Wednesday, April 8, 2009

What you can't describe: Farewell Concert Part Three

There are several things musical that I dream about, and, if I let myself think about it, ache for.

One is that feeling of a band when the drums and bass and rhythm guitar are moving together effortlessly: it is powerful and solid and good. This happened at the Farewell gig. More than once.

Another is the bliss of a great, improvised solo. There were a number of these -- by various guitarists and a flautist.

The other is that craziness that sometimes happens.

. . . when you've been building and building a song and it gets wilder and louder and louder and more intense until evrything sort of flatlines. You can't really hear the different parts anymore and somehow it almost seems still and silent. It's ironic and beautiful and you can't really capture it.

I don't know when it happens or why or what makes a person open to it (or not), but I do know it's a gift. I know you can't make it happen. I've heard people describe it in different ways, and attribute it to different things.

I like to think of it as a gift to and from a lot of sources at once: God, the musicians, the people in the room, those who helped plan or prepare for it, the people caring and praying for the community.

What difference does a moment like that make?

Is it worth all the time and energy?

I don't know but I'm really, really thankful for it. Like I am for lakes, and colored fields, and large open skies, and certain smiles or expressions.

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