Live Performance - Pt.1 A Meditation (The Junkie's Fix)

Before I get to the point, I have a question for you:

Have you ever had a dream that you are standing in a pool of light on a stage, performing in play that you have never rehearsed, the lines for which you are totally ignorant, and eventually all the supporting cast abandons you to languish under the gaslights all by yourself, struggling to fill the empty air with anything but the sound of your innards strangling themselves? It is my certain belief that anyone who has spent any significant time in the performing arts has had this dream, or some variation of it.

Performers battle and overcome this scenario and the dread it produces with practice, rehearsal, more practice and more rehearsal. Repetition of piece of art until it exists in their blood, their DNA, until it is a tattoo on a fold of cerebral tissue, accessed even when the performer is scared, tired, drunk, high, or just bored to death.

Once this point of indelible familiarity is reached however, the struggle is quickly turned around on the performer. They must now resist the natural tendency to make the piece too pat, too easy, too much like a route they walk every morning on the way to work. There must exist the credible illusion that this might just be the first time they’ve performed this song for people, the first time they’ve said these words to the person standing next to them onstage, the first time that this particular candle has ever been lit.

In the audience, we who watch the performance struggle, too. At a concert, we watch a band, a great band more specifically, and take in their performance. We hold on to the belief that this night is special, that this bold and awe-inspiring performance is a rarity, a gem or a fabulous meal presented to us, consumable only once. It is when the thrill of this single night gift begins to lose its luster and the viewer needs more, more music, more sweat, more boozy cheers and applause, that a concertgoer starts to look for more. They being to think that perhaps this kind of performance is not lightning in a bottle. The concertgoer ponders, as they exit the bar, "Perhaps if viewed on multiple nights, consecutive nights, the same kind of artistic high can be achieved. The band can surely play those same notes from which I drank so deeply the previous night, but with just enough variation that these same neurons in my music riddled brain will fire over and over in a shuddering climax of sensorial delight." It is at this moment that the concertgoer becomes a concert junkie. My name is Eric and I'm a concert junkie. Hi, Eric.

Once the full transformation has occurred, the concert junkie, not easily satiated, will travel to see a band several nights in a row. Foresaking their jobs, their general health, sometimes their family, and frequently at great expense, they will set out to judge the boundaries of a band’s ability to perform at high level consistently and still imbue each performance with a slightly different tone or ebullience. With many bands, the junkie quickly discovers that, while the consecutive performances are enjoyable, they do not dance on the consciousness like they had hoped, and perhaps did not warrant the extra time and money.

I will never begrudge a band for having a sturdy, well-rehearsed, but very predictable stage show. This ensures that all your fans everywhere get to enjoy the same product and no one ever feels cheated. In that case, however, I will only endeavor to see that band once on a given tour. Likewise I will never be a regular attendee at concerts of a group that is so desperately eclectic and improvisational that all semblance of consistency and regard for your audience’s desire to see a song they might happen to recognize has been thrown out the window. There is a happy medium. Several of my favorite bands walk that tightrope of precarious steadiness with seeming ease. Often their broader performance can be epitomized by one particular song. Sometimes that one song is reason enough to drive all night to see a band live.

In the case of Marah, their song “Reservation Girl” has always stood as the bulwark, the giant beast that stands for all that is a Marah live show. It is tight and composed for the first few moments, gives way to a sestina style verse that veers in and out of its lanes but, nevertheless, stays on the road. But like a trucker on bennies after a Jack Daniels chaser, everything kicks in and reckless abandon becomes the name of the game. This song is spectacular live, don’t miss it.

Of late, however, “The Dishwasher’s Dream” may have replaced “Reservation Girl” as the perfect microcosm of a Marah show and the band’s general musical aesthetic. It doesn’t approach the flame-throwing blitzkrieg that Reservation Girl can be, but it doesn’t try to. Instead, it encompasses every element of depth, idiosyncrasy, and entropy that makes up a Marah performance. It stands as the paragon of live music that is executed with stunning precision and focused energy but, with an unpredictability so palpable that the band itself might not even know where they will end up. This song has become a reason to see this band every night that you possibly can.
To be continued...