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things really start to happen. The drizzle becomes a torrent, a crescendo of life and love and drugaddled hysteria, and the sound of a billion souls rises from the ground, up from the anonymous nether, coalesces above their trembling heads, resolves into an image you can't identify. Early in the morning, hours after you've left the stage, you'll wake up reeling, seeing the image clearly for the first time, and it will look like the very form and figure of Hope, of Concord, of Beauty, of Eternity. You'll find yourself unable to express this to the others at breakfast, but you won't need to. The heat of this sight will be burned into every pair of eyes that greet you over coffee and hotel croissants. The sound drives you, it pours itself in through your skin and burns like oil, and you fly through the set, you are airy and weightless, you're sitting on the amplifiers watching yourself play, and you hear things in yourself that you never noticed before. The audience has become static, white noise, lurking patiently behind the tumultuous bedlam of your art, waiting for the moment to seize you, waiting to spring like a tightly coiled trap. And when it does, when you've finally tossed your last note out into the electric air, when that static is set free, the force of it is flattening. It can split the atom. The thunderous joy, the unfathomable cacophony of the human body in the throes of catharsis and adulation, rolls over you like the treads of a tank, and leaves you wondering exactly what filled all those millions of moments that led to the spot where you stand. There is nothing before, after, or around that sound; it is the length and the breadth of the universe. And when there is nothing left of it but echoes off the walls of your hotel room, only then do you even begin to realize what was really going on up there. Only then do you see the sequence of every lifetime that has filled your seats, the isolated frame of existence lying precisely between walking in and walking out, and the myriad frames that must follow it, all the way through to the end. This is applause, this is what it is to be lauded, to be told explicitly that you, you, have changed the course of history. You have diverted streams. You have made it.

Profile for Burner Magazine

Burner Magazine: The MUSIC Issue  

On March 1, 2011, Burner Magazine is excited to unveil Burner 03: The Music Issue, with editorials and features of Yoko Ono, Saul Williams,...

Burner Magazine: The MUSIC Issue  

On March 1, 2011, Burner Magazine is excited to unveil Burner 03: The Music Issue, with editorials and features of Yoko Ono, Saul Williams,...

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