Posted on September 20th, 2012
A supporting act that you ignore and the seemingly endless time before the concert starts. Finally Zac Condon’s voice that fills the room accompanied by the perfect ensemble of instruments. We are surrounded by couples. They are always where I am, not matter what concert I go to. There is beer from plastic cups and our hands play with the tokens inside our pockets. In the back the audience is more relaxed, less agressive and they dance. Eventually we’ll join them.
I sway slightly to the music and closing my eyes, I am in a dim room, the air stale from the smoke and the ashtrays overfilled with old cigarette butts. A faint smell of soft soap that was used to scrub the floor in the morning, not quite able to obscure the ever present smell of beer and booze from the bottles and glasses dropped on the floor the nights before. The chairs and tables are made from old battered wood and there is a small stage in front, framed by worn velvet curtains. We are just a few people and the crisp morning air is already creeping in through the old windows. There they are, these men who look like boys, dressed in simple trousers and shirts, standing on the stage, playing their songs. The accordion, a drum kit, the trumpet and other brass instruments and his voice. This oh so special voice that was always able to touch you somewhere deep down inside. We sit at one of the tables and the next round of shots is already set in front of us. They play. Someone sings along and a few girls are dancing in front of the stage. In this place and time it’s okay that all of us are tired, from touring, from our day jobs. Knowingly we raise our glasses and he salutes us from the stage. They will keep on playing for us until we get too drunk and tired to listen, no encore needed.
Opening my eyes again their demeanor on stage shows how tired they really must be. Instead of a salute he mumbles something about having to leave for the next city at four in the morning. This is their last song and with a smile on my face, I stand and watch and think and wonder: how could you not fall in love with a tuba player?