was shifting awkwardly in the crowd, completely aware of how out of place I must have looked. I was convinced everyone could tell I had no idea what I was doing. I was drowning in self-doubt, completely in my own head.
The Unexpected Save: Jón Geir & Björgvin
By the end of the night, I was emotionally wrecked. Pushed past my limits, completely drained. And then something happened that turned it all around.
After the gig, I got a photo opp with Jón Geir and Björgvin. They signed my ticket, posed for a picture, and—most importantly—they were just so damn nice. They didn’t rush it. They didn’t make me feel awkward. They didn’t treat me like some annoying fan shoving stuff in their hands for a signature. And that mattered. Because in that moment, the crushing anxiety, the panic, the feeling that I had just embarrassed myself beyond repair? It started to fade.
…Until, of course, I managed to embarrass myself in a whole new way.
Because in my frazzled, post-gig, adrenaline-fueled state, I somehow decided it was a great idea to tell Jón Geir:
"You’re like… the happiest drummer I know—watching you play just makes me so fucking happy!"
Why. Why did I say that.
I have no idea if that even made sense. I have no memory of my tone or delivery. All I know is that a full year later, my introverted brain still wakes me up at 3 AM to cringe about it. Because who says things like that?!
And the best part? Jón Geir didn’t just nod and move on. He actually laughed, in the nicest, most genuine way. No awkward pause, no weird look—just actual, friendly amusement before he answered, still smiling: "Yeah, well, I love what I’m doing." That’s it. That’s the quote.
Meanwhile, I was probably standing there like a malfunctioning robot, replaying my own words in horror while he just continued being a nice, wholesome human.
But you know what? That meant everything to me. He could have made it awkward. He could have brushed it off. But he didn’t. He was kind and warm and didn’t make me feel stupid. And for that, I’m genuinely grateful.
Because at the end of a night that had been so emotionally intense, that small, fleeting interaction took the edge off. Instead of dwelling on all the things that went wrong, I left feeling… happy.
And a year later? I’m still here, still sticking with it, still growing—and yes, still overanalyzing that one dumb sentence.
One Year Later: Still Sticking With It
A year later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still going to gigs. Still learning. And still looking at this photo pinned above my desk as a reminder that sometimes, failing spectacularly is just part of the process.
Because that night? It wasn’t just about bad photos. It was about daring myself. Following through. Learning that even when everything seems to be going wrong, there’s still something amazing to take away from it.
And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.
So, What’s the Moral Here?
Do the thing. Even if you’re scared. Even if you suck.
Some moments aren’t about perfection—they’re about growth.
And if you ever get a chance to meet Jón Geir and Björgvin, just know—they’re awesome.
Would I still call this a spectacular failure?
Absolutely.
But would I do it all over again?
In a heartbeat.