On Wednesday night, we went to see The Police and Elvis Costello at the Sleep Train Pavilion at Concord, one of the more absurd corporate naming experiments for public venues.
I love music. According to the Distorted Tunes Test from the NIDCD, I’ve got a really good ear for it, something I’d long suspected. And yet, I rarely go to concerts. I’d long blamed it on ticket prices or busy schedules, but it wasn’t until last night, watching Sting do his thing, that the real reason occurred to me: I don’t like sharing music with other people. Don’t worry, I think it’s a weird revelation, too.
There’s something about music — for me, anyway — that’s intensely personal and private. A good melody will stick in my head for days, playing over and over while I harmonize along with it. Good lyrics can inspire; how many times have you heard a song years later and felt the rush of emotion and circumstance that you were experiencing when you first heard it? When it’s right, it’s almost as though the artist or composer is speaking to me personally. I suspect that’s why I’m startled when I’m surrounded by people who have separately shared that same personal connection with the music. How is that possible? And why can’t the guy in front of me manage to clap his hands with the beat?
So while it was a good performance and I had a great time last night, I find myself wondering if I’m really designed for the live music experience.