The air hangs heavy, not like dulling wine, but with a nervous anticipation. The Murder Capital are here, lurking, looming, living somewhere close to us. They are already provoking a fevered energy, invoking memories of bands and pop culture moments most of the audience are too young to remember.
This feels like…something.
I am nothing.
More or less.
But in this band of strangers with lives half the span of my own and with experiences alien to mine I feel affinity, kinship, trust and, most importantly, an understanding.
There are bands who prompt a buzz, who burn bright and send people into a spin cycle of hyperbole. You don’t need me to name names…check your Twitter timeline.
Then there are bands who matter.
Bands with something to say and with something worth listening to.
Hip young things with souls grown old.
Bright sparks setting fire to the world.
In the dark we begin to slow dance.
We’ve all come from nowhere and then, somehow, we find ourselves transformed.
We are someone else.
The music washes over us, washes into the depths of us…bodies sway, this way and that way, God implores us from the shadows.
What is The Murder Capital?
Who are The Murder Capital?
They are friends and friendship.
They are love, love, love and loss.
They are aching hearts and broken parts.
As we all stand on twisted ground I feel tears form in my eyes. This feels like permanence in a world filled with impermanent things, people and emotions. This is reality written with lyricism, a poetic swish, a heart aching blitz. As it ends (does it ever end really?) all that remains is the sound of breathing…broken, fragmented, fractured, gasps, last gasps. And then, right at that moment, the tears fall.
I’ve come alone.
Surrounded by people who are not alone I contemplate leaving.
I don’t leave.
I take a step towards the stage, move closer to the source.
Then it begins.
“When someone dies, we cry. Then the celebration of their life begins. Immediately.”
A celebration now.
A brutal, raw, unexpected, visceral, angry, hallelujah of a celebration of love in all of its forms and shapes. Of life and death. Of the here and the now. Of this and that and so much more.
Things build slowly and then the music becomes something bigger, harder, more vital than anything else…it is the only thing that matters. Bodies that had been swaying now break out into angular, thrusting, brittle forms of dance. The floor begins to bend and buckle and, at the same time, my heart does the same thing.
I feel alive.
I am alive.
Then the band are beside us.
Soon all bar one.
Instruments are discarded.
Hands reach out to us.
Hands claw at them.
Towering above us, connected to us, beside, inside, side by side with their audience.
Their is no audience.
Their is us.
We dance around this lonely cave, with only the relentless state of charm of the band to keep us close. The floor is suddenly adrift, we are, now, all exposed. The music is the steady hand we require.
We cling to the music because clinging to life seems pointless in the presence of this.
Is there anything on the other side?
Maybe not but I don’t need anything when I have had…this.