There ain't nothing like a song to bring people together - especially if it's about licking someone's genitals.
Of course, most any kind of song will do the trick: unite a room full of strangers, and compel them to swing and sway, stomp their feet, nod their heads, and wave their hands in the air. But there's something extra special that bubbles to the surface when a) that song provokes feeling, as opposed to simply thought and b) you witness that music performed live.
Let's start with the latter: the actual performance of music is what separates it from most other art forms. With music, presented not as a recording but in concert, the physical process of exploring and improvising is itself the art to be cherished. There is no finished product; there is no creation, only creating. It's a verb not a noun.
A few weeks ago, when Nicholas Payton and his quintet played the stage in Cohen, the few Tuftonians who were wise enough to attend witnessed something pure that will never in a million years be captured on a little plastic disc. They saw the drummer strike the cymbal and immediately heard the result. They saw the bassist hulkingly grope and pluck at his strings, the waves of sound resonated outward echoing through our ears, clouding our mind, and stirring our gut. The moments - divide them how you wish into seconds or notes, songs or beats - are long gone now. In fact, they were gone the instant they were created. Its fleeting nature is live music's most appealing feature. It connects everyone present, inviting them into a secret society: "Only we have this moment. No one can take this away from us, nor can anyone join us later."
Can you think of any other art as tantalizingly ephemeral as live music? I imagine it would be head-poundingly boring to witness painters and sculptors (Jackson Pollock excepted) in the midst of creation. Most writers, I'm sure, would probably require a gun pointed at their head before allowing spectators to watch over their shoulder while typing away. And it would probably take months of simply hanging around in LA to see the creative process behind most films. Ugh.
Actors, you say, or maybe dancers? True, true: we watch them on stage just as we do musicians. But a concert possesses something that I contend other live stage productions do not. That is audience participation. This is not to say that concert-goers consistently find themselves on stage strumming away next Jimmy Page or crooning a duet with Babs: "People who need people..." No, it is just that music, in it's nature, possesses beats and rhythms, melodies and patterns. They shoot directly for our nerves and upon connecting, make us act funky: maybe we dance, maybe we nod our head, maybe we just sense something funny, a rumbling spark in our tummy. Music speaks to our soul, not just our intellect: when our soul is exposed and touched that way and we happen to be in the presence of both the musician and other fans, a feeling of vulnerability is inevitable. True aficionados of live music will embrace that vulnerability and let it envelop them.
This thrill was never more present than on a Wednesday evening not too long ago in a small bar named Goombays on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. During the summer months the spit of sand that lies between the mainland and the Atlantic is a vacation hotspot filled with bikini-clad beachgoers and mini-golf mavens from across the union. But in March, locals alone fill the few open area establishments with a North Carolina liquor license.
Entering the crowded, smoke-filled room last week, some friends and I witnessed not only a surf board on the ceiling and license plates on the walls, but also mobs of drawl-prone men drinking Bud Light from red plastic party mugs and throngs of young blond ladies who, to our eyes, appeared years away from their 21st birthday. As one of the few men in the bar without a goatee on my chin and tattoo on my neck, I drifted to the corner and wondered why there were so many people here on a Wednesday night.
That's when the band came on: Cool Hand Look, a hardcore band featuring two shouters, a guitarist, a bassist wearing a Detroit Pistons Jersey, and long-haired drummer who appeared as if he were on hiatus from Rammstein's latest tour. They would have made Limp Bizkit proud, and their mothers cringe. One song, dedicated to "all y'all in trouble with the law," saw the lead singer urge us to "kill all snitches." I hated the music - it was deafening, malevolent and indecipherable - but I loved the moment. As the band rocked away, the mass of fans rocked and writhed, rumbling feet and flailing arms moved in unison. Sketchy guys groaned and grinded with the all-too eager young ladies whose all-too mini skirts and tight-tastic tanks did the trick. It all seemed so wrong. Everyone involved, however, seemed so right. They glowed with the serenity of a group truly at peace with the moment, the music flowed through them and they were one.
By the time Cool Hand Look launched into an unexpected fan favorite, to which most of Goombay's knew the lyrics, it all made sense. The song "Lemme Lick Your Pussy" united the mob. They nodded their heads and sang in together as the band's leader led the chat, "Lemme lick, lemme lick, lemme lick, lemme lick lemme lick your pussy." They danced and smiled, cherishing the music and loving the moment. They rubbed themselves against one other.
I was reminded of Nicholas Payton's trumpet spewing out notes that fell upon our minds like a firework's sparks through the night sky. So too did an aspiring North Carolina band let their tunes fly, wrapping everyone present in a warm, comfortable, BO-smelling blanket of rhythmic profanity. We all felt just a little bit closer.
