just close your eyes and sigh
and know they love you
A really good concert is like an orgasm. It's about the liberty of sensual pleasure. At a concert you're there only for you and for them, whoever you came to see, and you don't give a flying fuck about anything else. You're pampering yourself, treating yourself to an experience that speaks for itself, and only you will know afterwards if it was worth it, or even any good. You get there and sit still and wait, shivering, exposed, anxious, wondering if it'll be any good or if you've been deluded by a smoke-and-mirror musician who won't perform the way his records promised.
At a really good concert, though, you're never let down in the slightest. The music grips you from inside and grabs onto something and doesn't let go. You feel it in every muscle in your body and you succumb to it at first, sit still and let it wash over you, watch your own enthusiasm surface and break out. Music is almost more sensual than touch at these moments; a wrong note is repulsive like a blow to the face, and the right one sends a chill down your spine. You can't help but move with it after a time, let it stretch its puppeteer's fingers into your limbs until you're positively convulsing and have no desire to stop. It's luxurious and wonderful and when everything's going right it's pure, sensual pleasure. You feel like they're playing just for you, watching your face closely to make sure you're feeling it and catering each note to your specific desires and whims. You begin to trust them to hold you here, keep you in this place, whatever it is; to let them please you and enjoy having you in their hold. Once you've broken your ticket the band grabs you, throws you in a chair and takes you, whether you like it or not, and you hope and pray that it'll be good. If it's wrong, if it's bad, it's worse than rape; you have to get out at all costs, even if it means spilling beer on your neighbor or stepping on someone's foot in an attempt to get out; and often you stay, hoping it'll aright itself and give you the thrill you came for and paid for. When it's good, though, you moan, you scream, you sob, you close your eyes and then wrench them open again to stare into the blaring lights and feel the heat of the room. A good concert has a very specific smell: sweat, spilled beer, fresh t-shirts in plastic bags, pot smoke that seeps into everyone's clothing. Your eyes and legs and feet and arms ache but you can't stop yourself from standing up at the end of the song to embrace your lover and whisper "thanks" to their bare chest as attractively as you can and feeling their warmth and satisfaction with their performance in their steady heartbeat.
After the show, sometimes you can remember every titillating moment of it and sometimes you have no idea what the fuck they were doing, but you know you liked it because an echo of it is still lingering on the fresh lawn of your mind, a shadow of the events of the night, and you know you're going to remember the walk home, the cup of coffee, the metro-card machine, though not as vividly as you'll remember the music. Things fade fast and you realize that there are tears on every inch of your face and that you've been thinking about yourself all night, through the haze of the pleasure, and you feel that shudder, that need to end it all, all the feelings and emotions and touch, and you want utter silence but you still feel the soft echoes in your ears like soft kisses in the small your back and you shudder and wait a while until the night seeps out of you and leaves you nude and contently apathetic and before you know it you've drifted into sleep.
At a really good concert, though, you're never let down in the slightest. The music grips you from inside and grabs onto something and doesn't let go. You feel it in every muscle in your body and you succumb to it at first, sit still and let it wash over you, watch your own enthusiasm surface and break out. Music is almost more sensual than touch at these moments; a wrong note is repulsive like a blow to the face, and the right one sends a chill down your spine. You can't help but move with it after a time, let it stretch its puppeteer's fingers into your limbs until you're positively convulsing and have no desire to stop. It's luxurious and wonderful and when everything's going right it's pure, sensual pleasure. You feel like they're playing just for you, watching your face closely to make sure you're feeling it and catering each note to your specific desires and whims. You begin to trust them to hold you here, keep you in this place, whatever it is; to let them please you and enjoy having you in their hold. Once you've broken your ticket the band grabs you, throws you in a chair and takes you, whether you like it or not, and you hope and pray that it'll be good. If it's wrong, if it's bad, it's worse than rape; you have to get out at all costs, even if it means spilling beer on your neighbor or stepping on someone's foot in an attempt to get out; and often you stay, hoping it'll aright itself and give you the thrill you came for and paid for. When it's good, though, you moan, you scream, you sob, you close your eyes and then wrench them open again to stare into the blaring lights and feel the heat of the room. A good concert has a very specific smell: sweat, spilled beer, fresh t-shirts in plastic bags, pot smoke that seeps into everyone's clothing. Your eyes and legs and feet and arms ache but you can't stop yourself from standing up at the end of the song to embrace your lover and whisper "thanks" to their bare chest as attractively as you can and feeling their warmth and satisfaction with their performance in their steady heartbeat.
After the show, sometimes you can remember every titillating moment of it and sometimes you have no idea what the fuck they were doing, but you know you liked it because an echo of it is still lingering on the fresh lawn of your mind, a shadow of the events of the night, and you know you're going to remember the walk home, the cup of coffee, the metro-card machine, though not as vividly as you'll remember the music. Things fade fast and you realize that there are tears on every inch of your face and that you've been thinking about yourself all night, through the haze of the pleasure, and you feel that shudder, that need to end it all, all the feelings and emotions and touch, and you want utter silence but you still feel the soft echoes in your ears like soft kisses in the small your back and you shudder and wait a while until the night seeps out of you and leaves you nude and contently apathetic and before you know it you've drifted into sleep.
posted by VVM at 6:21 AM
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