Overloading on Bliss

There are so many things I've been meaning to blog about lately... wardrobe refurbishing, my odd (to me) love of cosmetics, my new kick-ass blue boots, my wood-working project, etc. Not to mention that I never really gave a full detailed report on the skydiving, which I did, like, 2 months ago, or the Bike The Barns (1 month ago) or my first journey into The Rust Belt of America (2 weeks ago) or my first experience at a country club, and how I actually danced so much at that one party that I have bruises on my feet (last week).

Hold on to all of those thoughts, because right now, in this very moment, I need to focus on the bliss overload that is live music.

Last night I went to a show. Vienna Teng opened for Over The Rhine. I am still riding the high of the electricity they created together.

I grew up on folk music and campfire sing-alongs, with some oldies and classical thrown in for good measure. I went to my first "real" rock'n'roll concert at the tender young age of 13. It was a Christian rock concert, sponsored by my youth group, and I had a terrible time. It was too loud, the venue was huge, the sound so bouncy that it got messy, and my seat was up in the balcony, so not only could I not see the band, but the lyrics and melody were indiscernable from my vantage point. I suppose it didn't help any that I had never heard any music by that particular group before- I just wanted to go because opportunities to go to concerts were very far and few between in my small town. I think it says a lot about my experience that I cannot remember the name of the band even enough to righteously complain about how horrible they were.

Flash forward to high school. I was occasionally in the know about shows that local bands were putting one. When the stars were correctly aligned, and the show was part of an alcohol-and-substance-free festival, I was allowed to attend. I know that one is supposed to be greatful to one's parents for being strict, because it supposedly creates an environment where one can achieve great things. I knew I was not cool enough to be A Music Fan or A Show-goer. I had all the wrong clothes, flat, stringy, mousy hair that fell to my ass, and not enough black eyeliner. In retrospect, all the black eyeliner in the world would not have made me cool enough to fit in in the post-Cobain, wrong-side-of-the-state, small-town garage band scene. Sure, I had fun jumping around, sweating, screaming, and tripping over my too-baggy jeans and untied hiking boot laces in pathetic attempts to "mosh," but that music wasn't made for a girl who secretly daydreamed about playing acoustic guitar and tramping through wheatfields and along abandoned railroad tracks in a sepia-tinted world of wistful nostalgia and flowy, lacy, broomstick skirts and suede and velvet blazers. My head was full of naive romance and dark smoky candle-lit coffee houses. The music of that time and place was angry, pent-up young energy exploding into the lack of community and echoing off of the sagebrush, getting no answer from the bleak november skies as it repeatedly expressed confusion, disillusionment, desperation and disgust. I don't know if that music was making any actual demands or not; I don't remember any of the lyrics or any of the melodies. I just remember that we were all stuck in this place and we all wanted out, because if we didn't get out, the most exciting thing in our lives was going to be sneaking into the smoking section at Dennys, eating greasy fries after midnight.

In college I flirted with the idea of World Music, danced barefoot at marimba band performances in the park, took a West African dance class, stopped spending money on broadway soundtracks, and discovered The Indigo Girls, Billy Joel, and made a half-hearted attempt to collect downloaded mp3s. I also still adored Judy Collins and remeber informing my roommate rather bitchily one morning that it was too early for Modest Mouse or Blondie. Which is to say that I liked what I liked, was very, very Not Cool When It Came To Having Musical Taste. To be fair, I was at least cooler than my then-boyfriend, who loved The Braveheart Soundtrack and Loreena McKennit. I at least listened to music with words! And owned cds by The Cranberries! And Tori Amos!

I still had flat, stringy long hair down to my ass, all the wrong clothes, and daydreamed of acoustic guitar concerts played in intimate coffe-shop settings. Obviously, I attended very few live music events, and only moderately enjoyed the ones I did attend.

In grad school, I cut my hair and discovered iTunes. I had friends who played music I enjoyed while riding in the car with them make me mixes. I made a concerted effort to expand my listening range. I eventually forbade myself from buying any more Putomayo World Music albums. Now that I actually hung out in those coffeeshops I only used to daydream about, I got over my fear of the awesomely hip, tatooed women behind the counter and asked them what was playing when I liked it. I wrote it down and got myself copies. It is, after all, a well-known fact that baristas at independent coffee shops have The Best Taste In Music In The World.

In short, I discovered what it is to be passionate about music, and to have music create passion within me.

I went to live shows and learned what it is like to be reduced to a rapt presence of bliss and joy and adoration. I learned what it is like to have every fiber of my being caught up in the energy of a great performance while the waves of sound caress my ears and reverberate in my aorta. I want to make out with rock stars and be such good friends with musicians that I am thanked with inside jokes in the liner notes.