Narrative

Another personal narrative.


Standing here in the crowd I could see the shine of the keys in the spotlight, black and white. It reminded me of a time that seemed so long ago it could be a different country, a different era. Most definitely a different me.

In that time I was also watching a keyboard gleam in the half-light, but it was my fingers that descended upon it, somewhat hesitantly and clumsily; and I was not watched by a crowd but by two twenty-something musicians (which was, I believe, even more nerve-wracking). Ryan held a guitar and Dylan a bass, and they both waited for me- a pianist and vocalist over ten years younger than them- to start our improvised jam… But previous to this, the only music I’d learned on piano was the chart hits. I was hopelessly mainstream. My education in “real” music, as my brother Dylan called it, had barely begun.

But even then I’d known this band, the one I was standing in that crowd to see. The one whose keyboard I watched, waiting, like so many, for an encore; chanting along with thousands. Nine Inch Nails, Nine Inch Nails, Nine Inch Nails…

In that flat in Avondale, in a different life, I watched as Ryan and Dylan danced, heads bowed, swaying like zombies, and marveled that one band could trigger this reaction, possess someone, give them a reason to exist. And then I listened.

Back at the concert I was deafened by the cheers of my fellow fans as we sensed movement on the dark stage. Our friends, our idols, our Gods, took up their instruments and looked to their leader for direction. He strode to the spotlighted keyboard. He took a breath, and I smiled, remembering my hesitant, fifteen-year-old fingers inspiring their listeners.