that's awasum

When Light is Sound and Sound is Light
11.17.04 + 1:45 a.m.

The opening band has long since left the stage. The house lights go down, which the parasites take as a cue to return from the bar, the ashtray, the restroom, and affix their eyes to the stage. The crowd becomes a single body.

The stage lights come up, whistling. Each of them buzzing at gem-colored frequencies, and we snatch at them eagerly, like they are stray pieces of topaz, emerald, diamond. From your seat in the mezzanine, the downstage and upstage cymbals are crossed in such a way that they create a single silhouette. The shape and reflection makes the hi-hat look like a dragonfly encased in amber.

The strobes scream and shoot out like grappling hooks, piercing through your eye sockets and pulling your brain into the limelight. A spotlight whooshes over the audience, illuminating the pool of cells that the audience has become. Illuminated are clouds upon clouds of dust, dandruff, smoke, and evaporating sweat, each piece of human shrapnel grateful for its moment in the white light that floods the house.

Every song melds together into a gyrating prism, and you are the light refracting into rainbows. The sound is everything you wished it would be. The vibrations are a swirling cocoon. You are hot. You wanna fuck. You wanna weep. You wanna remain still, entombed by the sound.

Dionysian expression beats that Apollonian shit any day of the week. Even on Sunday.

From your balcony seat, you see the waves of light crash and separate over the crowd. The heads are a pointillist sea rippling, flailing, smoking, and dancing; individual droplets are spat up by the whirlpool before being absorbed again into the mass.

It continues and continues, an involuntary cycle; the music stirring the whirlpool, the whirlpool feeding off of itself and the music, the band absorbing the energy put off by the crowd.

The last song is played, and the band exits the stage. But the undulations of the crowd create an undertow to suck them back on. They play one more, and leave.

And, that’s it.

Though there is a symbiosis between the crowd and the musicians, the band is the host and the audience, the bloodsucker. We cling, like we’re seeking mama’s milk; the band decides when it’s our time to be weaned. Doesn’t matter if it’s because they’re tired, or sick, or simply out of tunes. They hold us by a short leash for a while, and let us go before we start to take them for granted.

You remove the earplugs which sanded the blare from the rock and roll, and into your ears rush the oceanic cheers of the crowd. A moment passes, and the audience, realizing there will be no more encores, heads towards the exit. From the balcony, you watch them drain slowly through the doors, like flotsam carried out by the tide.

I saw The Pixies tonight. God, what a good show.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
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words ฉ luvabeans, 2003 - 2004