SEVENTH WAVE //
a concert review that’s not actually a concert review
Patti Smith, 29.07.17, Mainz
Lights flashing. Muscles twitch simultaneously to the beat of a rolling bass guitar. I am neither here nor there. Every slash of the lights separates me into an initial particle — the most primal mode of existence, a most rudimentary form of function. They say that on an atomic level nothing ever really touches but between the resonance a vibration sounds and we are all the A minor chord of an old beaten guitar. The mind’s fragmentation splits into infinite pieces like six strings capable of a thousand different tones.
She says shake loose but I am not loose. Repetitive are my bodily movements, a synchronisation of present and past I cannot get rid of. She says I have the power yet my fists are bare, hers clutched high in the air. A fraudulent monkey watching a show. I want to remember everything.
I want to not think about having to remember everything. A slight trickle under an eye, ghostly hair reflecting every imaginable shade, her spit in the air.
Waves start to roll in and in the ocean the seventh wave always hits the hardest. Inevitable. Up or under. Drink or drown. Ride harder and higher than you ever have done or get sucked deep into the inhalation of the earth. Skin anointed with summer sweat, muscles contracting like a whip’s crack across the back, feet crush the earth as if solely bone. A skeleton has no mind and mine is no longer there.
Two pearls collide — young and old, past and present. A marriage that inevitably births future as future is the impending child of present and past. She is always procreation — a synthesis of energy, an exhalation that breathes over a thousand minds. A moment of silence that could span a hundred years. A family of sparrows circles the clouds — parents nesting, babies hatching.
My eyes drawn up towards the darkening sky. The final words she speaks ring painfully true: we are many and they are few.