the return

Last night I went to The Secret Show. They had it on the greenbelt, in the grotto where Blake, Josh, Lauren, and I hosted a screening of Microcosmos. Lindsey was so impressed by the space that she decide to have her next show there. They put it to good use, too. It was a beautiful night.

The first band I had never heard before. They were a gypsy band that wore potato sacks over their heads and sang songs about pestilence and violence. It's a popular genre these days. That, and Satan. One song stood out, in which they described slaughtering villagers with their witch's brews that induced insanity. Their lyrics didn't rhyme. That would have been fine, I suppose, but something about the waltzing rhythm made the rhymelessness jar at the end of ever line.

Wino Vino played next. They're also a gypsy band, and they also enjoy singing about pestilence, alcohol, debauchery, and ghosts. But they couldn't harmonize well, and often one instrument outclassed another. I was consistently impressed by the tambourine's performance, though. And both the wash boarder and flautist were flawless.

Green Mountain Grass followed, and although they're a bluegrass band, they started with their own gypsy song about drinking Stolichnaya. Their music immediately engaged the audience, both because of the performance of the artists as well as because the music itself demanded that we clap/sing along. One thing I especially appreciated about their performance was the way they would soften the instrumentals while somebody sang, essentially framing the lyrics with music. It was beautiful, and also helpful. I often have trouble listening to voices when they're blurred together with fiddles and drums.

In the middle of this set somebody passed me a pipe, and that completely changed the night. I took an enormous hit without realizing it, and no sooner had I blown the smoke out of my mouth than the world began to emerge from the darkness. Sober, the shadows hid the musicians from me. They also hid the tree and boulders and most of the audience. But almost immediately that viel was lifted.

During the next song, I began to notice people whispering. Before the pot set in, I was filtering that noise before I could even notice it. Now, it was pervasive. It came from every direction, even up and down. I was surrounded by people in all three dimensions. And pockets of them were whispering everywhere.

For a moment I thought I was going insane. I thought all these voices were the onset of schizophrenia. Maybe that first band had truly been a coven of witches, and they were spreading disease amongst the villagers through some heavily tainted pot. Maybe the voices would never leave me.

But then I looked around, and I saw that people's mouths were moving. Several were looking at eachother, rather than the band. I wasn't insane.

Lauren and I left after Green Mountain Grass, and those first several steps were treacherous. I had lost some vital sense of space, and several times I feared I was about to fall down the rock face. Luckily, I navigated it safely and returned to my bike. Somebody had left a few beer bottles and a can in the crate. For a few minutes, I was really confused about how this should make me feel. On the one hand, I was offended, like they were somehow ridiculing my bike for having a crate on it. It deserved no better than to become a trashcan. But on the other hand, I was impressed by their practicality. I had to take my bike and its crate away from the greenbelt regardless of whether or not there were bottles in it. It was better to put the bottles back there than to throw them on the ground.

When we got back to the warehouse, Lauren and I prepared some polenta with tempeh and spinach. It never set right, but it was delicious anyway--probably because we were stoned and hungry. I mentioned to Lauren that I haven't shat since eating seven bananas three days ago. She insisted that I have some dried fruit.

I slept well that night.