dancing the night away

First time for everything isn't there? I'm not used to clubbing. Or those music venues that might as well be a club. When I go see a show, there's usually chairs to sit at—not a dance floor. And I think that's partly because I never learned to let loose like that. I always felt observed when I danced like that. Judged. But you know what the truth of it is?

Look at this photo:

See any faces? No? That's because no one's looking. Maybe it's the fact that I'm an anxious sort of person, but I always felt they were. Yet there I was, dancing like no one was looking—because they weren't.

In a way, this reminded me of my first meal at a monastery. Meals took place in a grand-looking hall. It was generally quiet, although sometimes there was monotonously chanted readings to accompany your food. Monks sat at tables around the perimeter, while male guests sat at their own table in the centre of the room. I was the only one, surrounded by some 30-40 men in monastic garb. And I distinctly remember feeling like I was being watched, while of course the monks simply minded their own business.

To be fair, if I felt like the centre of attention, that might be because I was in the centre of the room. Nevertheless, the fact is that in both the monastery and the dance cave, my anxiety directed my attention to others more than to myself, dancing, or even the music.

Thankfully I settled in, and by the end of the night I must have really looked ridiculous. I certainly wondered about this the next morning. But it was fun. I felt free of expectation. I didn't think of myself as someone with a certain job, education, or purpose in life. Instead I could be rapt away by a symphony of sounds, tapping into something that felt much more primal and long-forgotten.

The highlight for me was Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus. When that song came on, I completely stopped giving a shit. I danced, I sang along, and I even made the sign of the cross. In that moment I felt like I was in a new, postmodern kind of church. Post-church church, if you will. There was no ritual or expectations for the congregation. Our DJ-Priestess was a true facilitator, connecting us with some joyous sense. Maybe that's why Christianity isn't what it used to be. I've heard people say that they used to love Church, then they realized they just loved music. Lots of people talk about more "serious" forces at work that have undermined traditional religion, but maybe it's as simple as the record player and iPod. Would the monks approve? Some might, others not. Rather like Christians in general.

This past year, as I've had the good fortune to see legendary artists like Ghost and Iron Maiden, I can't help but feel that this is something essential to music that's glossed over. It's not just about sound. Otherwise, why would we pay to see concerts? We'd put the money towards something like a good pair of Sennheisers, and we'd enjoy crisp, lossless audio at home. In fact, the sound at concerts is arguably worse if you factor in the claps, cheers, or person coughing several rows back. We go to experience something that music helps us to connect with but is only a part of. You see, something happens at those concerts that have a particular flair for showmanship that you don't find elsewhere.

It's ritual without being ritualistic. Moral without moralizing. Meaningful without being overbearing. It doesn't talk down to you. There's no bullshit about it, no talking in circles. Just dancing and singing the lines you know the words to. Most importantly, you're permitted to just let out what you're feeling. It's a rather nice feeling.