He bought the CD, in a blur within a blur, exiting the venue late last night. This was before the encore, but well within a heady stream of song in which the ceiling was blown icelandic with a thick river of pulse, shattering ecstatic the spirit bodies of David Bowie, New Order, Blondie, Morrissey, and, when skinny, even the Cars. This music, though, was remade into a power and clarity of sound that was so big it was necessary to consider the impact. It was something to witness. This music had animal blood coursing through it in tidal form. It was something to behold. His face had been melted. And he recognized this.
Now, seriously, get me the fuck out of here.
He says this to himself, a few times, while unable to breathe, wrapped too tightly within the thousands of bodies that locked together in the room, pulsating endlessly. And the light show, it was magic. On fire. But getting out of the middle to the side of the venue by the bar took a week, possibly longer. The path a narrow stretch of hot arms and faces and torsos. People massage his shoulders as he passes (there were a lot of happy, comfortable people in the room, if you can imagine) which makes him simultaneously uncomfortable to the core and also so thankful.
He stays. He rocks out. He is far in a corner now with a tiny bit of breathing space. He continues to wonder why, really, he is there. He wonders how everyone on the balcony above knows every word to every song when he does not. Its not that he was the oldest person in the room - old, yes, but not out of place. The intensity matched with the quickness matched with techno-heaviness matched with the tirelessness within the tightness of space became a depth charge. Recognizable, yes, as music both beautiful and anthemic, but these songs and words weren't directed toward him.
Out of nowhere, he starts questioning the fact that he doesn't even have an iphone. His mother-in-law has an iphone. Is he pathetic? It makes him wonder, and leads him further down that route. He begins thinking about the fact that he and his wife hadn't been to a show - Sleater Kinney, Interpol? - in a long, long time. Over 5 years. More? Since the kids. He begins to change all this in his head. He begins to mend this hole. He imagines dates for them to go see bands that they loved, together. But just thinking about it exhausts him. He begins thinking about his kid's upcoming birthday weekend and, well, that's it.
The encore(s) were surely, truly meaningful to everyone in the room, but he has drifted away long before he passes the merch table.
He was in, almost literally, a spin as the concept washes over him in a grand moment of pointed gesture - he wants to support this artist from the artist's source - not through itunes or amazon or a friend or a random site but from his organization's personal stash. He hasn't bought something at a show, beside the wilco t-shirt for his kid, Christ, since he was in his twenties. He sways before the fucking merch table, man, right? He scans the product. He scans deeper. And what does he get? He doesn't get a t-shirt or a random EP. He buys...a CD. He doesn't even know which CD in the artist's ouvre it is, and then curses himself for thinking of the term ouvre. He feels that he is probably the only person in that room who actually paid for a packaged CD (Capitol Records, if that matters anymore). The guy on the other side of the table, bearded, almost does a double-take when he points to the CD. Like the bearded man is selling something that is for free at the adjoining table. Bearded is sheepish, as if he doesn't want to take advantage of this confused man. But he serves him - cash, CD, change.
He has become the old guy who bought a CD, he mutters to himself (did the bouncer just call him Chief?) as he finds and unlocks his bike. Yes, he rode his bike there and will ride his bike home.
Walking the bike west, he realizes that Manhattan isn't Brooklyn and vice versa. This is an obvious thought, but he doesn't really see Manhattan at night that often, Midtown at night, never. There is the scent of money spent, and at every possible level - from empty condos high above the river to the drug deal on the dark sidewalk. He then sees three club chicks on the opposite corner. Black micro dresses, sheer, tight, a hint of sequins under the street light. They are dressed, their skirts simply belts covering their upper thighs. They hop a cab and are gone.
He leans onto his bike, tucks his pathetic but oddly proud CD into his shirt and slips onto the path along the Hudson.
There is space. Quiet. Night. Exterior. New York.
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