Weaving through the smoke wreathed air, trails and vapor, and oh, she breathes in. Home. Home was a place that smelled of wet and damp things, sweat, a little pot and a lot of beer. Music. Home smelled of music. It felt of vibrations and clothes that stuck to the bone like a second skin. Felt of the way that hair moved when confronted with sound.

Home. Home was slick floors and dark walls, toilets that you had to master peeing standing up for because you didn't want to catch something. Home was high ceilings and massive speakers, monitors, the fucking nine yards. Home was a small stage, well it seemed tiny anyways, with the stuff that it could hold; at the moment three drum sets, numerous stacks, lights, speakers, and miles and miles of duct tape. Home was an atmosphere that settled into the bones and was meant to be inhaled, no matter that it went down like soup and coated like haze.

Home. In front of the grate, home, hands smelling like rust when she wipes the sweat from her face, ears aching and throat raw, her legs feeling like they might either fall asleep or give out from all the bouncing, jumping, running around, home, five feet or less from the stage, home, middle. Right there. Looking up and seeing them look down. Home.

Head thrown back as she yells, yes, arms out stretched. Ever heard a drum beat like that? One that could control the tides of the body; here's the blood as it rushes to the heart, and here is the heart as it obeys the rhythm. In and out, steady as breath, thumping up against her ribcage, such power. Makes everything else weak and quiet in comparison.

Some songs are for happiness, some songs are for sadness, some songs are for love, he says, sweat pouring from his body, making him shine. Guitarist in this round of musical chairs, with instruments instead of seats, that would be Conrad singing and Jason behind the kit. The man is a river, outlined and punched out from blue light. Guitars aren't supposed to sound like this, so sick and twisted, thick, coming from all directions at once and ending in her head. Kevin chain-smoking through playing, letting it hang off of his lip until he's sucking in ash, Marshall's duct taped and put back together again, says slut along the top in tape, oh. Bass, one, two, that dance, Neil likes to dance one foot to the other, Homage.

God, just watching them makes her skin tingle, and how can it not? The pulse, the way the distortion ripples and doubles until it's hard to tell which is feedback and which is playing and which is her throat screaming for more.

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine, oh-for-the-love-of, this, this is actual punk. Patti Smith coming out of that small body, he's standing at the lip of the stage looking like he might jump, eyes closed, open, staring, he shakes his head spraying the front row with his sweat, jumps down behind the barrier, and fuck you, fuck you, fuck. You, fuck you. Fuck you, over and over and over again, Jason cupping secrets into the mic, blowing on it, then tossing it to a boy, he's screaming and yelling as hell hits the stage.

In the form of a drum set, bright orange and glittery, all over the floor spread from one end to the other, knocking over Neil, oh, That Was Conrad, and they're rolling on the stage, still playing, Kevin's head bent as he inhales nicotine and exhales white. Seems like chaos, everything's falling apart, but she can still hear it: Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. A mantra. Makes her want to scream, she is, right along with everyone else until she can't even hear what she's saying, perfection, A Perfect Teenhood.

Oh, and it's over. Feedback, then silence. Dark, then light. Leaving her shaken and wondering what the hell just happened. Epiphany? Manifestation of God? This, this. This was seeing sound and hearing life; tragic, happy, and destructive all at once.

Later, even after Queens Of The Stone Age jammed out the blues and Josh Homme shook his hips behind his guitar and enough strobe to put an epileptic into a coma for life, this is what she was thinking about: the way he closed his eyes and said those words, Some songs are written for...

And coming home never felt so good.

Hanson
2002