June 16, 2023

Yesterday I attended a band performance.

The booming sound from the massive speakers shook my eardrums, my nerves, my soul fiercely. It was like alcohol, yet also like a drug, stimulating my brain. Melodies flowed into my mind, projecting various scenes. Above, melodies flowed, below were swaying figures.

What I find interesting about rock music is this: the audience is diverse, people of all kinds standing under the stage, swaying together. Sometimes swaying, sometimes nodding along. As someone with a background in music: I listened to them continuously weaving textures on a few simple chords—perhaps the chords were already there, but their textures were interesting: like limbs, constantly dancing on the chords, abstracting various scenes, abstracting the inner thoughts of various composers.

But it was actually my first time feeling this way, feeling the concept of “textures,” feeling them jumping back and forth on the chords, and for a moment, I understood the feeling and concept of “textures.”

I don’t understand rock music, and sometimes I can’t even distinguish between the guitar and the bass. But when the tones alternated between bright and dark, I still caught a glimpse of the bass’s deep roar, also illuminated by the bright guitar at the beginning.

All three bands seemed quite silent, the musicians quietly playing various melodies, the lights flickering. Impressively, the band Mud Sculpture God seemed to start with a segment of a sunny afternoon in the wilderness, I heard the wind, I heard the blue sky and white clouds, I heard the wilderness, of course, I also heard the inner galloping, heard the leisurely stroll, heard the freedom, heard the wandering with a sword.

I believe the significance of listening to live music lies in its ability to truly stimulate you: it cannot be expressed by lossless music coming from thousands of dollars worth of headphones. With only fifty centimeters between the stage and the ground, everyone stands, the dim venue swaying with the crowd, eagerly anticipating resolving chords and the trembling hanging speakers, constantly pounding the heart: even my pulse rate followed the rhythm. The last band, Morning West, was clearly playing rock music, but I could constantly feel the music’s tranquility, feel the calmness, feel the silence of despair, feel the struggle.

Quiet rock music, the silent roar of the musicians.