Blowout and bullocks: Thoughts on Live Music

What, go to Blowout? Or just go to a live-music-thing, in general?

I would go because I want to very nearly have my forehead smacked with a guitar neck. It’s that physiological reaction, the hurk and jerk where you duck your head or collide, recoil, rollick off of a swarm of perfect strangers. The sound of it all, amplified. It’s visceral, something down inside, reflexive, uncontrollably, that -snarls back- or -grooves with- or -jumps along- as-high-as- or as-fast-as or as-loud-as –in anyway we can to mimic that fellow human up on that stage or on the floor right in front of you. The one with the guitar or the microphone.

Child Bite: - photo by Carjack.

You’re here to be rattled in a world of intangibles, a digital world of clouds where you can be struck. It’s something like a ritual dance, even if you diffidently stand there. Don’t just stand there. If not now, then when will you be able to feel safe letting it out

It’s not going to be when you’re listening to this through your shitty laptop speakers or even when you bring the glossy pressed new vinyl back home in your basement on your Tecnics. It’s a series of unique four-minute tantrums set to melody that will never happen the same way, quite so, again.


So, in theory, you could be in the middle of it, right up there, thrumming a future-bad-case-of-tinnitus into your ear drums, with feedback and chops and howls swiveling together into a sound storm

Tonight, “

at the Blowout

in theory

and you can know that that’s happening for fellow humans out at nine or ten other places, just down the street or next door, simultaneously. Same ritual. Different weird sounds. In theory.


I’m not saying you’ll find any level of enlightenment whatsoever – likely, none at all; no educational insights. Maybe something to bolster the instincts or train the reflexes. But mostly, just primal purification. Exorcising demons through demonic music.


It’s morning and we’re blinded by hindsight – seeing so much of our daily drudgery as epitomizing bullshit or just too intangible, too far away, too much out of mind (or out of sight) for you to conceive. So, later on, tonight, resolve yourself to let it out. Let it drop. That paper wasn’t as important as you thought or that money will come back your way or you’ll get around to fixing that screen or you’ll remember to buy your cat food tomorrow because she ain’t gonna die and it’s all gonna be alright, eventually, or hopefully, so don’t just stand there

bang your head, man, get it out. Nevermind the bullocks, as they say, or kick out the jams

whatever rebel-yell suits you best.

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