The Lightning Bug and the Lightning

Last practice before recording.

My band hasn’t played together since July, when we did our final rehearsal before going into the studio to record Punk Rock Retirement. We’ve tried to get together several times this fall, but each date gets scrapped due to COVID scares. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

I think one of the things that has been roughest for me during the pandemic is how thoroughly pointless it feels to create new music. Yes, new songs can give life to new emotions, can tell new stories, can piece together new melodies from the same six strings.

But so much of music’s joy and purpose comes from it’s ability to bring people physically together. Whether it’s packing sweater strangers into a crowded concert hall to belt out lyrics, or it’s simply working one-on-one with another musician, music is best when shared, face to face.

That’s been all but obliterated by the pandemic. Concert venues are shuttered - some permanently, like Boot & Saddle in Philly. My own schedule had been reduced down to a few places with the space for outdoor music. As the colder weather moves in, my prospects for gigs look pretty bleak.

I done a few livestreaming shows of my own, and watched a few of my favorite artists’ livestreaming events. It’s fine, but I’m tired of screens. We’ve got miraculous technology that can keep us connected. But - to paraphrase Mark Twain - it’s the difference between the lightning bug, and the lightning.

Before the pandemic, the last concert I had gone to was Molly Tuttle, at a small bar in Manayunk. Her performance was unsurprisingly fantastic - I was already in awe of her talent. But there was something electric about seeing her perform in person. She was the lightning, and in her performance she could pass that electricity through everyone in the audience, send a charge that bound us all for a couple of hours, before we had to return to our small, separate troubles.

And now, isolated with my own small troubles, I’m trying to remember that charge.