Whelp, it’s been a long pandemic, but we’re finally back to full capacity at large gatherings.
For this commentator, that means concerts and baseball. I usually go to these things by myself (I’ll sometimes go with others if the artist is a deeply, mutually shared interest or if my companion knows what BABIP stands for; elsewise I’m solo). This is for two reasons: First, nobody likes me, and; Second, I hate distracting myself with non-musical/non-baseball niceties and small talk while I’m trying to have an intensely meaningful tonal/hardball experience.
One of those experiences takes place around ten or so minutes before the headline act is about to enstage. It’s one of my favourite parts of the show. There, I like to be quiet, with all my channels opened and sensibilities heightened.
There’s a divine script to it. The air is electric, the hall filled with moment. People – strangers – exchange glances with that look on their faces: we’re in this together, we’re going away somewhere, and we’re not coming back.
Stage techs are configuring gear, checking connections and ergonomics, tuning fretted instruments and hissing sibilants and fricatives into itchy live microphones. Scraggly, beautiful young people have finished filing into their seats and mosh positions as utility music of one sort or another pulses and gushes from 12m-high sound columns.
Somewhere in the bowels of the arena, the artists are hugging each other and taking between 3 and 80 deep breaths to still their tremors, utterly unbothered by the fact that this music/baseball fan is even more nervous than they are.
Together apart, we wait, they and I.
