Let's just listen to the music

Earlier this week, I was lucky enough to see the Belle & Sebastian play at The Chicago Theatre. Despite an excellent performance, I witnessed what I so often do at concerts: quiet, tender musical moments shattered by unwelcome whistles and importunate shouts.

These disruptions were particularly noticeable when the band stopped playing, and lead singer Stuart Murdoch  was left to command the stage alone.

Interruptions such as these, however enthusiastic they might be, are a sign of disrespect, and a product of the audience’s discomfort with unexpected intimacy.

I’d guess the majority of bands you go to see consist of at least a drummer and a guitarist. Clapping, singing along and vocalizations of praise are fine for these types of performances.

But the lone singer-songwriter requires a different kind of audience participation. There is no band for the musician to feed off of or fall back on. For the most part, this is not when you dance or clap the quarter notes.

This performance’s beauty is in its fragility. Each note hovers for only an instant before vanishing. Every moment is essential to the experience.

But when an audience member loudly requests a different song, voices their love for the artist, or simply “woos,” it pollutes a tranquil and profound atmosphere.

Listening to albums such as Neil Young’s “Live at Massey Hall”  or one of Bob Dylan’s Bootleg Series, I wonder if these artists could survive today’s younger audience. Recorded in the 1960s and early 1970s, these live albums showcase one man and his guitar. Except for applause and the occasional cough, the audience keeps silent.

Young’s quivering howl is allowed to bleed into every sonic space. Dylan’s poetic lamentations go undisturbed.

These audiences understand they’re part of a conversation. The musician is in a vulnerable position, but willing to share their secrets with you.

It’s your job to listen.

During a concert on his Sunken Treasure tour, Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy  faced constant interruption from audience members, and was inspired to say this:

“It’s really cool if everybody was quiet for just one second. You feel yourself being in a room full of people with all their hearts beating and all of their thoughts and feelings, and you’re a part of it. ...You don’t set yourself apart from everybody.”

Creating noise in this setting is a selfish act. It calls attention to yourself, and takes it away from the performer.

Although the culprit might claim they are only extolling the musician, these interruptions most likely stem from an uncontrollable impulse to break the silence.

Can we not handle raw emotion, especially in the company of others?

Or is this discomfort due to a reversal of expectations?

Perhaps spectators at the Belle & Sebastian show assumed the full band would play the entire concert, and each song would be multi-layered and musically enveloping.

But when these expectations of sensory overload were defied, people were shocked out of complacency and reacted out of instinct.

They made noise to fill in spaces they had prepared themselves to hear.

We can’t expect all concerts to make us move, make us cheer or make us scream. Sometimes we have to be humble and let the sounds whisper to us.

Silences can be beautiful, softness can be magical. Let’s keep that in mind for the next show.


E-mail: joskraus@indiana.edu