This is a very special piece that I wrote for my creative non-fiction class this semester about an incredible local show I went to in November. I would highly suggest listening to “Makers” and “How We Woke Up” while you read this. Of course, I would also suggest that you then order the album, because its great. Photos from the evening can be found on my photography blog.
TM&TF//
Music is an incredible medium. It can capture beauty as artfully as oil paint, and language as eloquently as a poem. But music does so in a way that is impossible to shut out of the heart. Music touches people in such a striking, all-encompassing way that we cannot help but be swept up in it. Music lifts us from our earthly surroundings and allows us to experience something transcendental, something indescribable and spiritual. We sing hymns of worship, we weep over ballads, we whistle through moments devoid of sadness. Music has a direct line to our most powerful human emotions. It is medium to express our most profound joy and our most poignant sorrow, and when we are the listeners, it reminds us of the creative ability and emotional capacities that make us all an incredible, exalted race.
Consequentially, music unites us. A live concert allows us a first-hand glimpse inside the mind of an artist as they give their work new life on stage. There is no other art form that receives such a passionate reception. When we find music worth loving, we love it so mightily that we cannot help but gather to scream our adoration (of the compositions and their creators) in congregations of thousands. We feel the delicate web of appreciation linking us to the others in the audience until, when collectively moved by the performance, we become a single affected consciousness.
Music is a safe haven, a release, and a gateway to something beyond reality.
//
The crowd filling Velour is buzzing with anticipation, the packed room rings with laughter and excited conversation. Feet drum noisily over hardwood floors. The light of a disco ball roams across exposed brick walls, pop-art murals, a worn tapestry. Tonight’s show is the first performance in the venue’s existence to sell-out before the doors even swing open. The featured band’s yearlong journey to Provo prestige is culminating in tonight’s album release show. There is a palpable feeling of pride and camaraderie in the building. The band’s followers are passionately invested in their success, several having been converted after a single show. Many in the crowd have brought family and friends, eager to share a local phenomenon that they have followed from obscurity. Over a hundred people are packed into the single softly lit room, protected from the bitter November air, huddled into tight chattering packs of twos and threes. As the lights of the room dim and the overhead speakers fall silent, the crowd quiets quickly and turns to gather against the stage.
Artificial candles slowly burn into life onstage, the only light in the cavernous space. With a hiss, the fog machine expels a cloud of mist over the audience, transforming the room into an eerie dreamscape. The crowd has huddled close around the low stage.
A figure emerges from the darkness, wading through the vapor on stage to a tangle of synthesizers. Slow, echoing sounds spring from the figure’s hands. The mist seems to swallow the audience, submerging them in the mournful, reverberating sounds of a dark ocean floor. Instead of dials, the figure’s fingers seem to slide over crystal glasses, droning an unearthly tone. A second shadowy figure appears, claiming his seat behind the drums. The steady staccato snap of drumstick against snare joins the synthesizers. The cicada-like click clashes sharply with the entrancing alien tones. The crowd has fallen completely silent, transfixed. Green lasers join the candles; they rove over the audience, throwing points of light on attentive faces.
The long-awaited moment seems to stretch. The atmospheric and rhythmic looping endlessly; the room is electric with anticipation. At last the final two figures cross the stage, seemingly unaware of their spellbound onlookers. The first man slips behind the keyboard and turns expectantly towards the second figure, who is lifting his guitar gently from the floor. A silent nod from guitar to keys cues the instruments to burst into life, generating a cohesive song that weaves the four melodies into one. Glints of green dance across the disheveled hair of the man with the guitar, his head dips to the drums’ beat. The candles’ glow illuminates only his silhouette. To his right the first man crouches low over the synthesizers. His body seems possessed by the music, convulsing rhythmically as his fingers slip across the board.
The song is familiar to the audience, but the solemnity behind tonight’s show brings it new life. As the front-man turns slowly towards the microphone and raises his head to look out over the audience, the spectators seem to hold their breath.
The man croons his first note and the audience exhales in collective elation. They stir back to life, released from the paralyzing grip of anticipation. Bodies begin to sway in slow circular motions. A few listeners close their eyes or mouth the lyrics.
As the song winds to an end the band ignores the spectators’ shouts, playing into their next song without hesitation. The synthesist has picked up a guitar and turns to face the singer, they begin the song in unison.
The tempo has picked up, and spotlights illuminate the stage. The excited crowd begins to dance, unable to resist the steady crash of the drums.
Suddenly, the instruments quiet as the singer leans toward the microphone, arms hanging limp against his guitar. He presses his mouth to the mic and sings with the soft sincerity of storytelling.
These crutches hold me up suspend me in my past
And this is how I woke up alone
Alone
You’re dangling by a string above everything you could be
And this is how you woke up
Alone
The song is stripped to a single drumbeat and the lone guitar. The singer’s voice has shifted to a tone of warning. Behind him the drums are steadily increasing their tempo.
They sharpen their teeth on your neck
Remember your flaws like a bad dream
You want to wake up
The keyboard and strings join the drums, building slowly.
Please wake up
Please wake up
With each repeating phrase the singer seems to plead more desperately, as if calling the audience to action. The listeners move in shuddering jerks, bound by the quiet of the song, but compelled to movement by it’s mounting cadence. A few of the long-time enthusiasts grin expectantly.
Please wake up
His voice finally breaks as he screams the last line, head thrown back, mouth stretched in a snarl. Goose-bumps spread through the room.
Please wake up
Abandoning his pleading, he whispers.
There’s still time
He bows his head low against the mic, his tangle of unkempt hair shading his eyes. He sings in a low but hastening murmur, almost speaking. The lights have dimmed and fog rolls over the stage again.
Just for a moment as we stared
Projecting our thoughts into the air
As if we had practiced it before
Our minds danced hand in hand
Choreographed by both our lives
Told like stories through our eyes
All of the world frozen in time
And this is how we woke up
Momentum is building. The music vibrates through the audience. It fills the room, radiating from every corner, cocooning the crowd.
Now you remember who we are
We were nothing in the dark
As if we are something in the light
Well now I have to know
I have to know
Will you be on fire
White light blazes into life behind the stage, obscuring the musicians, blinding the spectators. The band explodes into full volume, every member rocking back and forth to the beat. The singer leaps away from the microphone and sinks low over his guitar, hair swinging violently as he plays. The drummer’s arms arc high above his head before crashing against his drums. The keyboardist slams his fingers against the keys, shoulders lurching forward with each chord. The audience has never heard the song performed like this, every note played with such powerful passion and precision.
Suddenly the man at the synthesizers reaches behind the dangled cords of his instruments and reveals a megaphone. He lifts it to his mouth and screams towards the audience.
This is how we woke up
This is how we woke up
The singer grasps the microphone, his unintelligible shouts ripping from his throat with an animalistic power. The crowd is moving in a frenzy, and the shouts radiate through the building with a pulsing rhythm.
This is how we woke up
This is how we woke up
The song ends abruptly with a final shout. Screams and tremendous applause fill the building. The audience grins at the people around them, disoriented but ecstatic. The shouts continue for minutes, some fans laugh, others wipe tears from their eyes. The singer bows his head to the audience, “thank you.”
*The lyrics featured in this piece belong to Brandon Taft Robbins of The Moth & The Flame. If you would like to hear Makers and How We Woke Up (the songs featured in this piece) please visit howwewokeup.com.