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Chatter, laughter, the sounds of a
set being torn apart, rearranged by nameless people floating about the stage
like ghosts in black. These sounds are just the back track to the real melody,
the indefinable quality of soundless expectancy. This is the soundtrack of a
night that hasn’t yet begun. There is anticipation in the atmosphere.
Blue lights flash, musicians in
silhouette. A lone microphone sits center stage. The tension rockets. Drums.
Guitar. Piano. Instruments welded by specialists in energy escalation.
Somewhere in the crowd a girl wonders what he’s doing backstage right at this
moment. A boy holds his breath, waiting.
We are ready. Primed. About to
explode.
From the wings of the stage he
appears and the roar is palpable. We feel it in our chests, in our feet, as it
pours from our collective mouths. Arms wave, hands collide in manic joy as he
smiles, dances his way to the stage and grabs the mic. His voice pierces
through us like a spear thrown with the perfect trajectory. It carries us high,
higher, until we are with him, right there with him as he belts out the words,
as he revels in his triumphant entrance.
We are celebratory. We are wild. We
are dancing, swaying, clapping. We are screaming “I love you,” to a perfect
stranger on a perfect stage, on a perfect night, because in this moment there
is no such thing as a stranger. We are all connected.
As he pours his heart and soul out
onto the stage, we give ours right back to him. And we wonder is this baring of
a soul for him, or for us? We wonder does he know? Does he realize the impact
one song, one lyric, one note, one word, can have? Does he know we are here
because something irrevocable happened the first time we heard him sing? Does
he know the repercussions one night here, bathed in this sound, in this
explosion of shared energy, can create?
Somewhere in the audience a girl
cries because someone broke her heart, but with each tap of her toe her heart
mends. A man takes his wife’s hand, resolving to fix his marriage. A boy
decides life is worth living. A woman is inspired to chase her dreams. In this
auditorium, under the flashing lights, through the haze, and the rhythm
pounding in our veins, we are all changed. If only in the tiny second when
someone chooses to dance instead of sit still, to laugh instead of cry, to be
kind instead of angry.
He knows, we think, but we want to
be sure. So we scream, and sing, and clap and flail. We dance, and make fools
of ourselves in the name of music, in the name of love, in the name of this
perfect night.
We are charged. We are changed. We
are made new.
One night. One man. One band. One
song.
This is all
we need.
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Note: This short short story was inspired by the Nate Ruess concert I attended last night, and for that reason only I chose to reference the performer in this piece as a 'he.' All music and all musicians have the power to change us, and for that I'm grateful. Play on, Steph
