It’s amazing how just a tiny slither of hope has the power to enable people to live through the most traumatic experiences. Even though it hurts every part of their being, right down to their very core, as long as they have that tiny slither of hope, that tiny ray of light floating above them, no matter how out of reach that light is, they will be able to move mountains. But the toughest part is to begin to see that tiny slither of hope—to even want to, to even want to allow yourself to see it, to touch it, to understand it, to embrace it, to feel it course through and take over your entire being—to allow that vulnerability to take over, and its consequential, overwhelming, catastrophic pain that will come.
I have been: floored, broken to pieces, risen through the troposphere, stratosphere and mesosphere, revisited past lifetimes and looked into the future, gone on journeys to far-flung places and back and basically had one of the most amazing experiences ever last night, courtesy of This Will Destroy You and their wonderful opening band, 8mm Sky.
Yesterday’s show was one of the most punctual that I’ve attended but I won’t take my concert experiences as a good gauge since I am no concert connoisseur. It’s always interesting to people-watch before, during and after concerts because I like to wonder about all our similarities, differences and the one thing that’s binding us all together during those few hours—our love for the same music, and finding some connection with the same music, no matter how similar or different that connection may be.
I won’t attempt to write a review of the show although I still like to bask in the fantasy that I’ll someday be qualified to write reviews—but I’ll attempt to put to words the otherworldly journey I experienced.
What does it feel like to have your past, present and future flash past in front of your eyes as you allow the music to seep into every crack of your bones? Every time the band begins on a new track, the image in your head builds slowly up. You get transported to days, months and years before. You revisit events that you’ve avoided re-visiting all along, as though you were in those very moments again. You put your fingers in front of you and they are your fingers, but they aren’t your fingers because you know you’re already a different person now. But why, why? You’re going back in time.
When the music comes on ever so slowly and the crowd slowly but surely picks up on the words and the music maintains that lulling wave that tugs at your heart and seeps into every fibre of your being and it swells into that crescendo that might not be physically apparent but in your ears in your ears in your ears and in your head in your head in your head the music swells and fills every crack of your brain and you think of nothing but the music and you’re thinking about everything and anything everything and anything that you’ve ever experienced all your Highs and all your Lows and especially the Lows but thanks to the Lows your Highs are beautiful as beautiful as the music and you think you think you think you think how grateful you are for all the beauty.
If I, as a spectator, am moved beyond words, I can only try to imagine what it’s like to be part of the audience and what it’s like to be the ones performing—that moment when your emotions as a performer are felt by your audience—and those emotions surge right back at you through your audience—how incredibly electrifying that must be. To be moved to the point of tears out of gratitude, out of everything you’ve ever experienced in your life thus far, everything that has brought you to where you are at that point in time—the love, pain, sorrow, rocky roads, joy and triumphs—they zip through your head while the music seeps into every crack of your being—I can only try to imagine what it’s like—that crazy, magical, incredible exchange of energies.