Hair Police
It’s loud and rambunctious, the sound coming from the stage from the speakers on overdrive. Indie types making noise. Drums, guitar, voice, and a whole range of old low-tech devices erect a “wall of noise,” quite concretely. With an utter persistence, the musicians work through their own version of improv rock. Someone nearby mumbles unmistakably something about “free jazz” and his buddy bellows out the question, “But where’s the communication?” Another beer’s finished. Nobody seems to be standing still. There’s a nervous mood in the air. On the way to the bar, I see an annoyed face. “It’s all been done before,” the face utters, and the woman moves toward the exit. But, halfway out, she takes off her corduroy jacket, throws it on a bar stool, and runs back into the crowd to dance wildly. In the second row, a couple is standing, connected at the hips, looking one another in the eyes. The decibels of the sound system demand a conversation without audible words. The two laugh, and the shine of their gaze is amplified by the renewed sudden reappearance of the drums.
On the way home, my brain is empty. My date throws up on a lamppost, and says “It’s OK.” And after a short pause, “It feels good.” A cold night breeze blows around my body, white noise in my head. No memory of what I just heard. The sound of the three Americans echoes like a chiming in my ears. Were they songs, tracks, or indeed complex compositions? Are they even at all interested in something like that? Is there more to it? My mind is silent, all thoughts are gone, probably swimming in the silent current of the thundering sequences. With a click, the door to my building opens. In the bedroom, Lisa says, “I remember nothing.” We then close our eyes, and images emerge from a realm that only rarely opens.
The next morning, I find a sheet of paper, and scrawled on it, “We have to start over. And it’ll be fun!”