The moment I keep returning to is watching Phoebe Bridgers at St Luke’s in Glasgow.
She holds a note in the chorus of ‘Motion Sickness’, her voice strong and textured with her eyes closed and her brow furrowed in concentration. The crowd watches, and together we seem to all hold our breath for the length of that note. It made everything else disappear; the annoying guy in front who keeps standing in the way, the price of drinks, the ache in my feet and back from the uncomfortable position I’m in. All that exists is her voice, that point in time, and how it made me feel. It washes everything away like the shock of the cold water when you swim in a loch for the first time, you can’t think about anything else except that feeling and the breath in your lungs. I miss it, getting lost in the sounds and forgetting everything else; the stress of work that day, who else might be at the show, getting a cab home – it all just fades into the background.
If you’d asked me back then I wouldn’t have said necessarily that I loved gigs. I knew I loved live music, but so much of that process was difficult – social anxiety, the physical strain of standing, the cost of tickets…so many reasons not to go, or to think “I’ll go next time”. Of course, now we know, there may not be a next time and if there is it will likely look very different to what we are used to, and it’s made me realise how much of that experience I loved, sore feet and all.
When lockdown hit I didn’t have much planned in the way of gigs. I’d got tickets with several of my friends to see Dorian Electra at Stereo but that wasn’t until my birthday in May, so it barely crossed my mind that it might not be happening. Writing this now, in October, it seems wild that I ever thought I’d again be able to safely stand in a packed room of strangers with little to no ventilation. There are of course online shows, still well worth attending and a good way to support artists whose industry and primary source of income have been utterly decimated by the restrictions we have to follow to keep each other safe (with almost no government support in the meantime). It is different though, watching an artist play live through my computer screen, compared to listening to a studio album, there’s still something special about watching someone perform live even if it’s only virtually – but the spark of in-person live shows is something I still miss deeply. As I write this I find myself wondering if one day this distinction will seem snobby, like I’m insisting on listening to vinyl for the quality rather than a high-quality download, but there’s something in the air of those nights that feels special and lost.
So much of our lives we spend alone with the music we love, whether it’s sitting on the bus or train, at our desks in the office, before we fall asleep, or walking the dog. Live music is one of the few times we come together, regardless of who we are or why we enjoy that particular artist. We stand together, in the stale dark air, our heads full of our own little worlds and problems until the music crashes over us like a wave, knocking the air from our lungs and demanding our attention and focus. It’s like some kind of magic, a spell that requires all participants, and when it happens, when that focus and joy is condensed into one room, one basement or deconsecrated church, it fills us up again. We are recharged and reminded of the things that make us who we are, not the mundane parts of life that drag us down, but the complex, wondrous joy of being alive and all the emotions and multifaceted parts of existing that we long to put into words. A stranger on a stage sings the words that we have whispered or screamed along so many times, and seen our own lives and loves and pain represented in.
When I was a teenager I used to go to as many gigs as I could, filling my school planner with the dates and counting down the days. It made me feel alive, gave me purpose and a sense of identity when everything else felt pretty confusing. Even as an adult I’d arrange much of my social calendar around gigs, some friends I only see when we make the annual trip to see a shared favourite band. When I look back I miss the few seconds before that artist walks on stage – that buzz of excitement building in my belly and filling my limbs and chest, sometimes that feeling alone becoming more memorable than the performance itself. I miss whispering to whoever I’m attending the gig with about something we’ve both shared or noticed, or feeling my boyfriend squeeze my hand when he hears a lyric he knows I love. I even almost miss that sinking feeling when you spot an ex-partner or ex-friend at the front, being forced to confront that they might like the things you like too. Most of all, I miss feeling part of that crowd, together supporting and celebrating the hard work and talent of someone who has managed to create something that speaks to us, makes us feel seen and understood. Taking the thrill and ecstasy of singing along to your favourite tune in your bedroom into a moment of communal celebration.
What comes next? None of us knows exactly, we’ve seen online gigs and plans for socially distanced gigs (many with the seating and access disabled people have been begging venues to consider for a long, long time). We all know it will be a long time, if ever before we can return to the intimate dark with a room full of people we’ve never met, longer still for those of us who are more at risk. But in the meantime, we can support those artists who we’d be buying tickets to see live to ensure they’re still able to make art and continue surviving long enough to see what’s next. And we can celebrate the memories we have, the gigs we’ve loved – being drunk in a field with your friends and watching your favourite band while you scream along, queuing outside to get a good spot, turning up late because you’ve got to work but still can’t bear to miss the show, hearing a new band for the first time and knowing they’ll be part of your life form here on out – all of these things were special to us and hopefully will be again, however, things turn out.
[Mel Reeve]
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