Every once in a while, view commoners like myself are reminded of the difference between concert and record. Oh right. Listening to the live stuff involves the real world, cialis and the real world involves pickles (the metaphorical variety). With that said, price this recount might require bringing out the storytelling “big guns.” Without further adieu, let’s spin a yarn:

It was early on a Saturday evening, perhaps the first night of the year cold enough for smokers and general exhalers to share image. Popped bike tire? Check. Jacket equipped with Tasty Burger grease stain? Check. “Gloves” in the form of half-dirty tube socks? Depressingly, check.

House of Blues? I spent half the night climbing its Caste System in search of camera privilege. Absolutely, check.

Haggard and poorly dressed, I took my place in line behind the 20 or so middle-aged couples out on date night. For relativity’s sake, you could say I was far enough down the block to be offered sausage every 30 seconds from a ballpark stand. The cart-men could smell the Italian in me, and it was inconvenient.

It was cold. I was hungover. And I was about to see a Fitz and the Tantrums show, equipped with a full-on quest beforehand.

Given my state, getting those black “Xs” marked across my underage hands was slightly ironic and only followed up by more naïve behavior on my part. After inducing a sigh upon HOB’s second layer of security guards, I realized that I had forgotten to pay a visit to the box office. From there, I took the animalistic route, crawling under and over roped pathways.

“We only have one photo pass tonight,” said the spiky-haired box office woman handing over a single ticket. “And it’s not for you.”

To my testament of having arranged access from Fitz’s tour manager, box lady shrugged, indicating that I couldn’t enter the hall with my (boss’s) camera. In fact, the only (legal) option would be to check it for five dollars and just soak up memories instead.

But, due to my lacking absorbency and stinginess toward a five-dollar charge, I resolved to create my own alternative: Get the photos by way of a pass. Get the pass by way of annoyance.

After a few meek “Are you sure?”s, I called my day-of press contact.

“You can do this. Gods of war, may your hammer be mighty,” I mumbled to myself while dialing through the well-placed holes in my socks. I was told to find a guard with a “walkie” and relay my problem to some tour manager with a disgustingly music business-esque name. I believe it ran along the lines of “Micky Russell” or “Dale Green.” Regardless, congrats to all the Micky Russells and Dale Greens out there. You’ve just earned another search result for future self-Googlings.

I asked guard after guard for the favor, but an estimated six shrugged me off as if I were some sort of irrelevant liberal arts college student (…wait…oh…). Photo-pass-less and headachy, I retreated to the curb opposite HOB’s grand entrance. I stared hard to no avail. You see, doors don’t have eyes. They also don’t have sympathy for the “puppy dog” variety.

An hour passed by. So did a fermented-grape-smelling bachelorette party. Amidst my shuddering over the night’s chill and my own present repulsion to all things wine (recall: hungover) the turning point came at the poke of a shoulder. And, by that I mean someone poked my shoulder and completely changed the plot-line of my Fitz experience.

“How’s it going kid?” asked what could only be described as the HOB’s token pirate: eyepatch, head scarf, briny aura and onward. Like me, He had also been shuffling around the doors all night, but interactions and back pats among he and all the guards indicated his managerial status.

“It’s going swell. Thank you.”

“Nice kicks,” he said, pointing to my black leather Docs.

“Oh, thanks so much.”

“Did you make ‘em?!”

“No, I don’t cobble.”

“That’s a shame.”

To that, I nodded.

“Are any of these fellas helping you out?” captain HOB asked.

And before I could even articulate my natural “Well, sorta, maybe,” he ran forward to a beanie-sporting doorman, whispered something to him and waved me over.

“Are you that pudding girl looking for a photo pass?” asked the beanie.

With a euphoric nod in response to both the nickname “pudding girl” and the mentioning of my goal, I indicated “yes.”

From there, I was handed my final instructions of the night: Go find also-beanie-wearing Mary at the merch table. Talk. Beg. Talk. Snag pass.

The two then rapidly waved me in past ropes and lines of “hip” moms discussing how clever the complimentary rubber bracelets were. As I ran into the hall, Captain HOB shouted one last wisdom: “Your eyebrows are perfect kid! You can do it!”

I had just broken into British Parliament…and used a fairy god-pirate to do so.

Big Data, Fitz’s electronic and Brooklyn-born opening act, was in mid-set swing as I zig-zagged around a surprising number of statuesque beer-sippers.

Mary was a quick spotting. I ran up to the merch table and practically barfed out my problem to her. Taken aback by the amount of panting involved, she delivered a half-terrified look and asked me to pull up some emails for verification. And after five minutes of squinting at my phone, she reached under the table and pulled out the “holy grail” of triangles: a photo pass.

Just like that. I’d done it. Through the hierarchy of HOB, I somehow earned my freedom of press. This month’s quest? Check. In a fit of drama, I slapped the pink & white patch on my chest, appropriately placed given the digital heart logo it adorned.

And experiencing the high-power positivity of Fitz and his Tantrums served as the perfect pat on my slouched back. Not long after I triumphantly removed my (boss’s) lens cap did the six spritely musicians take the stage. Not long after their arrival did a series of self-confidence sermons infect me with the topic.

“Every time I come to Boston, y’all always show us how sexy you are!” shouted Fitz. “So scream if you think you’re the sexiest person in the room!” To that, I looked down at my loose, grease-stained jacket, shrugged, and gave a shout.

The set was celebratory with or without personal context. Fitz (formally Michael Fitzpatrick) and his vocal counterpart Noelle Scaggs shared the stage with cohesive expertise. Each taking responsibility for slices of the audience, Scaggs and Fitz worked the space while maintaining connectivity. They danced. They sang. They boogied. I took pictures…. because I officially could.

There was really no distinguishing a crowd favorite given the power-pop group’s historically viral exposure. Attendees rocked out to a multitude of tracks from both 2010’s retro-made Pickin’ Up the Pieces and 2013’s radio-grade More Than Just a Dream. All sounds were intensified from recording, and commonly understated saxophone involvement shined in the live setting.

“Last Raindrop,” presented a particularly intriguing performance. The vocalists locked eyes with one another through the entire emotional track, a duet tastefully set to piano and empty space. Scaggs introduced it as one of her favorite songs to sing, further proving the fact through smooth singing that seemed to just pour out of her. To this, the audience was responsive. A huge applause brought to Scaggs what my narrow perception would consider the biggest smile on planet Fitz. This was then followed up with a sea of hand-hearts held up by the crowd. She seemed as grateful for the experience as I was for the first amendment. I guess everyone won.

Euphoric but weary, I headed to the back of the room during the pre-encore shouting period. I had already gotten all the shots I needed. However, when Fitz and his Tantrums emerged again in their pink-lighted glory, the opening whistle of “Walker” marked otherwise. The energy increased, for even the bar rats in the back shook their belted hips. Good or bad, dancing erupted and diminished upon the pop sensation’s demand.

Prior to the final chorus, Fitz effectively lowered the crowd to the ground for one last explosion. I followed the direction initially, but pondered what would happen if I followed my own nightly trend of “stepping out.” I had quested halfway through the HOBian hierarchy, defied hangover, and was kneeling to end the tale.

“Nevermind!” I mumbled as I stood up and took a final picture.