A rock romance
Weekends will find me in the thick of a crowd at a rock gig. Next to the speakers nearest the guitar player if it’s my boyfriend’s gig, somewhere marginally quieter if it isn’t, my camera slung over my shoulder and a drink in hand. No other place feels nearly as right.
I love rock music. I love it in that Almost Famous way — so much, it hurts. I found it in my teenage years, arguably everyone’s worst years, and clung to it like a lifeline. When all my high school classmates were throwing parties and dancing borderline obscenely to sexed-up songs that were clearly written by misogynists, I was looking for something more genuine; something I could relate to. I found that in rock and roll.
It was sincere. It was raw and sensual without being vulgar (most of the time). It was emotional. It was powerful. It was honest. It was real. Myself, my life, my fears, my hopes, my dreams, my secrets — I saw them all reflected in the music I was listening to. It was a blessing for someone as lonely as I was when I was young to realize that I was understood, and that I was a lot less alone than I originally thought.
Rock and roll changed my life.
At some point in time, I dreamt of making my own music. Of being for someone else what the musicians I loved were for me. Of leaving something of myself behind. It wasn’t about the fame or the glory. It was about making something beautiful and making a difference. It was about empowering another person in the same way that I felt empowered by the music I loved.
Nowadays, I’m content to stand at the sidelines and watch as other people change lives, as other people create, as other people inspire in one way or another.
People always ask me if I tire of seeing the same bands playing the same songs over and over again. I don’t, because it’s never the same for me. They might play an old song a new way. (They might play an old song, period.) They might be playing for an audience of new listeners who are about to be blown away. Maybe it’ll be a crowd of old fans who will sing every line at the top of their lungs. There is always something that makes each performance special.
If you’ve ever loved music, if you’ve ever loved a band, you know how that feels. They might be playing to a crowd of thousands in a huge open-air space. They could be playing to just you and maybe 10 other people in an uncharacteristically half-empty Saguijo. It doesn’t matter how big or small the venue is. Or the audience.
There’s electricity in the air. A murmur of energy hums through the floorboards beneath your feet, like little earthquakes: the promise of music to come. (Even in the highest heels I’ve ever been dumb enough to wear to a rock show, I’ve felt it.) There is that moment when the dissonance of a soundcheck ends and you know they’re about to begin. They play the opening chords of a song you love — you know what it is from the first note. You sing along.
And you’re home.
* * *
Much love to every musician who has ever meant anything to me. You can e-mail me at vivat.regina@yahoo.com.
