Musicism

I sat at the bar, slumped over and drunk on ego. Every month or so, I would come-regular jeans, monochromatic t-shirt, and hair, a mousy brown consisting of an average wave-to these concerts. There I would smirk at the pop culture kids "asserting their independence". My eyes would go bright at the sound of teenagers’ pseudo-philosophical conversations consisting of: individualism, real music, those kids back at school, and drugs. Mostly drugs, of course. No conversation with the barman, only my misanthropic mind and me.

I ordered another drink to numb my senses as the second band of the night came blaring on, using the exact same three chords as the previous one. I never knew who these bands were; I didn’t check the schedule of the theater nor look at the newspaper listings. That was not a part of the rules. The rules consisted only of watching, bemused expression and all, while thinking, and occasionally spewing comments only a natural cynic could. After all, a workout of pessimism was good for the brain. Alcohol helped as well.

The singer finally began to purge lyrics of “love”. “Love”, that was the usual topic of these people who consider themselves wonderful lyricists. A look at the sweat covered fans in the “mosh pit” symbolized this band perfectly. Hormone driven adolescents flopped about like fish with a mental retardation, and middle aged men undergoing their mid life crises jumped up and down with fists in air and dignity quickly oozing out of their mouths. It was an entertaining show all by itself.

But as soon as that ended a ballad of heart break filled the theater with disgusting whining. The adolescents and middle aged men calmed quickly and attempted to throw their hands in the air and sway them to the music. They stretched their palms to be fed the force that their materialized gods up on stage forced down their now sore throats. They left their arms raised to praise these deities and their kind souls. It was the perfect reflection of worshipers at church. I studied each face of the audience I could with observation I had believed to be acute. They had no faces; they were blank.

Several drinks later and another band was setting up. Most of the audience had left; their band was done; who cares for discovering a new and possibly better one? I was getting ready to go; my biased research seemed finished enough for the night. I payed the bill-it was higher than was comfortable, but this would settle for tonight. I grabbed my hand-me-down jacket and was ready to leave, when the band currently onstage finished their less-than-interesting sound check and began to play.

The drums marked the beginning of this immediately intriguing song. It was a simple beat with the occasional improvisation here and there. Then came the bass and finally a keyboard. There were only three instruments. No lead guitar was in sight or sound. This struck me. The genre was that which generally required more, much more. Though the genre wasn't identifiable. This music couldn't be placed or limited by a genre that, under musical law, it must unwillingly abide by. Its experimental base was stripped of all flashy gimmicks and so-called individuality. It was not fashion. It was bare; it was the core of music.

This was intriguing. I had never been fond of music, and this wasn't particularly enjoyable. It was only interesting, a refreshing change.

That is, until the singer came onstage.

He stumbled awkwardly on, naturally causing any audience member to wonder why he was so late, and if this was intended, why? What purpose does this serve to have the singer-often the leading man of any band, and most always in the front of its press coverage-enter late? Later than usual, as well. Dramatic entrance? There wasn't enough following in the band to achieve such a fashionable show piece. The only audience was a few college students, clearly desiring some "indie cred". So why was this necessary? It had obviously been unintentional.

This clearly bottom-feeding male nearly crawled onstage. His entire body, face included, was only a silhouette under the bright blue spotlights. It became evident after the singer grabbed the upstage microphone for support that this was all we would see of him for the entire show.

His "singing" was merely mumbles and moaning, but a chorus of mumbles and moans. He wailed into the microphone with sheer understanding and an often unattainable clarity.

I found my heart pulsating to this symphony of emotion. My eyes began to water, this was the first in a while. I shuffled further towards the "mosh pit" that the previous audience had failed to keep in proper order. This feeling was overcoming my logic and cynicism. As the singer wretched his body mournfully to the music, I felt something, something indescribable. It was not pity for this Elephant Man of a musician, nor respect for his music-making capabilities. For once, it was not a person higher or lower than I. This was a feeling of acceptance and equality. This man onstage was equal to me; he had felt true desperation, and while I had not, we were still standing soul-by-soul on the pedestal of life.
I had felt what is usually described as an "out-of-body experience". I was not hunched in this grimy pit at a concert-area. I was not wasted beyond belief. I was being carried by a light of something magnificent. For the first in a long time, I was nonjudgmental, I was unable to sneer at those around me. It ended far too quickly. The sudden break in this beyond-music was the strike from reality's whip. My logic was simple: I had lost too much dignity in those minutes of my life. I had let logic leave me and emotions rule me. My frontal lobe had reverted back to the days of young adolescence. It was clear.

Despite the attempt at convincing myself, the truth was still clear in the far back of my mind:
This was the acceptance of life, if only for a few minutes. This was the day my bitterness and sarcasm had been drowned for one fleeting moment by ecstasy and curiosity.

This was the 5 minutes and 46 seconds a misanthrope was tamed by the brilliance of art and affirmation of that around her by acceptance of herself. The day a cynic was almost happy, almost converted to Musicism.