The feeling of being there

Music, under most circumstances
Will take desperate
Measures to come back into your life
— Ariel Yelen, “Revolution”

I spent three years away from live music. Because of the pandemic. Because of changes to my lifestyle. I didn’t miss it at first.

The stickiness of the floors. Overpriced drinks. The calculation of when to use the bathroom. The unpredictable times between sets. The false starts. The awkward swaying for opening bands — especially on songs that the band really believes in. The ambient conversation during opening bands — especially really good ones. Bands that don’t know how to use the stage. Unpredictable sound quality, especially for opening bands. Bands who don’t know how to operate in the space of a large stage. Douchebros on smartphones. The unpredictable heights of audience members at a standing-only show. The random bursts of marijuana smoke. The strata of music fans who demonstrate their bona fides in obscure wardrobe choices.

The look of the hippest people you’ve ever seen. Leather pants worn without irony. The most stunning tattoos. Handmade jackets, ostentatiously patched. I can think of few other places I’ve frequented where I encounter so many people who are fearless about the way they present themselves to the world.

The way disparate parties become a unified throng between the transit stations and the venue, a tribe emerging like a signal from the noise. Hundreds and thousands of heartbeats synced to the same rhythm section. The way a song: a special, specific set of words and arrangements of chords and instruments becomes an emotional touchstone. The way it presents itself as loudly as it can, daring you to turn away. The feeling of knowing someone else is affected by the same obscure turn of phrase you are. The feeling of knowing the song that you thought you alone loved is equally loved by thousands of others.

The feeling of a small song becoming big. The feeling of a big song becoming small. The feeling of an old song being played with the production values of a newer song. The random cover. The surprise guest. The backstory of how a song came to be. The set list of the intermission music and what it says about a band. The way a song gets filtered through the constraints of a live set and their touring band. The way effects pedals get lined up on the lip of the stage. The video art. The lighting design. The audience participation.

The way the moon comes out in an outdoor venue.

The extended intros of “Y Control” and “Zero,” expanding those distinct opening seconds into minutes, a stretch of time long enough to live in. The drum fills that punctuate the extended outro of “Spitting Off the Edge of the World.” The intro to “Poor Song” during their encore and hearing about a couple who has their wedding rings engraved with a lyric from it. The fact that their six-minute version “Maps” — one of my favorite songs ever, and perhaps their signature song — isn’t their closer or even near their closer (it’s “Date With The Night”).

The perfect, cool, drizzly weather. The feeling of light, misty raindrops on the lip of a cold can of Stella.

The food with friends after a late show. Chili dogs. Pie and coffee from diners — you take whatever’s open. The experience makes the food good, not the other way around.

A headliner who knows how to fucking entertain.

The feeling of seeing musicians at work. The specific way they’ve devoted themselves to a craft. The feedback loop between a musician’s energy and the audience response, building cyclically, song after song. The intensity of undivided attention to art shared by thousands of people simultaneously.

The feeling of being there.