confessions of a bored post modernist, originally uploaded by s t e r n f a h r e r.
the band is on stage. sound check is over with. the lights fade out. a spotlight illuminates a little, where all was once light. the drummer starts a marching beat. the bass kicks in. half the concert is actually over. the lead guitarist and vocalist stepped out for a smoke half-way through the performance. the bassist steps out now. it’s just the drums.
the audience is listening, the audience is watching. this wasn’t part of the script, but it is. there’s an IPL game going on at the other end of the room. well, it was. this was weeks ago. i’m sitting three tables down from the stage. i’m sipping a Long Island Iced Tea. not really my drink of choice, but then again, i’m a little phlegmatic towards drink selection today, and i’m focused on the music anyways.
the drum solo continues. someone shouts out for Rock On (by the drummer, are you kidding me?) someone else shouts out for Moby Dick (the Led Zeppelin track, not the whale. probably). people are shouting for the rest of the band to get back into the venue and on stage, the drummer’s shouting, too! the Rajasthan Royals are back in the game. against Mumbai. pity, really, i like both teams.
‘guys, get back in here’ shouts the drummer. they’re outside. they can’t hear him. ‘keep going’ shouts the audience. they’re loving it. they were here for a performance. they’re getting one. scripted, or maybe unscripted. who knows? the band comes back on stage. they’ve got to play another hour. they invite friends on stage to perform.
this is not quite a rockshow. it’s not quite a performance. it’s not quite a cricket match. it’s not quite a dinner. it’s not quite an evening out. it’s not quite a rockshow. it just is. definable, undefinable.
there are no questions, but one, no answers but one.
are you entertained?