Like an accident unfolding in painfully slow motion, we watched as live music came to a stop. The plugging in, the tuning up, filling out the bill, should we extend the solo, who’s making the flyer, that sound guy was amazing, and which harmony do you like better… so much concentration, energy and anticipation, all just … stopped. It took a while to sink in, even as we watched it happen. While we talked about it, updated our social media, and stared in disbelief at our calendars, our gear, ourselves in the mirror. The days and nights blended into a strange collective dream.
Then very gradually, after many months of anxiety-drenched suspension, it was over. We emerged, blinking in the sunlight, like creatures coming up from underground. We stretched our fingers, shifted our muscles, and dusted ourselves – and our instruments – off. Tentatively, then with exhilaration, we affirmed the pulse that got stronger with every touch. Until finally, we found ourselves back where we belonged. With our people, in the clubs, the rehearsal spaces, the recording studios, on the stages and the barstools. We met each other’s eyes, smiled our survivor smiles, then hugged a little harder and a little longer than we used to.
