Groove Is In the Heart

"Your groove I do deeply dig..." ~Deee-lite

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.

Cock-Eyed Optimist and Lover of the Undead?

From Saturday to Saturday... 1,948 pages.

Yikes.

As of last night, I have officially read all four of the published Twilight books and have yet to find the movie for free online (although I'm afraid to watch it because even though I'm convinced that Robert Pattinson is, in fact, a real live vampire, I'm also convinced that Kristen Stewart's acting is, in fact, seriously awful.)

So, uh, now what?

What I really want to do is become a vampire, but since that's clearly out of the question (or is it???) I think I'll just have to turn to Real Life instead. Ugh, how boring.

However, Real Life has its perks.... like last night, for instance, when I had a REVELATORY theatre experience.

Yup, I cried during this part.

Yesterday evening, I was privileged enough to see Kelli O'Hara's final performance as Nellie Forbush in the Lincoln Center revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's South Pacific. I'd never seen the show before, although I've read the script and sung much of Nellie's music because I'm pretty convinced R&H couldn't have written a character more like myself, minus the blatant racism (which she overcomes, of course!) and Little Rock hick-thing.

Honestly, I don't know if I've ever seen a more beautiful night of musical theatre.

Generally, musicals don't move me to tears unless they're West Side Story, but in my current emotional state (read: tumultuous and weepy) it doesn't take much. Add to that the fact that the guest I brought with me was not the guest I intended to bring (see previous post about TBU) and, well, waterworks were inevitable. But that explanation isn't meant to undermine anything about the performances, because they were sensational.

It was just so refreshing to see actors who could sing AND act, and who understood that the root of the story - the crux of it - was the honesty behind everything R&H wrote. I believed every word that came out of their mouths, every note, and I felt like I was intruding on very personal moments between fascinating people.

Not to mention the orchestra and the production value were both breathtakingly fantastic - but NOT needlessly spectacular.

And although Kelli O'Hara, bless her heart, was anywhere between 5 and 7 months pregnant, she did two full cartwheels during "I'm In Love With A Wonderful Guy," one of my favorite songs of all time. To her credit, I think I sobbed hardest (literally heaved... I would say I feel bad for the guy next to me except that he was an obnoxiously loud breather) when she was just sitting on a box in her bathing suit, singing about "the world famous feeling" she was feeling.

"Ahhh sister," I wanted to say, "I've been there." Of course I couldn't have, because I was crying too hard.

But now that I've recovered from my "Some Enchanted Evening"-induced emotional coma, I can simply say with sincerity that seeing South Pacific reminded me of why I love this art form so much and how powerful and relevant it can be. Broadway isn't dead, everyone... it's not even close. See something like this and you'll understand why.