I just finished watching Friday Night Lights for the third time over the past 10 years, and as a man in his mid-forties, I am perfectly comfortable admitting that it is still one of my favorite shows. FNL is most certainly NOT a show about football; the game is merely the tie that binds.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t find myself looking inward to figure out why the guy who grew up in New York City and never attended a single high school football game would be drawn to a show that covers themes like small-town America and sports rivalry high jinks. My hunch is that I hang around for the teenage romance and musical score, which sounds much creepier than intended.

The series’ pre-cursor, the movie of the same name, first reeled me in. Actually, it was the soundtrack: Explosions in the Sky.

EITS, the post-modern instrumental rock band, also from The Lone Star State, provided the music, set against a barren Texas landscape. Add in a healthy dose of hormones and close-up reaction shots, and the atmospheric guitars tie it all together like an offensive coordinator on top of his game, and the show rocks me to my core every time.

The bedrock of Friday Night Lights, where football is the ultimate metaphorical backdrop, is Coach Eric Taylor (Kyle Chandler) and his wife Tami (Connie Britton). The duo perfectly captures the truth about marriage: you can love and support each other ’til the end of the earth, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. There are familial challenges and too-close-to-home bickering; the performances are believable, solid. As surrogate parents to the entire town of Dillon (yes, Dillon, Texas is sorta a real place), the Taylors are the foundation of family that people dream about. And while they may not always be open-minded or accessible, these are role models who always succumb to unconditional love and sound logic.

Since we are talking about a TV show, after all, every high school stereotype is alive and well: the jock, the cheerleader, the nerd, and so on. But the show’s brilliance is its artful way of slowly peeling the onion, revealing that even the most seemingly one-dimensional characters are hiding something. Tim Riggins has a moral compass, it’s just buried behind an armor of testosterone. An artist lives deep inside of QB2, Matt Saracen. Tyra Collette is a secret academic when she’s willing to put in the work. Brian “Smash” Williams cares about a lot more than just himself. And Lyla Garrity, well, she’s just Lyla Garrity.

For suburbanites, Dillon is the town we all grew up in. The one that we spent countless hours railing against, promising to abandon at the first chance–until we find ourselves looking for a new town that has the same qualities–and ultimately submit to an unlikely yet unconsciously predetermined homecoming.

Race and class and religion and alcoholism all intermingle, and while some of the storylines feel heavy-handed, overtly designed to elicit sentimentality, the show depicts serious topics with a nuanced balance–allowing the viewer to feel yet not get consumed by any singular subject.

As far as teenage dramas go, Friday Night Lights nails a feeling. The fleeting glances, the fleeting athleticism, the fleeting romances…holy shit…this is a show all about growth and impermanence…and as I type this, I am starting to understand why the show has such a tight grip on my heartstrings.

“Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose” suddenly sounds like gospel directly from Buddha.

I need to talk more about Explosions in the Sky and their unique brand of instrumental rock. Their music makes me feel alive. A companion along life’s jagged journey. The guitars tell a story in a way that words never can. And the music supervisor who matched their tunes with high school football is probably a savage in the kitchen, combining a basket of bizarre ingredients into delicious fine dining.

If EITS are new to you, start with “The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place” and explore if you dig what you hear.

The more I write, the closer I’m getting to my connection with FNL.

Most of the characters feel like outsiders, even when they are part of something, but they never have the clarity to realize they are in. Whether it’s the football team or the surrounding community, they’re all connected to something bigger than themselves, but they are often too immersed or distracted to see it. We can all relate. Many of the characters suffer from “success anxiety” aka achievemephobia. As soon as they are close, BOOM, they’re on their back (RIP John Madden).

If you are looking for a show that personifies empathy, look no further; Friday Night Lights is your jam.

The residents of Dillon, Texas, are good people. We are good people. And we’re all collectively better with Explosions in the Sky playing the soundtrack of our lives.

When I am no longer ready for this world, those who love me will know where my ashes belong. And they will know to play “First Breath After Coma” as I float away to whatever is ahead. Texas forever, anyone?

It was an experiment rooted in greed that was destined not to end well.

As my teenage life became centered around live music, it was clear I needed additional income to support my concert addition. At an average price of $13 a ticket, plus that patented 35% Ticketmaster surcharge, how was this high school kid supposed to get by?

The formula I devised was straightforward: Buy a few extra tickets to a show I was planning to attend anyway, and sell them for enough profit to cover the expense of my ticket.

It was a win-win, making the mass-transit travel and early-morning West Coast Video trips (they were a Ticketmaster outlet and ill-fated VHS rental chain) a bit more tolerable.

At 16 years old, ticket scalping was not my first foray into entrepreneurship.

A few years earlier, (’91? ’92?), I launched my first “business,” Punk Rock Pals.
Built on a simple premise, customers told me the name of their favorite band, sent a SASE along with a few dollars, and I would scour the World Wide Web to curate articles and photos. There was a longer-term goal to connect like-minded music fans.

My first “business” transaction hangs in my office; I apologize to Elisabeth if she wasn’t happy with her Pennywise print outs.

This “startup” was made possible by my buddy who lived down the block, the first person I knew who could access the Internet via Prodigy/14.4k modem.

I will never forget my first screen-name: NCJG34B

I don’t recall how many subscribers PRP had, it was only a handful, but the markup for profitability was phenomenal and helped fuel even more concert ticking buying. Hey, I had to scrape up the money to afford the additional tickets I planned to scalp.

Things were going well, and I attended many shows for “free.”

It was a Mudhoney show at Irving Plaza that had me go all-in as a ticket reseller.

The Chrome Cranks opened. And word on the street was Eddie Vedder and/or Pearl Jam was in town. Midnight was the time. A secret show, played following the Mudhoney set. I have no idea where the rumor came from and if there was any truth to it. What I did know was that Mudhoney tickets at Irving Plaza were in demand. High demand. And guess who happened to have a few extras.

“Pearl Jam. Midnight. It’s a sure thing.”

random people on East 15th Street

Pearl Jam never showed, but it was my first business lesson: buy the rumor, sell the news.

The good times, when Tax Day was a foreign concept.

A couple of months later, I’d take my first significant financial loss when Soundgarden played two sold-out nights to support Superunknown. The shows were at the New York Armory, and if you’re wondering where the fuck the New York Armory is, and why a military building was doubling as a concert hall, you’d be asking some good questions.

I overshot, buying at least a dozen extra tickets. Perhaps it was the funky venue. Bad weather? A poor sales strategy? But I was having trouble moving the merchandise.

I missed the opening acts, Eleven and Tad, as I scrambled to make a sale.

I have no memory of the show itself. I only recall the dejected feeling of selling the tickets at a loss, with each tick of the clock resulting in a lower and lower sale.

Some lucky bastards even scored a few tickets for $10 a pop.

I vaguely recall trying to barter Superunknown tickets for merch.

As a relatively quiet kid, I look back in wonderment. Who was that introvert walking up and down the surrounding blocks of venues asking, “tickets? need tickets?”

My early success wasn’t rooted in any secret sales tactic. It was simple: people liked to buy tickets from people who looked and sounded like they did. Another business lesson.

And it was a fun run. Until November 1994, that is.

Candlebox.

Two nights at Roseland, and I had secured a handful of tickets for each show.

Things were going well before the first show. I was excited to hear Madonna’s alt-grunge darlings (signed to her Maverick record label) play their self-titled debut album, a record that was awesome from Intro to Voodoo Child.

Business was brisk, with kids shelling out FIVE times what I paid to see the show (face value was $22.50, all in).

It was an unseasonably warm evening, and I was feeling goooood.

Flowing hair, like a Pantene conditioner ad.

With just a few more tickets to sell, the glow of Broadway’s Stardust Diner feeling a little extra bright, I was approached by a large man, who by all appearances, did not appear to be a Candlebox fan.

“You got tickets?”
“Yeah.”
“You sellin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme see.”

I reluctantly showed the few tickets I had left, clutching them tightly.

“They real?”
“Yeah”

He then took his lit cigarette and pressed it against the piece of ticket not covered by my sweaty hand. The ol’, will-it-burn-through-if-it-doesn’t-it’s-official-thermal-paper-stock test.

“I’ve seen you around a lot lately,” he said.

Silence

“You better stop. These are our shows.”
“It’s a free country.”
“You don’t understand our reach. We’re everywhere. I better never see you selling here again. Or anywhere.”

I walked–OK jogged–to the front gate at Roseland, the ballroom once again serving as a refuge.

Knowing that I was already profitable for the night, I had no real need to sell my remaining tickets. I sought out a couple of kids in front of the venue, and in a small whisper, asked, “Need tickets?”

I like to think I made their night, but frankly, I didn’t give a fuck. I just needed to get inside, away from Mr. Cigarette.

Candlebox was great that night, but it was the opening band that left me talking for days.

It was my second time suffering through The Flaming Lips. Holy shit. It was painful, like having my ears violated. I was sure I’d find blood.

Listening back, I’m not sure why I was so offended by The Lips’ squealing guitars.

The first time I was subjected to The Flaming Lips was at The Academy, November 6, 1993. It was a show that was part of the CMJ Music Marathon. Little did I know that I would end up working for CMJ during college. But I wasn’t there for The Lips, I was there for the opening acts: Boredoms, the Japanese act that employed multiple drummers; Adam Sandler (WTF!?); And, oh yeah, Green Day. 🙂

A year later, when The Flaming Lips played the Peach Pit After Dark on 90210, I was still angry and confused. “Who booked these ‘talent-less’ bastards?!”

Of course, that was just my naivety talking at the time.

Back to ticket scalping.

In hindsight, it’s incredible that the scalpers, who often worked together, as displayed by the constant passing of tickets and cash between one another, did not respond sooner. This was their livelihood, and I was a 90s alt-rock high school kid fucking up their flow.

There was one problem: I still had six tickets to the second Candlebox show at Roseland two nights later. I was scared to return to the scene of the crime, so I unloaded those tickets in Penn Station to a bunch of straggly kids. The price? Face value, and my career as a ticket scalper.