There is something about noise.  Noise.  There is something about the vibration of your eardrums.  There is something about the particles in the air shaking and stirring to create sound.  Sound.  But most of all there is an unfathomable something about music.  Music is merely a collection of pitches and rhythms and syncopations, yet some guy with a powdered wig and tight lips decided centuries ago that it means something.  Music evokes feeling. Music provokes thought.  Music brings people together.  There is emotion and light and darkness and everything and nothing all enveloped in this five letter word.  I remember the first time this truth became evident to me: it appeared in the form of a purple-haired enigma named Annie Clark.

It was mid-April, the air brisk and the sky a watercolor mess of violet and gray.  Thirteen years old.  My dangerously short brown hair lay unkempt atop my head, exposing my ears to the chill.  A golden headband rested on my knotted strands—a crown of sorts.  I tucked my brother’s old Strokes concert tee into my blue jeans, threw on my favorite jacket with leather sleeves and hopped in the car where my mom had been waiting (rather impatiently might I add).  Not much was said in the car ride to Claire’s house, for apprehension invaded my thoughts and made me uneasy.  I chewed at the stubs I called nails.  Vampire Weekend pulsed through the speakers as the engine hummed along in unison.  “Through the fire, through the flame,” the vocalist coaxed.  Moments later, my mom slammed on the brakes alongside a quaint house with green siding. 

Claire emerged wearing a floral top and a white hooded sweater, her blonde hair resting plainly on her shoulders.  Glasses framed her pale and similarly anxious face.  Claire tapped timidly on the car window, prompting my mother to unlock the silver Ford with a click.  I squirmed in my seat while Claire shut the door.  We exchanged greetings and Claire immediately lit up.  “Seeing St. Vincent will be my first concert since that time I saw Taylor Swift when I was seven!” she exclaimed. 

I gasped.  “How dare you use St. Vincent and Taylor Swift in the same sentence?” I teased, half serious.  St. Vincent, Annie Clark’s stage name, was a far better musician than Taylor Swift could ever be.

“You just did!” Claire said through muffled laughter.  I couldn’t help but smile.  Claire and I could always make each other laugh.  We had known each other since preschool and were inseparable ever since.  I was glad to have someone to share my first real concert with.  I stared out the window at the undergrowth that grew in tangles at the side of the expressway.  The tension diffused.  Anticipation hung in the air.

The Majestic was a fairly small music venue in the downtown area of Detroit.  The orange brick building looked ancient with worn white stripes painted down the front.  A line of about thirty people wrapped around the corner.  My heart fluttered.  There, parked adjacent to the Majestic, was a bus with tinted windows and a black stripe kissing its side.  “There she is,” my mom interrupted, reading my mind.  Claire and I raced across the street to get a decent place in line.  A fat bearded man with a sleeve of tattoos asked to see our hands while we waited.  With a black Sharpie, he drew a neat “x” on the backs of them.  We stood in line for nearly an hour.  It was rather uncomfortable, shifting my weight from leg to leg every second and feeling the stares of twenty-something hipsters burn into the back of my head.  I pulled at my leather sleeves, my eyes fixed on the cement.  Claire turned to me. “Are you hearing this?” she asked in a whisper.  Claire pointed at a group of college kids behind us.  We listened in on their conversation.  We learned about Danny, who was a flamboyant astrology major at Wayne State University and had an unhealthy obsession with Facebook.  Danny and friends had just met a girl named L’Oreal.  “Are you a Libra?” Danny asked L’Oreal.  “Because I’m really picking up those vibrations,” he justified.  After L’Oreal shook her head and informed Danny that she was, in fact, a Sagittarius, he blushed with embarrassment.  Claire and I tried to stifle our giggles.  I was no longer intimidated.  A wide smile stayed on my face as we headed into the theater. 

The interior of the Majestic was, to my dismay, less than majestic.  Scuffed black floors were framed by plain walls and a lofty ceiling.  The place was all one level; no seats or balcony.  Standing room only.  Some of the twenty-something hipsters were congregating at the front of the stage.  “Quick!” I told Claire, panicked.  We hustled to the front of the stage and settled for second row.  My mom yelled, “Em? I’ll stay back here,” pointing to a folding chair in the back. “Find me when it’s over.”  Claire and I looked at each other, grinning.  We were free!  We were at our first concert, second row, and alone.  I gazed up at the stage.  Although the rest of the venue was nothing special, the stage was radiant.  Suddenly, the lights dimmed.  Everyone applauded and some whistled.  I glanced behind me.  Only half the place was full.  A long-haired brunette appeared on stage.  Confused, I recalled that there was a warm-up act.  She called herself “Noveller”.  Noveller began to play her guitar.  There was no singing, just psychedelic riffs.  Claire and I muscled through every one of her songs, clapping politely after each one.  She finally spoke, “This is my last one.  Thanks, you guys have been great.” 

Noveller ended with a fifteen minute solo. 

“That was cool,” Claire lied.

“I couldn’t really get into it.  The violin bow she used was cool, though.”

“When is St. Vincent coming on?” she asked, impatient.  It was 9:15, forty-five minutes after Noveller.  I shifted my weight in an effort to awake my aching legs.  Glancing behind me once more, a full crowd had now formed.  Claire and I stood in silence, bored and uncomfortable.  9:20. I counted how many handlebar mustaches I saw.  9:29.  The lights flickered off.  A dim purple light illuminated the stage.  Dry ice rolled over the crowd in billowing clouds.  Three silhouettes emerged and assumed their positions: one at the drum set, one with a guitar, one at a keyboard.  A figure with a jet black Gibson guitar and a jagged gait approach the microphone.  The crowd went nuts, whistling and screaming.  I cupped my hands, making a megaphone before my mouth, and shouted at the top of my lungs.  The figure stood over us, observing our faces one at a time.  A spotlight shone on her as a small Asian woman began to play the keyboard.  Annie’s eyes were like Venus flytraps, fiercely closing shut in time with the beat. She did not speak.  Rather, she danced.  It was bizarre.  It was mesmerizing.  Her head cocked to the side, her tight purple curls bouncing along.  She wore an ivory dress dyed scarlet near her chest, a pseudo stab to her heart.  Her lips parted and she sang.  The voice that I had heard on the radio, on records, now here in front of me.  With a bowed head she shredded her guitar.  The sound from the amplifiers shook the ground and resonated in my bones.  She violently strummed the last chord.  The lights switched off.  There was a moment of silence.  Then, the crowd erupted with applause and screaming and nonsense; anything that would justify what we had just experienced.  I looked over at Claire, still gawking at the stage.  She turned to me, wide-eyed and shaking.  The biggest smile was plastered on Claire’s face. 

Annie played more and more, one song just as hypnotizing as the next.  Claire and I danced, sang along, exploded with applause, and repeated.  Strobe lights flashed aggressively, leaving me nauseous.  My head pounded and my heart pulsed.  Harmonious wisps of dual guitar licks, synth solos, and vocal arpeggios lingered in the air.  Music became the air, the audience inhaling it as one.  As a community, we took in the miraculous performance.  As a community, we rejoiced in the power of music.  From a sweaty crowd of twenty-something hipsters, flamboyant astrology majors, and naïve 13 year-olds, we became a community.