4
The moment was building into a crescendo: looped riffs screeching through industrial speakers, blurring rainbow strobes, amplified screams, vodka hitting the bloodstream. A weekend. Crescendos only. Normal humans transformed into chanting mobs, normal humans transformed into emotion-filled renegades. And there, rocking side to side, was Robbie who felt on a total high. Inside his pocket lay a platitudinal strip handed over by Andrea – bright phrases to keep his head above water. On his feet, the lucky shoes bought by his friend Fred – brilliant black converse, a lovely fit. He moved his feet to the beat, he felt brilliant, everything seemed soft and light.
Robbie imagined the sounds creating loads of different forests – huge areas of trees spanning further than his imagination could reach, punctuated by lanterns, empty cabins, cars’ headlights greening up desolate pines. Of course, his images were much better than the actual music itself.
People were trying to talk to him in this trance and all he did was hide behind his new lucky cap, making the backs of his eyelids whatever colour came off the kaleidoscopic rig. He tried to become a new person that night (and subsequent nights), throwing shapes and morphing into a pop star while the onlookers soaked up his new-found charisma.
Each time a beat kicked in his head Robbie retuned the sound, added synths, made it better. He was singing over the bits where there were no words: singing in a falsetto style, giving more meat to the intonations. He posed and pranced and could feel the sweat building up on his face but was unconcerned. Crowds surveyed his excellent stance. And still Robbie swished hi-hats and kick drums around his head, unsure now what was real and what he’d done to improve it. This was definitely a crescendo. But where was Andrea? The odd smile she’d dished out clung on his mind even now and in the revelry of the mix. Bits of music just weren’t getting through and his mind wandered elsewhere. Part of him was numb.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher