My eardrums are still ringing.
It happened Tuesday afternoon. From afar I noticed some boys organizing themselves in a suspiciously quiet manner. Soon I saw chairs disappearing from under the pushchair shed to be relocated in neatly ordered rows over by the Play House. Sure enough, no more than three minutes later three children were offering tickets to the concert. Tickets came in the form of green leaves; they were in high demand, but all of us who weren’t involved in the band managed to get ourselves a ticket.
The band members scattered.
As we leisurely ambled over, the band members prepared. I heard hushed directions, some last minute shuffling of stage props, and when we were seated under the chestnut tree in front of the Play House, the band was standing above us on the tabletops air guitars at the ready.
I called out, “What’s the name of your band?”
One of the boys thought for a minute then called back, “The Band!”
What an opener! I have never heard “We will rock you” sung with such precision or such animation. The children were red in the face with exertion, rocking, leaping, performing.
After a while, and coinciding with the arrival of parents, the concert harmonies again drifted into birdsong and I found myself thinking of last year’s band, of the cyclical nature of life and learning, and of the beauty of improvised music. What I had seen on stage wasn’t soothing to the ears, it wasn’t well rehearsed or choreographed either, but it was fascinatingly beautiful to see how well the three boys worked together. Until this point in the year I hadn’t even seen the three of them playing together, but here they were collaborating, harmonizing (sort of), and responding to each other.
The beauty of punk.
The creative genius of play.