Saturday, February 01, 2014

Musical Redemption

There is a part of me that wants to say that I was at a loss for words. I was. I fell so far down into the music that there was nothing else there. With the sudden strumming of the guitar, the drum picked up, the keyboard entered and there was nothing in this moment but me, the voice, and the music and it was everywhere.

Something about this music was perfect for broken hearts, and my heart had been breaking for a while. There was mending, too, but mending meant losing something, giving up something, someone, I didn't want to give up. In order to be whole there came a point where you had to let go. I fought, I kicked, and clawed and tried desperately to hang on, and I lost anyway. The last six months had been me dealing with a series of losses, the last, biggest, most powerful loss still swimming around in my mind all the time until I felt like I was nothing but drowning in it.

And then there was the music.

I needed this show to be good. I needed this show to be something more, which was unfair to put on the band that did not know how much they had disappointed me before, and did not know that I needed them to be something more, but I did. And they were.

Every word, every word struck a chord inside my mind, my soul. I sang along, I felt that firey enflamed passion as they played, pouring out their own pains, their own life stories through the music. The set was a mix of old and new songs, songs that had not yet been recorded. The first of the new songs included imagery of fire, like a cleansing, sweeping, powerful, beautiful thing. As he called out those words it was like the entire room was filled with that fire, strong, powerful; it burned through it, making me feel suddenly so empty and so full, clean, pure, whole. Something different. Something better. I cried, surprised that I was crying, happy that I was crying, emotional, happy. Every single song on the set brought forth pure emotion, until there was nothing but me and the music.

At some point during the set as Nils praised Chicago he recalled his last show here. The show I had seen, and mentioned that he had been sick as a dog during the show, his voice bleeding through every song, and I sat, and felt chastised and even more connected to the band, to the music. The show was so perfect, the music was so crushingly overwhelming, beautiful, that I was nothing but overflowing with happiness, warmth. As they sang the strains of "Goodbye," jumping down into the audience, imploring us to silence even though some of us wanted to sing out and sing along, I started shaking. A subtle thing, but something there, something real. There was something so real here. It was a moment complete, perfect. My new “friends” snuck out at some point during the final part of the set. I was alone and could be alone, could allow myself to simply embrace that moment and let the music overwhelm me. And so I did.

I went back to my room and tried to sleep, but there was too much music in my mind. The next morning I thought to have breakfast and go to the museum but it was too cold and I was still too full of music to calm myself, so I took a train home, humming a head full of songs I loved the entire way home.

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