If it were up to me they’d be gone. I’d blow them up. They drive a wedge between us. They turn an otherwise intimate, communal, possible once-in-a-lifetime musical experience into another evening of lazy-boy deflation in front of the tube. Assigned seats in concerts need to be done away with.
Sunday night, my brother and I attended a long-awaited concert. Fleet Foxes played at Constitution Hall in DC. They were phenomenal. Performing close to two-hours, covering their whole new album plus five highly demanded songs from their previous album, Fleet Foxes exceeded already high expectations.
The instrumentation was flawless—from the guitar (electric and acoustic) to the stand-up bass, from the keys to the flute. The rhythms thumped and the timing was tight. This was all the more impressive considering Foxes consists of six members all plucking, strumming or pounding their respective instrument, of which can change hands on any given song. But the main treat was the harmonizing caked on top of all this already fulfilling instrumentation.
Robin Pecknold, the main vocalist and leader of the band (and only 25 years old), is truly something else. His voice, lyricism, and overall demeanor draws you in while the frequent kicks of layered harmonizing by the guitarist and drummer send you afloat. The quick switch from a rhythmic, punchy groove, to acappella harmony, then back to more punch, leaves you both breathless and energized. The song writing is complex, layered, yet still simple. I couldn’t help but think we were watching something special. With the band averaging an age of 27 or so, they aren’t going anywhere soon. I felt like we were all witnessing the Dylan/Neil Young/Lennon of our generation. I realize that is a bold, possibly premature statement, but fuck it. I think it’s true.
So as my brother and I were sitting (sitting!) perched on the stages' left side, in awe of this performance, we couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. We felt straight jacket restriction. We looked around the huge arena to see rows of seating everywhere, people dispassionately sitting like a movie was being projected on stage.
There was one guy a few rows a head of us though. He was standing, dancing, clapping and rocking. But he didn’t have anyone sitting behind him to interfere with. We were envious of this guy. He was appreciating what he was seeing, hearing, and experiencing—and letting his body act accordingly. We wanted to be rocking like this guy, but there were rows of sitting people behind us. The show was amazing nonetheless, but still, the both of us left thinking that the dude rocking out probably had a more filling experience.
As we left the show, I thought of the last show I went to, Patrick Sweany and James McMurty in Berkeley. It was the same king of thing: a great venue, an intimate setting, and a wonderful performance. But something was missing. Everyone was sitting. (The fact that the venue didn’t sell booze didn’t help either).
These two shows got me thinking.
When I see live music, I can’t help but put myself in the shoes of the musician—this stems from my own experience playing. From this experience, I know that any little bit of movement coming from the audience directly translates into the amount of energy the musician will put back into the show.
But it’s not just about the musician either. It works both ways. If the audience gets into it, the musician will put more into it, thus making a better experience for everyone involved. There are shared responsibilities. The musician performs, and if he/she is doing their job, the audience moves—they sway, dance, clap, sing, and cheer. The quality of a show can very well be determined by the movement and energy that an audience gives back to the musician.
Live music has always been important to me. The shows I grew up attending, rock shows at small venues, never had seating. They had open ground floors where everyone was jam-packed up towards the front of stage. Everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder, feeling the sweat from your neighbor. The music may have not been as intricate, complex, or of an overall quality as the shows I have attended lately. But there was something special about the general admission open floor standing of those rock shows. Everybody moving, rocking, dancing, and completely letting go of how they look or how they think they should look. A crowd of people moved by music, bumping into each other, rubbing shoulders, and letting loose. A crowd that got more than just an intellectually satisfying experience, but emotional satisfaction as well.
Live music is not just about being entertained. It’s about connection. A live performance is a shared experience, an emotional sharing between musician and audience. I left the Fleet Foxes show blown-away by their performance. But I felt like we, as an audience, didn't do our part.
Except for you, the guy rocking wildly a few rows ahead of us. You carried the team.
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