The three guitarists took the stage, seated against the wall, and started playing – softly, back and forth, goading each other on. The oldest with long grey hair played with his right eye half closed, as if he could do it in his sleep. And the vocalists had raspy, rough voices – voices shaped by sand paper. One sang with his tongue out – as if the thing was a stopper which, when pulled, let the music flow freely from the pipes within. They sang those words with such raw emotion and power – as if (and this may very well be the reality of it all) there was no other way to sing.
And the dancing was so passionate – so full of energy, and so focused. One woman wore a red and ruffled dress, and when she twisted around she looked like an inverted rose, her body the stem – her arms the thorns. And the way she danced – you knew that to grab her would leave your hand pricked, and bloody.
It was the most beautiful thing I have seen – and even though I did not understand a word of what was sung, I felt like I understood it all. And I hope to spend the rest of my life discovering such beauty – beauty in music, in art; in words and in people. And I will hold on to what I find – because in this fickle fickle world there is nothing else really worth taking.
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