Reporter’s Notebook:

As I took my seat in the Pacific Amphitheatre recently, the roars of 8,500 screaming Black Eyed Peas fans were enough to make me wish that I had brought earplugs.

The more seasoned journalists in the press box had come prepared with more than just earplugs; they were armed to the teeth with useful gadgets, big and small. I felt outgunned by their protruding Nikons and interchangeable lenses. But as an intern reporter, I guessed the experience was an initiation of sorts, as if to welcome me to the big leagues.

In this game, there was no room for passivity. I noted the territorial glances being exchanged as we piled into the press area, so I temporarily replaced my usual acquiescence with a more aggressive demeanor. Even so, I still didn’t blend in; most of them wore a battle-hardened expression of apathy that was hard to replicate.

As some of the photographers began talking among themselves, I tried to listen in. But their conversations were difficult to make out over the din of the crowd and the frequent sound checks up front. I lost interest in their discussions, though, when the lights dimmed about 8:45 p.m. and the four band members came into view.

The performers fittingly kicked off the night with the song “Let’s Get It Started.” Elated crowd members jumped to their feet to welcome the flamboyantly dressed quartet. A light show lit up the hind section of the stage, giving the concert a rave-like sensibility. Meanwhile, the huge electronic screen behind the performers displayed green linear lattices and blue circular patterns.

The experience was exciting, to say the least. The press box was optimally situated between the front row and the stage. In other words, there were no physical barriers between me and the performers. As Fergie advanced toward the edge of the stage, I pulled my fingers back so they wouldn’t end up under her heels.

As a keen Black Eyed Peas fan, I had to restrain myself from dropping my little camera to wave at the band as they stood just a few feet away. I was pretty sure each of the performers looked me in the eye; but then again, most every fan in the audience probably thought the same. Each of them made their way to and fro across the stage, rarely idling in one place for long.

Exciting as it was, my stint as a privileged reporter was short-lived. Three songs into the concert, the security guards promptly whisked us journalists out of the media box. I later learned that this was common practice.

As I left the amphitheater, I walked a little taller than I had before. Sure, I was a lowly intern in a pack of weathered journalists, but I had at least held my own. I wore my press credentials with pride that night, as I left the amphitheater to the sound of a rowdy crowd and a memorable performance.