My eyes snapped open to the harsh cacophony of my modern-traditional alarm clock, it’s bells flailing wildly, saying in it’s obnoxiously high-pitched voice, “Get up you lazy bum.”

“Shit… fuck…” was my response. I scrambled out of bed and turned the devil’s midwife off, as it had become affectionately known. Noon. Had I really slept that long? More importantly, than that, why? As I mused over these quandaries, the memory of the previous night began to come back, assaulting me with auditory reminders, creating a ringing inside my very own head. I needed to sit down.

I sat, hands in my hair, gazing about, trying to remember, but already things were starting to fade. “It’s always like this,” I said to nobody in particular. First the little things, then the big ones, and then nothing. It was fading already.

I cocked my head, and saw on my desk last night’s purchases. Reaching over, I took the larger of the two, my newest piece of unlistenable vinyl; ‘tis a shame when your turntable is busted. Slowly removing the wrapping, savoring every moment, I recalled my disappointment about them having not played anything off of this album, “Com(?)” specifically. I ran my fingers over the smooth matte finish of the cardboard, inspected its contents, was unfortunately disappointed, and proceeded to tack “One Step More and You Die” to my wall, right next to “De-loused in the Comatorium.” I used white thumbtacks, because they matched the best.

I next grabbed the compact disc, it, too, wrapped in plastic. This plastic, though, was the annoying film-type, the kind that when you run your fingers over it, emits that infamous glass-cleaning squeak. Needless to say, that came off as soon as possible. Carefully removing the paper slipcase, I opened the jewel case and removed the liner notes. Inside were photographs and assorted thank-you’s: how anticlimactic. Flipping to the last page, I watched a perfectly square sheet of red origami paper flutter to the floor. I picked it up, noticing that it was heavier and rougher than the liner note pages had been. I turned it over, and on its white opposite, saw in the corner, in small lettering, “For a Thousand Paper Cranes.”

I would never forget.


* * *

The jangling, clicking clamor of my keys in the lock signified my return home. I strode through the dank garage, the scent of old motor oil and wiper fluid permeating the air. Seeing was difficult, as all the lights were off; the result of this was that I smashed my right hip into the left rearview mirror of my father’s ’94 Jaguar X-Series – hunter green, because every car we’ve ever owned was hunter green.

“God dammit!” was my pain-laced response; it echoed off the cement walls of the cold and empty garage, hollowly resonating, a combination of the space itself and my complete lack of worry. “I’m coming down from a tremendous high right now, so don’t fucking bother me,” I thought to myself. Still clutching my shrink-wrapped trophies, I reset myself, and shuffled towards the interior door, wiping my feet on a welcome mat made of a swatch of worn, green carpet. I swung the door forward, and was violently greeted by the false white of halogen overheads, casting their mechanical glow over everything. After being in the dark most of the evening, I was more than surprised, and shielded my eyes so as not to go blind. After struggling with the buttons on my brown barn jacket, I threw it to the floor and collapsed on my bed, the aged coils squeaking with years of abuse. A loud “pop-twang!” came from beneath me.

“Popped another one,” I sighed.

Tilting my head, I saw my newly acquired musical possessions looking back at me, beckoning for me to release them from their plastic confines. How I wanted to, how I desperately wanted to. Now, however, was not the time. Now was the time for blissful, dream-filled slumber – now was the time to relive that euphoria in my head. As my vision faded, I saw underneath my eyelids a shoulder with a single strap of red, and was amazed at the little things we retain.

* * *

I and the rest of the Wallingford VFW stumbled out the door into the outside, where the rain had finally abated, leaving everything damp and dripping. After getting off the steps, I stood there for a moment, getting some air, regulating my breathing, regaining my composure. What I had just seen was amazing, an unequivocal acceleration of the senses – I felt enlightened, and I wanted more. As I gulped down the cold night air, I became abruptly aware of the temperature decrease, and wrapped myself in my coat. The insulating power of a hundred swaying young people is incredible. Spying my cohorts across the lot, I jumped the scattered puddles in order to reach them. Many of them were smoking cigarettes; others held cups of God-knows-what. “Judge not lest ye be judged,” I was forced to remind myself. I found a spot in the circle that had formed.

“That was ridiculous. Absolutely frickin’ ridiculous,” said Farley to the right of me, his adulation clearly apparent by his facial expression, which was itself partially hidden by his black At the Drive-In hoodie.

“Oh yeah dude, definitely. It was… argh! It was so good I can’t even describe it. Just amazing,” was my response. I think we both felt the same way.

Ben, tapping his foot against the ground in his usual manner piped up; “I’ve never heard anything fucking like that ever. Shit, I don’t know if I even want to. It was so loud.”

“Like Man O’ War loud?” I quipped.

“Never that loud,” Marcus answered, smoke rising from between his bony fingers. We all laughed.
“I was kinda bummed that they didn’t play “Halo” or “A Speeding Car”. I would have liked to hear those,” spoke Rob, across from Farley, his hands in the pockets of his hipster leggings.

“Whatever. They played “16.19.” That’s all I really cared about.” I got no approving nods, but I didn’t care.

Some girls I had never met joined our group, and the conversation soon melted into something of little interest to me. I drifted away, back to the car, and sat on the bumper. I closed my eyes, and replayed it all again in my head. The shattering crescendos, the distorted thrumming, the steady rhythmic swaying of the crowd. I was overloaded, burnt out, amazed and confused all at once. In my head, this ceased to be a mere performance, “just another show;” it was the musical equivalent of a rocket launch, only I’m viewing it from underneath the engine. I expected the world to be changed, and for all its inhabitants to have realized some universal truth about existence – that was the initial impact. I opened my eyes and saw the stars shining overhead, the moon far off in the distance, casting a pale glow over the surroundings. The sky remained the same as ever.

* * *

I knew coming in that volume would be an issue. I had heard stories from Farley about just how loud they got. I never really understood until “Halcyon (Beautiful Days),” the closing song, and my favorite. Like almost all of their songs, it began with a wavering, temperate guitar line rife with vibrato, punctuated by every steady bass and cymbal taps. It was quiet, soothing, almost hypnotic. I felt my eyes become heavy.

Has a person every crept up on you and made you jump, scared you because you didn’t know they were in the room? That’s exactly what happened then. The gentle picking had come to a feverish precipice, and had finally crashed down. Instantly, the effects had been activated, the treble pushed to its maximum, the volume at ten. What these four individuals were creating was growing exponentially, like a wave, ready to topple at any moment. Yoda and Taka were both standing now, their hands rising and falling with unbelievable speed. Yasunori was beating his cymbals, powering his snares, being as loud as possible. Tamaki was holding her bass low, swaying with the beat she herself had created. Her dress had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a thin red bra strap. She didn’t care; she was smiling. She looked up, and I met her eyes with mine for but an instant. In looking at those deep brown wells, I thought for a moment that I understood. In the next instant she was gone, grinding her bass against her amplifier, begging for resonance.

The wall of sound hurtling towards me was a sensory excess; all it contained was static and feedback and unintelligible dissonance that did not reduce or waver. I looked around and saw some covering their ears – probably a smart idea, but why ruin the moment? Their chosen weapons produced the most appalling, but at the same time, most glorious noises I had ever heard; low frequencies, vibrating floorboards, an electric hum. And then, absolute deafening silence. No one moved, no one spoke, no one clapped. A complete stop in time.

And they slowly walked off stage, leaving us in a dazed hush.

* * *

As the lights dimmed, I felt the swarm of people enclose around me, creating an uncomfortable sense of claustrophobia. Let’s go already. On either side of the stage, green lights flicked on from floor-mounted desk-lamps, casting an emerald hue over the foreground, while leaving the back shrouded in veils. To my left, I saw Mono emerge from a rear entrance; Yoda and Taka, the guitarists, Tamaki, the bassist, and Yasunori the drummer. All the men were dressed casually, jeans and loose-fitting t-shirts. Tamaki wore a simple flower-patterned dress, reflective of her homeland. They all seemed tired; Yoda and Taka looked as if they hadn’t shaved in days, and they all moved with an exhausted swagger as they picked up and prepared their instruments.

They opened with a gentle, whispering guitar sequence, punctuated by the faint rolling of cymbals in the background. As Taka played, I watched his hands waft after picking each string. He would pick, and then move his hand away, twirling it in the air, and then picking the next. I was intrigued; his movements were like those of a seasoned dancer, gentle and honed, but with a precision and intensity that only comes with years of practice.

Things soon began to pick up. A heavy, regular bass line took form, something that a foot can be tapped to. Yoda soon burst in with buzz saw intensity, strumming with great fervor at the strings of his chosen weapon. In an interview, Taka once said that Mono wanted to, “kill the audience with sound,” and they seemed to be accomplishing just that. What was once a quiet ode to no one had become a brutal, screaming disharmony. The placid guitar line had been replaced by a set of notes concentrated with overlaying effects, creating a grating, rasping whine that stood against the background distortion. The bass still thrummed, and as I looked around, I saw most everybody with their eyes closed, swaying with the beat, clicking the heel of their foot in time.

I gladly joined them.

* * *

On a normal, the Wallingford VFW is a wood-constructed shrine to our fallen heroes; the twenty by twenty-five foot space is usually barren, save for the portraits of veterans hanging on the wall, and an American flag in the far corner. The room has obviously seen better days. Its floor has retained the scuffs from man a shoe-tread, and the paint is beginning to peel in the more neglected corners. Folding tables are usually stood on end by the front-door, only adding to the small space’s vast emptiness. In all, it’s an empty place, somewhere I wouldn’t expect to find myself at any point in life.

This, however, was not a normal night. The small room was packed with bodies, each no more than an inch or two from the others surrounding it. In the far corner was a vendor’s table; two cute Japanese women were selling pink, blue and black t-shirts, as well as a variety of records and other paraphernalia. At the far end, amplifiers were stacked on top of one another, instruments leaning precariously on their faces. Wires and cables crept across the floor like snakes, plugging their forked tongues into electrical sockets so as to be fully awakened. Near my feat I noticed boxes of effects pedals, THE RAT, being most prominent among them. I took stock of the instruments before me; a Gibson SG style bass, cherry red; a sunburst telecaster; a black Stratocaster. They were all peculiarly beat up; dings and scratches dotted their surfaces, paint was chipped and I got a general feeling of mistreatment from them. Perhaps this was the rigors of traveling all over the world. Perhaps it ruined people just like it ruined equipment. If so, how would the band fair?

Behind me I picked up a conversation;

“Ow! Why did you hit me?” one young man said.

“Dude, I barely touched you,” said another.

“But that was my sensitive spot!” the first replied.

“Your shoulder?” They both burst out laughing. Obviously an inside joke, but a strange one nonetheless.

As I crept towards the front of the playing area, darting in between others my age, I began to get anxious. What if I don’t get a good spot? What if I can’t see them? Over the last few months, Mono had become my fixation. I listened to their previous album obsessively, finding solace in its raucous noise and soothing harmonics. Now, knowing I was only seconds away from watching them play, I felt compelled to get as close as possible. I continue to dodge and weave between moving limbs and intent gazes until I was finally at the front.

I was sweating. The temperature inside compared to the rain soaked outdoors was much higher, and I dropped my coat at my feet. I was committed to this spot. I wasn’t going anywhere. Now it’s a matter of time.