Close your eyes and take a whiff. What’s giving the air an added weight?

Is it the scent of sweaty gym socks and athletic cups imbued in the hallowed halls of Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena that hits like Cro-Mags’ John Joseph in the presence of meat? Or is it just the absurdity of the situation? This place, home of the Nashville Predators of the National Hockey League (and, in the loading docks, likely a few ambitiously inebriated bachelorette parties that have taken a wrong turn down Honky Tonk Highway), will soon become filled to the brim with nostalgic teenagers in Tripp pants and millennials in mall goth makeup (blacks and reds, fake blood and false contacts) hoping to recapture the experience of feeling feelings. Back when music was good (that means whatever you were listening to in adolescence) and