The Supersonic Powers of Live Music

The stage darkens as the crowd, still brimming with anticipation, becomes slightly restless. Cheers transform into murmurs as people turn to their friends for reassurance - is he finished? Will he come back on? Will he play it? Some skeptics begin to shuffle reluctantly towards the exit and this movement ripples throughout the crowd. Others adamantly stay put. But as quickly as it crept in, the doubt springs into ecstasy and Liam Gallagher returns to centre stage, in front of 90,000 clamoring festival go-ers, to perform the highly anticipated, iconic Oasis anthem: ‘Wonderwall’. After 18 months of various coronavirus restrictions, this moment was a welcome reminder of the delights of live music, as well as its infinite ability to bring people together. 

August 2021 and Liam Gallagher’s performance marked the return of the British music festival, Reading and Leeds, after an enforced break in 2020 due to the coronavirus pandemic. The festival (much like many others that have been given the go-ahead this year) was a deeply joyful, if not downright emotional experience for both the performers and audience members, as well as a glaring reminder of just how necessary music events are to society. 

Music as a medium is already such an important and intimate thing, even without the live aspect. It is so vast and varied, yet the songs that we add to our playlists seem perfectly tailored to suit our settings, our moods, or even our innermost emotions. Each song we save is a brand new creation, poured from the soul of the artist into that of the listener. Lyrics that once lived only inside their writer find homes within those that they resonate with and our favourite melodies often evoke feelings that words can struggle to describe. The tracks that are played to us as children can shape our tastes and our character for the rest of our lives and the artists we go on to discover as teenagers and beyond are equally invaluable. 

Throughout the pandemic, in particular, I have found listening to music to be an extremely powerful form of self-care. While being in a crowd of tens of thousands may seem like a stark contrast to this, far removed from anything regarded as ‘intimate’, being an audience to live music is often equally (if not more) profound. To hear a piece of music that you already view as art, performed by the artist themselves (with all its ad-libs, rough edges, and character) can be a hugely personal experience and one that has been sorely missed.

For me, and I’m sure many others who witnessed it, one of the most memorable examples of this was Sam Fender's monumental Saturday set at Leeds. After months of listening to his music on repeat through headphones and speakers, to hear the opening plucks of those bright, bounding guitar riffs in ‘The Borders’ was staggering. The track itself is poignant enough as it is, so seeing Fender perform live - his explosive, rich, and slightly haunting voice delivering the line, ‘See her in the night, In the corner of my eye’ - was a moment that transcends description. I was sitting on one of my friend’s shoulders for the duration of the song and as I looked to the stage and around at the crowd it felt as though some of the numbness of this last year, the things it seemed we had missed out on and that strange listless feeling all began to peel away.

Part of the great enjoyment and comfort of the experience was seeing how gloriously excited Sam Fender and the many other artists all were to be performing again. This kind of happiness is infectious. It cascaded from the stage into the crowd and could be felt among the audience of every act we saw. Each singer or band showed it in a slightly different way, but all were as genuine as the last. It was a truly special thing to see. Perhaps the most touching was Stormzy’s performance with his family and friends standing behind him; a celebration of life that stretched from the back of the stage all the way to the furthest extremities of the crowd. ‘Blinded By Your Grace, Pt. 2’ (one of his most well-known tracks) was one of the festival’s best examples of music performed by a passionate musician to a crowd equally as eager to match his energy. It was a masterclass in the connection between act and audience.

While these events (of course) couldn’t take place without performers like Stormzy, part of live music’s magic is almost entirely separate from the acts themselves and dependent on the people standing around you. There are times (Gerry Cinnamon’s set for example) when the entire audience becomes manic and the mood manifests itself in the form of cup-throwing, chants, and flare-smoke. It’s both exhilarating and slightly terrifying. During one of Cinnamon’s songs, the frenzied atmosphere culminated in our entire section being pushed over into a pile-up. Immediately the rest of the crowd came into their own. We were all quickly helped up by the people around us and the dancing continued once it had been checked that each person was okay. Situations like this, although undeniably messy and somewhat anarchic, can be a strangely comforting reminder that the majority of us are still looking out for each other. 

Alternatively, there are also moments when you find yourself in a relatively relaxed part of the crowd which can be just as entertaining. Everyone is there for the same experience and it becomes so easy to get chatting with the people next to you, whether it be about where they are from, the music you’ve come to see, or something daft that your friends are doing. Before the next song has even begun you’ve been roped into one larger group, laughing, singing, (moshing?) together, all simply grateful to be there. In these situations it doesn’t matter that you don’t really know the people beyond your immediate friends because you can see the few obvious things you have in common: jumping manically in unison, screaming the same lyrics, helping people onto and down from each other’s shoulders. It’s a community like no other.

Memories like these are some of the many that my friends and I have recounted in the weeks since we returned home. The experience, along with those shared by other people across various events this summer, has made two things particularly clear to me: the first being that music is a necessary form of art, the second is that human connections (both spontaneous and long-withstanding) are equally as essential. The coming together of these two things at live music events is nothing short of a superpower. While the safety of each other has undoubtedly been our top priority this last year, it feels so important to be able to experience music in this way again: breathless, sweaty, sore-throated, and covered in spilled drink.

As live music once again becomes the norm - whether it be free gigs put on by local bands or large-scale music festivals showcasing hundreds of artists - in the coming months we must refuse to take its return for granted. Although every performance means something slightly different to each person involved, when the lights go down and the crowd disperses we can all be glad to have escaped into the supernatural world of live music, even just for a little while.