Ragin’ Solo
By the time you added up the Uber there and back, a cover charge, drinks, and a late night cheeseburger in a pita with a side of truffle fries from Omar’s on 5th Street, the economic argument in favor of live music over therapy was tenuous, but it was a lot more fun and, besides, Sarah was tired of talking about herself and suspected her therapist was just going through the motions. In the city, over breakfast at the cafe on their block, she had made a New Year’s resolution to see live music at least once a week: arena show, club date, coffee shop troubadours. The artist and venue be damned. She wanted to feel the vibration of the kick drum resonating through her middle and hear someone sing words that had sprung from the ether.
Her boyfriend had been supportive at first and reached across the table to hold her hand, saying, “That’s a great idea. You know I love live music.” They had kept it up for a month before he begged off of a show she really wanted to see. “I don’t really ‘get’ their vibe,” he told her. “What are they trying to be? Ska..punk..folk..? But, by all means, go if you want to.”
She didn’t try to talk him into it and explain yet again the “why” of going. She felt small and stupid standing in their living room, looking at him as he sat on the couch, glass of wine in hand as his gaze went “tsk-tsk” at her desire to see a band he deemed unworthy of his time. So, she didn’t go that night and that started a streak of four months of not seeing anyone play. When she was invited out with a group of friends to see a huge pop star swinging through the big arena in town, she waited and told him the morning of the show and threw in a “I didn’t think you’d want to go,” to which he responded with a hand squeeze and exaggerated “thank you.” He followed up with, “I’m sure she’s good, but it’s not really my cup of tea. Plus aren’t we a little old to sit in that crowd with all those kids?”
She didn’t miss him that night and didn’t use her seat as she jumped and sang along to the songs she knew and jumped and pretended to sing along to the songs she didn’t. She couldn’t remember a better night she’d had in years. “HAve fun,” he asked when she came through the door.
“It was a fucking blast,” she replied as she went to the refrigerator and pulled out the filter pitcher and poured the icy blast of water down her throat, letting the chill spill out and down her shirt. It felt like her skin was on fire as the water traced streams and then began to evaporate along with the sweat from the show, but for that moment, she felt more alive than she had in years.
The next day, she got the call that her dad had died. “I can’t go, honey,’ he told her. “Too much work at the shop and we’re short-handed this week. So, she went home alone for the funeral and came back with the end on her mind, breaking it off as soon as she walked in the door of the apartment. He helped her pack her car and she left half her life on the curb for someone else to dig through.
There was a decent sized university back home and an active local music scene with an ever changing variety of bands appearing alongside the few groups and individuals that had stuck it out since she’d moved away . She always recognized a few names from over a decade ago of acts playing in coffee shops and chicken wing joints and couldn’t help but smile when she saw the rounder, but still familiar, faces, heads with a lot less hair, and, more often than not, a couple of kids sitting in the back, playing on their phones or coloring menus, raising their heads occasionally to make sure mom or dad was still up there on stage.
She felt a little jealous they had something they still held a passion for as hers had ebbed those years under scrutiny and digs. Plus, these sort of acts had been another sticking point with her ex: “What are they trying to do? Get discovered and get a record deal? Sometimes, you just have to give up your dream and get a real job.”
She gave up trying to talk to him about it like she gave up her own art. LIke she had given up a lot things and ended up shaking her head along with him whenever they saw a forty-something in a coffee shop playing “a song I just wrote,” but she usually made a point to find the performer’s social media and follow along, usually downloading a few songs and ordering a t-shirt if it was cute. A few of the songs would make it onto her playlist and they’d pop up in the apartment or car when she would be able to wrest control of the music from him. Occasionally, she’d notice him moving his head along to one of them as they drove and he’d ask, “Hey, this is actually good. Who is it?” She’d tell him, but he’d never remember the name or the time they’d seen them together nor the snide comments he’d probably made.
A month after she moved home, a bigger band was coming through and playing the mid-size venue next to campus. It was someone who’s catalog he had fawned over, but she couldn’t get into at first. It sounded like another hipster with a guitar pretending he didn’t want to be a rockstar. Then, she found herself bopping her head to one particular song. Sure, it reminded her of The Ballad of John and Yoko, but derivative wasn’t a dirty word, was it? Her friend Amy couldn’t go with her and she thought for a fleeting moment about sending him a message to see if he wanted to make the three hour drive. That fleeting thought turned into three days of deeper thinking she felt foolish about until she was able to put it out of her mind. The last few years, she had followed a roommate from college who’d started a travel site on social media. She titled her page “Ragin’ Solo,’ after what another friend had used to describe her Thanksgiving weekend alone on campus when everyone else had gone home. They had returned on Sunday evening to find her on the toilet, door wide open with her pants around her ankles and Smirnoff Ice firmly in hand.
“How was your weekend, ladies,” she shouted as they came through the door, “Cos mine was fuckin’ epic. Everybody needs to rage solo once in a while.” Sarah smiled at the memory before a small wave of nausea hit her of the Smirnoff, but decided that raging solo was better than not going and pulled up the app and summoned her ride.
