The Tribe of Noise

Sitting alone in this cacophony is sweet sanctuary.  For our minds and for our voice.  It is deafening for our ears and we can feel it in our bones.  We become one with the music, and it lifts us to the rafters.  No choice but to shift our existence to accommodate it.  We find we need to exaggerate all our movements in search of more primal means of communication.  Our smiles larger, our grimaces firmer.  High fives and hand gestures transmit the content of one’s mood and thoughts.  When the music starts, we are all just sitting alone here.  Alone in the dark, we gather, with the silhouettes of our closest and most trivial acquaintances, screaming into the void.  Nobody to hear us except ourselves and our innermost demons.  Exorcise them readily with the sound of Metal. 

The boys began to congregate at five o’clock and they were ready, had been ready for years really, for this last show.  Last?  Maybe.  At this time last year, they hadn’t known if there was ever gonna be a next time.  Had they seen their last show?  Had their friends?  There were people missing tonight, of course, but who exactly was lost, no one knew.  That uncertainty was to be expected at this point, everybody knew there was gonna be a dropout or two.  “What if the B’s lost?  Would it be my fault?” they queried, always aware of how flimsy it sounded in the context of beers and joviality amongst friendships long cemented.  The boys’ weariness with their friends’ entreaties permeated the air.  But then a chord was struck and a cheer went up and the noise washed away the unease.

The musicians, of course, got there when they got there.  The production crew and handlers and the management certainly knew that.  They had the mics and amps set up and dialed in by the time the headliners rolled in, the royalty flush with lobster and beer.  Fresh from that grandiosity, they spoke in reverent tones.  Thanking those in audience for the sponsorship of their luxuries.  Knowing full well the extent of their fortune, they express their immense gratitude for these moments, a relief from their thoughts.

And so they came together, this tribe of sorts, all dressed according to basic ethos of No Fucks Given.  And ready to prove it.  With the exception of the cordiality and respect that adorned their faces, for they were joyous and buoyant.  And wasted.  Wasted on the joy of life, and Jack Daniels.  Silhouetted in silence, alone in the crowds, tuning out the masses, lost in one's thoughts.  Lost in the smoke and haze, and blinded by lasers.  Waiting for the break in the heavy drums and bass and shredding guitars for reconnection with their compatriots.  Only to be quieted again by the decibels.  Lost back into one's thoughts and musings, to be lost until the next pause for breath.

Gathered again for the first time, we celebrate.  We celebrate the living.  Those who are with us now.   We celebrate to mourn those we have lost.  Those who may go soon.  So we celebrate them while we still can.  Before the cancers and ailments harry them away, to unknown engagements. To catch the great ones before they move along down that path.  One last chance to let him play guitar for us.  A very trivial thing to say the least, but for the chance of revelry.  For a brief moment.  After all that uncertainty.  After all the dying and infighting and grief.  Past the mountains of dead.  Past the suffering hordes, all preaching their ails and alms.  Mourning the past, for we know it will never be again.  We have moved on.  For good.

These productions never stayed for long, barely an evening most times.  From the moment they arrived in their grand coaches, the large buses lumbering to a halt in front of the arena, with the smell of the acrid exhaust and hot brakes, there was constant movement.  With a practiced motion, the crews went to work.  As efficient as a parade of leafcutters dissecting fresh foliage, they toiled.  They, piece by piece, built the stage and the sets.  They readied the dollies and uncoiled the miles of cords and loaded their cameras.  They found motive in this efficient transfer of goods and men, all set for one purpose.  The Gathering of The Tribe.  All this production for the few, brief moments of blissful carnage.  Then to be disassembled and stowed once more, on to the next town, in the next state, the next casino, the next audience.  That space of civilized barbarity transformed, ready for the onslaught once more.  Metal to be transformed the next night to Trolls, The Musical. The 5:30 matinee will be free for adults.

And yet tonight, for the first time in who knows how long, we partied.  We found each other in the darkness and screamed ourselves hoarse.  Pointing horns to the Gods of Metal.  Giving our stars the adulation that keeps them ticking.  Keeps them churning through the endless miles and the unknown cites.  Somehow finding the ability to go on stage for us every night, somehow dredging the energy to do so from their depths.  Helping us to fight off the loneliness by the sheer power of their noise.  Banishing the dull thoughts to another, quieter, time.  The Gods squinting through the spotlights, looking for what?  Here’s hoping they've found it.

And so we laughed, and we cheered, and we even cried a little.  And then went our separate ways.  Each to his own place in the world.  Finding that when the night had quieted they could still hear the notes.  Still feel the noise.  Some of them left en masse, the hordes adorned in black, soaked with sweat, traipsing through the midnight streets.  Some left in a trickle, one by one dropped in a precise manner, all while flicking through the Jazz and traffic.  Bliss.  For the moment.  This night cannot last.

“A tout le monde, a tous mes amis je vous aime, je dois partir”

To everyone, to all my friends I love you, I have to go