Endless
cause i have been long against this night
“from here on out, just so you know, it’s all…up…way up.
you know…it’s…up…there.
what i mean is…it’s all duds.”
i laughed along with the crowd. he had merely begun. even at the opening, i knew the night would richly glow. the steady beat strummed unceasingly along the rural road of my rib cage. i had arrived this way, entering the doors of the former church empty handed - a little jarred and jagged and jutting out of place. perhaps, if entrusted to the music, those pieces could find their way. silently, i wished for them to exhale, and land.
the first time i heard Phosphorescent, i was unraveling and attempting to dress a skeleton of a Christmas tree. i crawled around and around, swathed to the elbows in an aubergine garland. we twirled across the naked sections—that beaded creature and i—and plunked ourselves neatly between thorn and limb. with every circling, a quiet couplet followed:
“i will keep a singing til i no more can
my dove my dove my lamb…”
those lines have kept me company, especially while writing, for so many years that i have lost track of how often i’ve reached within them and come away sweetly, holding kindling for light.
for a moment, however, one that extended without clear or visible end, words—all words— felt hollow and insincere. i didn’t even like what i liked anymore. i stopped listening, and i stopped writing. i let the songs— those held close, and the one inside—lay low in dormancy.
this past autumn, the drought began to prick and pull and shift in its pattern. i couldn't name the reason. perhaps fallow left way for rain or snow or greening. the dove and the lamb returned, sowing beak and feather and spool of woolen thread between my unsteady boughs of trying prose. it was a gentle stirring: simple, unfettered; names once lost stitched slowly to surface.
and here i also was, where the dove and the lamb had most recently led me, into the heart of this gallery, hosting an artist i never imagined playing in this frigid corner of the world. even in the starting, i could hear the full ambience of what i’d missed since the days tipped all come, all wry.
seated, and without a usual tea, i noticed the room was filled to brimming with people who arrived simply to sip beer and enjoy a winter festival. truthfully though, i was suspicious we had all come in out of this unseemly prairie cold, holding our tiny storms of hidden melancholy; an unspoken hope for someone willing to admit their wondering honestly and to cast it into the empty air.
these were words once loved, now longed to hear. i didn’t need to turn away or into, or make requests of them. they didn't demand i become something other to understand.
they're rising now, endless, and sailing smoothly across the fretboard of an electric guitar. they’re sweeping and bending and curling around the nape of its neck, the sound near-impossibly soft in its twining. the plucks and verses are almost reverent, pressed first against palm and body, gliding onward from the stage. they fly freely then, in measures of timely phasing and pause.
in person, i’m struck with the singer’s ability to slow completely. from album to ear, his writing has long resonated as spoken word poetry. every sentence is syncopated and every word delivered thoughtfully, the last beats often drifting purposefully out of pace. it is neither a torrent nor a flood, but a current. as the voice reaches and washes over the row where i’m waiting, i feel pulled into a kind of magic.
“this isn’t just someone who knows their own melodies.” i reflect, easing in the flow.
“this is someone tuned to the tone of room. someone who is carefully inviting them—me— into their cadence.”
as if on cue, he steadies further to hum to the audience, and pedals in a shifting pitch. the passages meander and loop, almost born aloft. i could stay, suspended, for longer than the show will allow. the writing is asking questions, and it is leaving space without answer. just for this night, we're each sharing our own stories alongside the wandering. it’s as welcoming as it is gracious. there’s something peculiarly sacred beneath the lines, warm in its communion.
bits of salt stings my eyes. the dove and the lamb have joined him now. i never thought i’d have the chance to hear this piece in person. the phrases are as i remember, swooning and intentional, but…even more so. i’m caught here, smiling and tearing up and smiling again.
i watch as he takes his voice to breaking. it teeters and dances over the edge. an eyebrow is raised, then both as he continues. mine begin to mirror in amusement and recognition of his sheer awareness of it all. he warbles out, then back towards the starting place. the notes exchange, but never seem to truly falter in their lulls. it's this moment that cracks me open, this refrain that rests with me like breath throughout the days to follow. the exchange is a verse all on its own.
“you’re being a bit much,” i assure myself internally, shaking my head.
“it’s just music, after all.”
but it never is just music, is it? it’s a belonging to an older song. it's the heartbeat that says, “tell me where you've been, and i will tell you where i've been.” a reassurance that here there is nothing less to give, no one else to be.
so i let myself sink fully into the “honey’s” and “babe’s” and the “mama’s,” their respite a homecoming.
if i could, i would bottle the touch of this evening - capture the presence, the searching and the room left unclouded for tenderness.
and the gathering light;
is laying soft around your feet,
as you turn
to ask of me
“is it long, my love, until we rest?”
“endless.”
the song is changing for the last time, the final stanzas now wordless reverberation.
“do we have about three more songs in us, do y’all think?” he had asked as we welcomed him back for his generous encore.
“i think i know what to do. the last one is a bit…experimental.”
i’m tapping the undersides of my fingers against my own hands in unbroken, winding rhythm now. we are tethered again, the tune and i, but the line between feels stronger this time. earnest. maybe it's the spirit of the room, all atmosphere and aliveness. i can’t help but sway along. the song lengthens and leans, lessens and grows again as it recognizes itself. i don’t know how, but those stubborn pieces unyielding feel a little like they’re mending.
harmony upon harmony, the murmur flows to a call. he steps away from the mic and the instruments into the evening with a friendly, kindly wave goodnight. but the swell lingers on, his clever created layers ringing within the walls, echoing in the leaving.
enchantment. absolute, pure enchantment.
there were no duds here, in this solace from the long winter nights.
only the witness of an ordinary human who, all at once and somehow beautifully, became a choir.
still keeping time, the dove and lamb at rest, i knew…
that chorus now resides within me, too.
both the post title and the italicized phrases are lyrics from Phosphorescent.
words to describe the show: calm. genuine. (and in the genuineness, hilarity!)
there were many :) moments for me. a recurring discussion about a particular appreciated amp had the crowd in stitches!
the set list spanned the breadth of work (SO lovely!) a favourite story came from The World is Ending, where he waxed eloquent about his wife's writing. the stunning warble belonged to Terror in the Canyon. Endless was…unforgettable. it all was. i am grateful.
civil, I love how you captured the feeling of getting to experience a favorite artist live and soak in the music and art and atmosphere. beautiful. beautiful.🩵
CIVIL! I am in awe of your writing. You transported me to a beautiful place! For whatever reason, I felt like I was at an old Josh Ritter concert, when The Animal Years had just come out. (I'm dating myself!)
"You're being a bit too much...It's just music after all." I can't tell you how many times I have uttered this words. It's NEVER just music, my friend, and I know you know this! Please never stop penning these beautiful words that stun me and leave me in awe.