Day 2: The Umbrella Broke Me, YOASOBI Fixed Me”

—A Standing Section Saga of Screaming, Lightsticks, and Sudden Existentialism

Rain, Umbrellas, and the Identity Crisis of a One Piece Fangirl

Welcome back to Day 2 of my YOASOBI concert adventure—also known as the day I was ready to jump, scream, cry, and dance… but almost got taken down by an umbrella.

See, unlike Day 1 where I sprinted in from work like a caffeinated lunatic, Day 2 was different. I had time. I was early. I had mentally prepared myself for the chaos of the standing festival section. I was feeling smug. Confident. Legit.

And then—Jakarta weather entered the chat.

Because of course it rained. And not the polite kind. This was full-on, “let’s ruin her hair and dignity” kind of downpour.

Cue my first crisis of the day: my umbrella.

My beautiful black One Piece umbrella.

Stylish. Loyal. Has gotten me through many emotional storms (literally and metaphorically).

But also… big. Like, “can’t-fit-in-my-concert-bag” big.

And umbrella = restricted item.

(Why? Because apparently concert venues assume we’re all one accidental eye poke away from chaos.)

Day 1 I managed to stash my umbrella into a nearby rent locker with my backpack because day 1 was sunny. 

Now Day 2, I spiralled to the umbrella crisis. Keep the umbrella and risk it being taken away from me by security at bag check or leave the umbrella safely with my backpack and get soaked walking to the venue instead. 

But then I remembered my previous concert experience: if the umbrella was small enough, they usually let it slide. 

My pirate-flag-worthy One Piece umbrella? Absolutely not subtle. I knew the moment I tried to stash it in the bag check, security would side-eye me straight into umbrella jail.

So I did the only logical thing:

Panic-ask my friend to switch umbrellas with me.

Enter Ms. H—an icon, a legend, a true MVP.

She had a tiny, collapsible, “responsible adult” umbrella. She agreed to switch, like a saint. Even said,

“If it gets seized, it’s fine. Got it for free. I have like five more at home.”

What a queen.

Although she did add (with suspicious side-eye),

“It’s kinda weird for me to be using your One Piece umbrella. I feel like a kid.”

Ma’am.

Ma’am??

Are you implying I’m a child?? Just because I like fictional pirates and emotional theme songs??? Have you ever heard of the Marineford Arc? That arc alone had single handedly traumatized adult men and women to the point of inaudible sobs. 

Anyway, I swallowed my existential spiral, thanked her again, and walked toward the venue—tiny umbrella in hand, pride semi-bruised, heart fully ready.

A Legit Ticket, a Missing Bestie, and a New Convert in the Making

Here’s the thing. Day 2 was supposed to be the Main Event.

I had a real ticket. No scalpers. No anxiety. I was in the festival section. I could scream. I could jump. I could dance. This was what I was made for.

But of course, fate had a plot twist.

Bestie couldn’t make it.

Yup. My partner in fangirl crime had a sudden meeting she couldn’t skip. Because, unlike me, she’s a responsible adult with a career and priorities and such. Boring.

So she passed her ticket to another friend of ours. Let’s call him Mr. L’ArcFan, since his main J-music music diet consists of L’arc en Ciel (LEGENDARY!), JPop nostalgia, and the occasional Do As Infinity throwback. He only knew one Yoasobi song—Tabun (a respectable choice, to be fair).

Did I worry that he wouldn’t survive the emotional whiplash of a full YOASOBI setlist?

A little.

Did I believe this concert would convert him into a full-blown fan?

Absolutely.

Because this was the day I got to witness YOASOBI not just as a listener, but as a participant. No more sitting. No more lightstick-only mode. This time, I was part of the sea.

And I was ready to lose my voice over it.

Level 4 Coffee & the JPop Multiverse: An Unexpected Plot Twist

So I sat there, sipping my caffeine, staring out at the rain-drenched city like I was in a sad MV, waiting for Mr. L’ArcFan to arrive.

And then—he showed up.
And dropped a bomb.

“So… I just opened our Do As Infinity group chat. They’re coming to Jakarta this August. For LaLaLa Festival.”

I stopped mid-sip.

Excuse me, sir. WHAT?!

I whipped out my phone, instantly opened the LaLaLa Festival IG, and there it was.
CONFIRMED.
DO AS INFINITY. AUGUST 2025. JAKARTA.

The last time they were here was 2017.
That was seven years ago.
Back when I still had my emotional stability. Well, as stable as I could get while screaming the lyrics of Fukai Mori from the barricade.
Now, in 2025? They’re coming back—just when I thought I had no more space left in my fangirl heart or concert calendar.

My brain instantly activated JPop Flashback Mode™:
Fukai Mori. Rakuen. Hi no Ataru Sakamichi. Kimi ga Inai Mirai. Honjitsu wa Seiten Nari.
Every opening and ending theme from my anime-soundtrack-saturated youth hit me all at once.

Suddenly, YOASOBI wasn’t even the only band I was spiraling over anymore.
There was another nostalgia beast reawakened in me.

But. BUT.
I took a deep breath, chugged the rest of my coffee like a shot of sanity, and stopped myself from spiraling while mourning my almost non-existence bank account.

We’re saving that mental breakdown for another day. 

Because today—today was for YOASOBI.
Today was for lightsticks.
For festival chaos.
For singing like my lungs had no limits. 

The Back Row Blessing: Fangirl Strategy & Unbothered Screaming

We entered Istora Senayan about 30 minutes before showtime—perfect timing for emotionally prepping, lightstick syncing, and the occasional dramatic internal monologue. Festival standing ticket? Check. Ms. H’s umbrella? Safely passed security.  Spirit? Ascending.

Our spot? The very back row of the standing section.
And let me tell you—what a win.

Now, some people might turn their noses up at the back row.
But not me. Not us seasoned short queens with emotional priorities.
Because here’s the truth: in a venue like Istora (which isn’t that big), the back row of the festival section is a secret paradise.

Why?

1. No one behind you = arms up, phone high, zero guilt.
2. Room to breathe = actual oxygen instead of neck sweat from the stranger in front.
3. Stage visibility = uninterrupted. No tall guy in a bucket hat blocking your entire existence.
4. Sound quality = sometimes even better, since you’re not right under the speakers going deaf by the second chorus.

So while the rest of the crowd was fighting for a spot up front, elbows locked in combat, I stood in the back like an enlightened monk of live music.
Free. Tall (relatively). Filming my fanvids like a K-pop fancam manager with a mission.

I handed Mr. L’ArcFan his lightstick—initiating him into the sacred cult of synchronized color chants—and took a deep breath.
This was it.
No more chairs. No more wooden bench trauma.
Tonight was about movement.

Tonight was for jumping, screaming, waving that overpriced but emotionally priceless lightstick like my life depended on it.

And as the lights dimmed, and the intro beats pulsed through the venue like thunder from the heart of Ayase himself, I knew one thing:

I was ready to be destroyed by YOASOBI all over again.

Seventeen Seconds In: One Song to Rule Them All

The lights dimmed. The crowd held its collective breath.
And then—BOOM.
The LED lit up for the iconic opening drop.
Ikura and Ayase showed up with the band.  Seventeen.

This was it.
This was home.

There’s a kind of magic in the standing festival zone—something between group hysteria and emotional release. It’s sweaty, chaotic, borderline feral—and I belong to it completely.

Then, mid-hype, Mr. L’ArcFan leaned over—clearly impressed—and said:

“Oh wow… Ikura’s voice is so cute.”

AND JUST LIKE THAT, HE WAS GONE.

Ladies and gentlemen, we got him.
One song. One tiny queen with massive stage power. That’s all it took.

I looked at him with the smug glow of a cult recruiter and said,

“Welcome to the light, bestie.”

He waved his lightstick like a true convert after that.

And as the first song wrapped, I already knew—this night was going to be legendary.

One Setlist, Two Realities: Why No Two Concerts Are Ever the Same

Now, technically—technically—the setlist for Day 2 was nearly identical to Day 1.
Only one switch: they replaced Mister with Suki Da.
But the thing about live shows? They’re never the same twice.
It’s not just the songs—it’s the POV, the energy, the emotional headspace, the crowd’s collective vibe.
And I felt that in every fiber of my fangirl soul.

Day 1, from my wooden bench up in the heavens, felt like observing magic from above. I could see the crowd ripple, the lightsticks painting waves of color, the organized chaos of it all. I was emotionally in it, but not physically immersed.

Day 2? I was in the eye of the storm.

The space between me and everyone else was the kind you could barely slip a lightstick through. Every scream hit harder. Every sing-along echoed louder. And when the lightsticks pulsed during Shukufuku, I wasn’t just watching the wave—
I was part of it.

Euphoria level: Maximum Overdrive.

And by the sixth song—Mou Sukoshi Dake—my voice was already turning into sandpaper.
I glanced around, and everyone was my bestie now. No names needed.
Just mutual destruction via collective screeching.

Then came Halcyon, which became a kind of makeshift choir practice. Harmonies? No. Vibes? Immaculate.
And when Tabun started? Pure chaos.

The scream that came from the crowd could’ve registered on the Richter scale.

And right on cue, Mr. L’ArcFan turned to me mid-recording—sparkly-eyed, grinning—and went:

“THIS! This is the one I know! From TikTok and Instagram!”

Sir. Please.
You’re ruining the shot—
But also, welcome to your origin story.
Because honestly? Tabun is a rite of passage.
It’s the song that introduced so many of us to Yoasobi’s emotional multiverse—and now he was catching that wave in real time.

The setlist flowed into Monotone, and then Yasashii Suisei—which, as always, emotionally wrecked me.
(Shoutout to the lyric translation for that one, which absolutely obliterated me the first time I read it. A gentle gut punch in music form.)

Then came one of my favorite parts: the Ikura & Ayase mid-show talk.
Just like Day 1, they brought out a fan to help translate—pure, unscripted joy.
Ayase asked if we loved YOASOBI (we screamed like demons).
He said they love us too (cue emotional squeals).
And they even turned to the balcony crowd to ask:

“Is it okay for you to stand up?”

Iconic. King behavior.
Because you know those seated folks were just waiting for the signal to rise and scream like the rest of us.

And right when we were getting all soft and fuzzy inside—
BOOM. Kaibutsu.

The tonal whiplash was glorious.
From hugging your chest in emotional reverie to full-on “I’m a boss monster” mode in three seconds flat.

Yuusha came next, and my brain whispered, “Time to rewatch Frieren.”
(Yes, I can be emotionally wrecked and make anime plans at the same time. Multitasking.)

Then came the pure serotonin injection of Ano Yume wo Nazotte—featuring the band’s solo section, which again, just left me slack-jawed. These musicians? On fire. Every single one.

Idol Mode: Hands-Free Euphoria and the Fanvid Debate

And then—
IDOL happened.

You know the moment’s about to go feral when Interlude: Worship starts playing and the crowd goes from emotionally tender to full-on unhinged. That’s when I made the ultimate tactical decision.

I handed my phone to Mr. L’ArcFan, swapped it for his lightstick, and said:

“Record the whole song. I’m going in.”

And oh, I did.

Both hands waving lightsticks like I was signaling for rescue—except I was the one who needed saving. From myself. From the high. From the danger of enjoying this moment too much.

Was the video perfect?
Not even close.
Mr. L’ArcFan is a newly converted citizen of YOASOBIland, not a trained fan-cameraman. The angle kept changing. It looked like a semi-intentional documentary shot by a slightly confused but enthusiastic dad.

But was it worth it?

ABSOLUTELY.
Because for the first time all night, I had no phone in my hand. Just lightsticks, adrenaline, and pure joy.
I screamed “SHINJITERU!” like my entire bloodline depended on it.

Quick Pause for a Hot Take: Fanvids vs. “Living in the Moment”

Now, let me take a small detour to a topic that comes up a lot in concert discourse. 

The claim?

“Recording ruins the experience.”
“People don’t live in the moment anymore.”
“Concerts in the early 2000s were better before phones.”
“You’re just doing it for social media flex.”

And look—do I get where that’s coming from? Sure.
No one wants to watch their favorite artist through a wall of phones held high like they’re summoning lightning.
But here’s the thing: that’s not always what’s happening.

People like me?
We record because we want to remember.
Not for clout. Not for the ‘gram.
But for the feeling.
Because when Post-Concert Depression slams you in the face three days later (or three hours later), those shaky, blurry, slightly-too-zoomed fanvids?
They become lifelines.

They remind us:

“Hey, you were there. You screamed that lyric. You danced like no one was watching—because no one actually was. Everyone was too busy dancing too.”

I always try to record mindfully—at eye level (unless I’m in the back end, then it’s fair game). I do live in the moment—my phone just happens to live there too.

So yeah, if you see me posting a fanvid later, no need to assume I missed the point of the concert.
I got the point.
I just wanted to remember it longer.

Heartbeat & The Existential Anthem We Didn’t Know We Needed

After the chaos that was Idol, it was time for a shift.
The lights softened. The opening notes of Heartbeat began to play.
And something in the air changed.

This—this was the moment I didn’t know I’d cling to the most later.

The lyrics appeared in romaji across the giant screen.
Not just background text. Not aesthetic fluff.
A signal. An invitation.
Yoasobi wanted us to sing it together.

Thousands of voices, all different, all imperfect, all raw, coming together to chant a song about identity, fear, and self-worth.
The kind of song that hits a little too close when you’re caught somewhere between your past and who you’re trying to become.

Heartbeat wasn’t just a song.
It was a group therapy session disguised as a pop anthem.
It screamed existential—but in a simple, universal, beautifully chaotic way.
And standing there, in a sea of strangers who were suddenly not-so-strange, I felt understood.

I keep replaying that fanvid now.
Even in its shaky imperfection, and my high-pitch voice singing in the background, the emotion is crystal clear.

Gunjou & The Confetti Countdown to PCD

Then came Gunjou—and the confetti rained down like visual proof that we had, indeed, reached peak euphoria.

I felt it creeping in.
The end.
That slow, soul-punch realization that this moment wasn’t going to last forever.
Hello again, Post-Concert Depression—my eternal bestie.

While we waited for the encore chants to build, Mr. L’ArcFan turned to me and said:

“This is one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to… and I didn’t even know the songs at first.”

Mission: Accomplished.
He may not be in full-stan mode yet, but the seed has been planted.
Just wait till he hears Encore and Biri-Biri on a rainy day.

Encore Emotions: Butai ni Tatte & Yoru ni Kakeru

And then—the real end.

Butai ni Tatte.
And finally—Yoru ni Kakeru.

It was everything at once.
Joy. Closure. Longing. The ache of something incredible coming to an end.

I danced. I screamed. I cried a little.
And I held onto every second like it was trying to slip through my fingers.

Then, just like that—it was over.

But not really.
Because now I had a camera roll full of blurry memories,
a bestie’s son waiting for fanvid drops and emotional validation,
a freshly converted rock fan reconsidering his entire Spotify algorithm,
and two nights in February that rewired my year.

Two Nights, One Fangirl Heart

These two nights?
Easily the best part of 2025 so far.

The rain. The umbrella crisis.
The wooden bench of humble beginnings.
The festival floor chaos.
The chants, the screaming, the Heartbeat.
And all the people I got to share it with—physically, emotionally, digitally.

So if you’re wondering whether going to both days was worth the financial spiral?

Absolutely. Every rupiah, every scream, every sore muscle. Worth it.

And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.