Weeping Angels

Part VII: Madrigal Creation and Self Destruction.

     The speakers buzzed to life, and the crowd’s attention was brought to the stage. The members of Sanctus had their heads bowed, and silence overtook the room, that was, until Ben shattered the silence by striking one drumstick against the other. Kettu’s eyes closed, each drumstick strike signalling to Kettu a step of preparation.

1... Fingers in place on the frets.

2...Picking hand in place and ready.

3...Foot ready on the effects pedal.

4...Begin!

The soft chords of “Lost In The Supermarket” drifted from the speakers as Kettu strummed on his guitar and Ben softly and repeatedly tapped his drums in a moment of perfect synchronicity. He loved moments like this. Performing for a crowd, any crowd, gave him some form of release, a moment in time where he was in full control of captivating the minds of others with his craftsmanship of music. Jack began to sing and Phil started in with his opening bass line as Kettu, with his eyes still closed, lifted his head up to the lights.

In a world behind his eyelids, time stood perfectly still in a mythical world of swirling mist and beautiful sound, light and ecstatic joy. This is what he imagined heaven to be like.

No wonder I want to die, he thought to himself as he continued producing chords in perfect time, entirely lost in the moment, hoping in vain that it would never end. He remembered every chord, every note, and played it with surgical precision, all without making any kind of eye contact with the neck of his guitar.

Instead, when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but the dark silhouettes of the people he was performing for, all sitting in their 100% recyclable material haven, sipping from mugs and talking amongst themselves. His mind never once deviated from his music to guess what they were talking about, for in this moment, he was beyond judgement or condemnation. He was a musician, and a damn good one in his own mind.

So why did some part of him still feel empty?

“Wow…” Nina said as Kettu took a bitter sip of complimentary coffee. “That was . . .well it was amazing. You’re very talented. How do you play with your eyes closed?

“I guess when you get to know the guitar you’re playing, it becomes second nature.” Kettu replied, wondering if she was piling on the flattery for pity’s sake as he winced at the harsh taste of his drink. All of their sets had been completed, and he was left with that same empty and hopeless feeling that he had always been accompanied by. He let out a heavy sigh and gazed down into his coffee mug.

“Well in any case, you were great out there tonight.” Nina said, leaning against the table. Kettu gazed up at her for a moment and shrugged wordlessly. These were the most depressing moments of his life, the moments after a show, having to face the cold, hard world after having stood in the warm spotlight was a crippling feeling of devastation, almost one of loss. Like a part of him died at the end of every show.

“Kettu? Are you ok?” Nina asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” Kettu sighed, struggling to try and come up with some kind of rational sounding explanation, “It’s just when I play music, I feel happy, you know? And when the performance ends, so does that emotion, it’s like fate steals that kind of happiness from me every time the last note rings, and it’s as frustrating as it is devastating.” He sighed again, frowning down at the table, “And I know that makes me sound crazy, which just adds to this shit pile of life.” He looked up at Nina, whose face held a sympathetic look to it. Kettu gazed at her, hoping that she would say something, anything. This kind of silent judgement killed him, even from someone he barely knew.