because sometimes you can't turn the volume knob down

Sunday, April 13, 2008

oly music and its empathy: a self-destructive path

The dialectic discourse that transpired tonight. Between beers and cigarettes, standing on the back deck of a dance party/birthday, the discussion of Cap'n Jazz's influence on our youth and young manhood (and I do mean manhood), the influence of afrobeat on indie and the lack of enthusiasm in the Olympia scene, heads nodding, shoe staring (not gazing) and alcohol uninfluenced. Where did the excitement go in live music? The thrill of a show, the debauchery, the masochism, the heat, the sweat, the crowd, the entity and untity that is the crowd, the unabashed youthful joy of a band and the crowd's interaction with them, the inexplicable language that exists without a stage, without a physical barrier separating "us" and "them". Maybe we were not so evolved and enlightened on the right coast, especially in that strange melting pot of the southeast, but we were not afraid to show our fervor. The visceral effect of a noise band on our skin, ears, face, body. The gyration of a "indie-punk-no-wave-dance" band and our shameless, rhythmless thrashing. I hope I can hold fast to those feeling and that inspiration. I used to judge a show by how long my ears rang, how long I felt my head was underwater, muffled from the reality of life and my own life. I found solace in those show. I found solace in those songs, if you call them songs. But I will forever be an outside in a man's world, a world of hardness, "tough guy" music and masculinity. I still wear the same bruises, share the same 40 of malt liquor, wear the same sweat-stained t-shirt, but I am a woman. I am forever trying out to make the team. And that's fine with me. At least they, those boys, cared enough to have tryouts.

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