Ear Worms

I woke up with half a conversation in my head. Who was I arguing with? The words fled with the light of day. I had a gig tonight, it was a 15-minute set, but it was still a gig. We were going to play at a skating rink. They set up an island on the floor for the amps and mics. We were 1 of 7 bands playing that night.

The morning was coffee, cold leftovers, and scrolling down longer than I wanted. I should have been practicing, but habits are hard to break. I started to get ready in the afternoon, then met the crew at my buddy’s house. We all crammed into the back of his van with our gear. The drive was a little nauseating in the back with no windows and a full load of chattering unsecured electronics.


We arrived 45 mins before our set, grabbed a beer and listened to a couple of other bands. When our time came, we set up quickly, played our 3 best songs. People skated around us, which was a little unnerving at first. There were maybe 30 people skating.



After the set, we got our pay, which was meager. We needed a hundred of these small gigs before we could consider quitting our day jobs. This small gig just made us all anxious and irritated. We promised to practice more, maybe come up with new material. Lots of promises! However, even a small gig is a gig and I had something to tell people when they asked me what I am up to.



Even a part time rock star has dreams.



Then I had a life changing dream. I fell asleep as I usually do; anxious about money, life, what to do with myself. Then the dream rolled in, like the clouds of a heavy rainstorm, full of a wet and smothering darkness. I dreamed of a red theatre, with curtains from ceiling to the floor. The red was almost neon, radiating with a squirming light. I saw an audience from the stage, faceless forms, chattering with electric voices. They were taking their seats and slowing growing quiet until there was silence.



I was alone there on the stage with my guitar. The instrument felt like a weapon. The strings felt vorpal and serrated. Silence grew and I felt the weight of the crowd’s anticipation. I felt the curtains wrap around me, squeezing me and my guitar. The guitar reacted belligerently, as if the silence insulted its existence. A chord played out, my fingers moved without memory or intention. The guitar was playing on its own.



A chord hung in the air; a deep drone, laying the landscape. I strummed the guitar slowly, building the shoreline out of sequence of riffs and notes. The audience remained silent, and the curtains twisted, almost animated by the distortion from my speaker. Then the progression hit, like a wave from an ancient ocean, tumbling from note to note.



I felt the sound waves wash over me, then they repeated. The progression felt like magic in my veins, electric adrenaline rising up in the theatre. The curtains glowed and the faceless people opened their eyes, which were sharp and focused. Then as I repeated the progression again, they grew mouths and murmured, softly at first, then opened wide. Then on the third repeat, their mouths howled and screamed, repeating the notes of the guitar. I screamed too, and mimicked the guitar, caught in its ocean of sound, bound by the progression. I played it over and over, like the rain of a violent storm, the place was drenched in the music, soaked with the magic of the sound.



I played for the howling crowd for what felt like hours until I felt exhausted in my dream and the cold light of consciousness peaked from under the curtain. I felt tattooed, burnt by the intensity of the progression. I was etched, and for the first time in my life I knew what awaited me.



When the band practiced next, I played the progression. I didn’t suffer any difficulty remembering. I summoned the storm and unleashed the chords. My band mates found space in the notes and added their own voice. We played for 4 hours without a break and knew what we would be playing at our next gig. The practice was effortless and exhausting.



Our next gig was at a bar which was converted into a music venue once a month. We were opening for a local band of moderate popularity, a typical bar band; familiar songs for half-drunk patrons. When I got on stage, I felt the same familiar weight from my dream and began in the same way. The guitar played me, starting off slow and steadily, then rising with intensity with each progression.



I could see the faceless people turn their heads, their eyes wide and their mouths slowly open. When after 20 mins their voices were howling in excitement. We were a hit, completely overshadowing the band we were opening for.



Fame flowed like a river. We found gigs easily, and people sought us out. We played the same song from my dream and each time the same reaction occurred. We played for many years and burned ourselves with success.



Now there are no more dreams, and the nightmare plays itself out. I have joined the audience of howling mouths; my face is added to theirs and the curtains cover any exits which might be hidden behind them. I am bound to the guitar until my fingers are turned to dust and my bones wash away.