Meditation: On Live Performance

At a recent concert, in which a pianist played to a sold-out audience, I had a sudden and profound feeling of being removed.

Not from the audience.

In fact, the incredible power of live performance to transform an auditorium of strangers into one single, multi-limbed organism was never more evident.

It's no wonder the puritans were at odds with live arts. It's church 2.0.

A mass communion, all facing the spotlit pulpit to watch, awe-struck, as a recognised and agreed upon conduit of divine force pours forth unimaginable, unreachable and intangible talents.

The removal I felt was more nostalgic. I recently learned that the term nostalgia comes from the Greek: nostos (return/home) and algos (pain). I felt the very literal sensation of nostalgia, a pain felt in the desire to return to one's origins.

I'd never been to a piano recital before and barely recognised myself in the middle-class swarm.

This was not the first time I’d had the feeling and it wasn't to be the last. (I write this whilst sitting in the centre of the Cheltenham Literature Festival)

This fear arises every now and then. A fear that my authenticity is tied to my working-class roots and any deviation from the traditional working-class pursuits would sever the tie and leave me hopelessly adrift in the vast, blurry ocean that separates the classes.

Really, I should turn this into a celebration of access and the beautiful impartiality of art that bridges the gaps and connects to the essential, emotional human core within.

Maybe I'm fighting so hard to retain my roots because I'm already a straight, white male and any class graduation would surely confirm me as society’s most popluar monster… just in time for Halloween.

I wondered then, what event should I be attending. A football match? Some of my family were going to a game that weekend, in fact. Should I have bought tickets for that instead? Would the joy of spectatorship be greater there knowing that it was more aligned with my origins?

Historically, art and sport would play out in the same arena and then, as now, citizens of all classes would gather in the amphitheatre to experience the transcendental power of live performance.

My experience of the concert was almost exactly my experience of watching live football. With every twist and turn and moment of innovation, I held my breath, strained forward or collapsed backward and wrestled with the involuntary spasms that came as my mind joined the collective consciousness and my body struggled to determine whether it was spectator or creator.

Ironically, after the concert, the train home was packed with football fans. Turns out I didn't feel much sense of belonging in that crowd either.

My class concerns are, more likely, borne entirely of my own insecurity. Perhaps it is more specific than class.

Perhaps it is entirely about the nostos.

My pursuits in life have been wildly divergent from my family’s and it may be that which leaves me feeling distant from my roots. But roots are designed to allow for distance.

One of the main purpose of roots (in arborary terms) is anchorage. Our roots are essential in supporting our inevitable and necessary growth. We should be grateful for them and tend to them but we should strive to create distance and branch out into the world in search of light.