A Scene:
Instruments are being strummed, battered, plunked, picked, or blown. A voice, maybe a few voices, are singing, amplified by modern technology. A melody, a harmony, a bass line. Tempos fluctuate as screams punctuate the chorus, improvised vocal percussion.
Now, imagine you’re peering down on the concert scene. It’s a bird’s eye view – all you can see is a teeming crowd of people, cheering and singing along and bobbing, moving, in an amoeba-like form. Arms are raised and waving, side to side, back and forth; a crowd of music lovers, not a single one distinguishable from the rest.
Zoom in on a certain prim-looking brunette in jeans and a black tank top. She’s bobbing her head, tapping her foot. She’s got rhythm, and when she hums along it’s apparent that she isn’t tone deaf. Her fingers tap the sides of her thighs, her arms are straight-jacketed to her sides by the crowd. Every now and then she claps and gives a high-pitched half-hearted “woo!”
You’d never know that she’s a total fake, a fraud, an imposter.
Or at least, she feels that way. She, of the finger tapping and the head bobbing, is Cupcake Lover. She’s at a concert, The Boyfriend’s favorite band, and of course he is next to her, looking like he just ate his favorite food, drank his favorite beverage, was magically transported to his favorite place on earth, and immediately after found out that all of his wishes for the next 50 years will come true. Here’s a word for you: Blissful. Definition? Characterized by perfect happiness. Boyfriend looks Blissful. And me? Uhh, I mean, she? Confused. Definition? Embarrassed and not knowing what to say or how to act.
That might be an overstatement. I wouldn’t say I get embarrassed at concerts, per se, but I do feel confused. I don’t know when or how it happened, but at some point I stopped being able to listen to music. I just can’t do it. I listen to technical proficiency, I listen to the bass line, I listen to contrapuntal motion, I listen with an ear to where the music fits in historically, to what movement it belongs to, to what other artists it is inspired by.
But… [here's my confession]… I just can’t groove.
And, of course, I'm dating the most Epic Groover of all. Time and time again, I’ve been in cars and bars and my kitchen and at weird outdoor barbeques where music has played and The Boyfriend has gone all… groovetastic. And then he looks to me, like I’m supposed to do something. Like, “Okay, your turn to groove.” What do I do?
Smile through my suddenly escalated heart rate and say, “I like the time signature. Did you know it’s in 7?”
Lame, I know. But you know what the worst part is? The absolute worst part? I like listening to music and I like thinking critically about it. I really, really enjoyed myself at that concert and I actually find my own bliss in other peoples’ love for listening. But when you don’t know how to groove, people think you’re not having a good time. They think you’re miserable, that it’s not your kind of music, that you’d rather be anywhere but there. But that’s just it – I like almost ALL kinds of music. I find something charming and intriguing and fascinating in almost everything I hear. But I have lost the innate human ability to subtly groove to something. I can’t play air guitar like The Boyfriend does so skillfully (on my thigh, usually, or my arm.) I’m not going to whip out my faux drumsticks and play a little beat, or close my eyes and really feel it. Because to feel music I just have to sit still and listen for a second, and think about it.
So, yeah, I’m a big fake. Any grooving I do is totally contrived and based off of what I see other people do… because I may be bad at grooving, but I sure am good at people watching. And there's no shortage of different types of Groovers to copy from. Some favorites include the Hands In the Air Like You Just Don't Care Groover, or the perennial favorite, Sway Side to Side Like You're High On Something Groover. Obvious, I've been taking on a more subtle groove flavor, what with the foot tapping and the head bopping, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely. Making my way toward music-listening normalcy one finger point at a time. Who knows? Maybe some day I'll groove with the best of them.
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