Seaside View

I collapse, exhausted from the long climb to get here. My soles are sore. The corset I wore pinched my flesh. I fan myself with my hand, grateful that the stadium was so dark.

Pods of people squeezed past each other, rustling and mumbling as they moved to their spots under the dome. Too much disorganized energy bouncing off the walls to make this place feel quiet. Millions of individual conversations overlapped. Energy swam loose, with no central point to direct it —the choppy waters before the storm.

I bought these tickets months ago. The artist didn’t visit my city on her last tour, so when I saw she was stopping here for her recent album, I rushed to Ticket Hub. The group sitting next to me talked about all the songs they were excited for. Even though I was scrolling through Instagram, I felt the same way inside.

This album was a step outside her genre box, and she played it well without letting her identity overshadow every song. I remember the hate she received for making it so out of her norm. I look around and wonder how many of those behind those hate-filled comments are filling this room now, twitching on the edge of their seats, waiting for the lady of the hour to come out.

The stage lights up.

A chord hits the crowd.

We all inhale as that single chord bleeds into a song.

Not just any song. The song. The anthem for the whole album. The mass of doting spectators activate. We focused on that stage, even though the dancing lights were the only thing on it.

The electric guitar glides through the intro like butter.

Then it stops.

A voice comes through the speakers, the first words of the chorus. The crowd and I hung on her vocals, isolated from any accompanying instruments. It was just a private message from her to us. She held out the last word, and something unlocked within the crowd. The slightly rough waters

I couldn’t tell who fed who— the raucous sound or us. The artist finally steps out on stage. Even though she was just a thin slip from the seat, her presence filled the stadium. When she sang, we sang her words with her. We jumped in turn to the hastening beat of drums. Our arms waved in an asynchronous rhythm. The pinching in my ribs vanished.

I was a slave to the music.

The song pumped through me. It mingled in my blood and altered my DNA. As she belted those enigmatic words at us, we, in turn, thrashed against them.

As if two hurricanes were crashing against each other.

I was no longer in the crowd. I am the crowd. The crowd is me. We were a connected mass of disjointed souls bonded together by chords that had entwined us long ago. I couldn’t tell what movement of my body originated from me or from some distant synapse. When I swished to the right, I caught a glimpse of someone swishing in time with me. A surge of electricity hit the back of my head, and I twirled my hair in the air to disperse the energy.

The concert continued, and I started to feel dissociated from my body. I could feel myself sinking through the thick concrete, guided by the ripples of sound that beckoned me. I passed through others without words. Row after row until I found myself at the front, stranded on stage below her. I reached up, my fingers outstretched toward her. She smiles down at me, then reaches back. Our fingers barely graze each other; mere inches apart. Yet, the sheer power that radiated in that compact space was exhilarating.

I couldn’t even think of keeping it for myself, for it was too much for me. I turned to send it on, and all I could find was myself—copies of me in everybody dancing and singing in unison.

They needed to know that I loved them. If this was going to be my only night to let them know how much I loved them, then tonight was going to last forever in this moment. I look down and notice a microphone in my hands.

I bring it to my lips, and we sing.

We sing and become one.