Are you listening? It’s the rain landing onto the bus stop shelter. It’s been fifteen minutes I’ve been waiting here. Two cars have made it pass the roundabout twenty meters away. It’s wet. It’s crowded. Students are chatting away about their plans for the weekend. I eavesdrop. Voyeurism is the vice of our century. I wait. I’m excited. I meet Myriam and we manage to squeeze ourselves onto a single “large person” seat and we talk. She’s not sure she’s invited to the party she’s going to. Never mind, she’s bringing Martini along. We’re both late but company is nice.
Are you listening? He asks us if we want to have a drink with him, maybe go to a club. He’s dreaming. He asks us where we’re from. The corner of my eyes are squinted, Myriam has thick curly light brown hair. She says “Algeria”. Well, after all, everybody wants to be loved. We leave each other and I meet up with Alex. It’s been months since we’ve seen each other but from the manner we greet, it could have been yesterday. It feels great.
Are you listening? It’s the boy in the fast food who eyes my t-shirt and whispers under his breath “IAMX”. We know why we’re here. We get “IAMX + Bruxelles” badges at the entrance.
Are you listening? Voices. There’s plenty of them, muffled by even more. Somewhere in this mess of sound, the opening act is playing, trying to be heard. The crowd isn’t overwhelmed. He’s trying to build up the stage but his cord breaks. Pity. It’s dark. Cigarettes litter the floor and my sneakers are already sticky with all the beer. It smells like pot. It smells like sweat. It smells like anticipation. There’s a buzz. There’s desire lingering in the air. Antlers are dangling down from the synthesiser that is its throne. It’s wrapped up in black and gold. We’re all waiting for the alchemy to commence. We’re all waiting to celebrate de chemistry. The emotional concern, technical craft, the intense care and spirit, we want Chris. We wait and wait and wait. I’m right behind the tallest guy in the hall and I’m not happy. We wait and wait and wait. It’s been an hour and we wait some more. He has enough of it and go gets himself a beer. Our hearts need more than just unearned instant gratification. Reward comes through longing, waiting, supporting and deserving.
Are you listening? It’s the crowd going wild. It’s chaos. Love is chaos. Finally, the day starts as the lights go out. They come as a missile: straightforward and honest with nothing to hide, ready to explode. The stage goes from cords to chords; the audience goes from amps to amped. The room is saturated, overwhelmed with primitive emotions. Chris sweet talks us and someone screams “I love you”. He stops himself in mid sentence and looks up into the crowd with huge, amazed eyes. There’s a short moment of anticipating silence and then comes the response: “I love you too”. The naive, pure, astonishing enthusiasm that follows brings the atmosphere up to another level. When “Think Of England” comes on, I get pushed away from Alex. People are clawing at me, pushing me forward, pulling my hair and trampling my feet. They’re glaring and fulminating. I don’t know what happened but I’m now one meter away from Chris and he’s pointing at me. He’s right in front of me and he’s singing with his hand outstretched to me. I feel the hate burn down the nape of my neck. Like the drunk convinced he’s sober, I keep on falling over and over, deeper and deeper into the music.
Are you listening? There’s a roar. I panic when an arm firmly grips my shoulders. It’s a crowd surfer riding the wave and I’m at the barrier. Security rushes forward as he crushes my arms. Chris comes back to centre stage and bends down right in front of us. We’re smiling.
Are you listening? It’s gratitude.
Are you listening? The night is quiet. The air tastes pure. The noise is replaced by silence instead. It isn’t empty. There are so many thoughts to be heard and expressed without words. Ears are ringing and eyes are focused on the images painted onto our eyelids: the broken smile and taunted charm. We don’t need to talk; we’re still under the spell. They say you kneel before your heroes.
Are you listening? The lyrics are replaying themselves over and over in your head. Every word. He weaves magic into every little thing. The poetry of dirt and love, vulgarity and hope… From his little basement apartment in Berlin to the stages too small to contain the euphoria, it feels like he stole the words out of our moths and made it something bigger, something more beautiful and powerful and cynical – because cynicism is a lifeline. He looked tired. The wind is freezing cold; it bites you back to reality. He’s loosing money, sleep and friends during this tour, in his art. It’s a cruel world for small things.
Are you listening? It’s my rage; it’s my frustration shouting out at the world. His independence, his freedom and liberty are the virtues everybody is craving for yet the value of art is not recognised by all. So many bands have risen to fame because of their talent. They got rich, princes and princesses in golden dungeons of indulgence and greed. They’re not selling art anymore now, they’re whoring themselves with tracks without meaning; the lyrics repeating themselves on the ones that quenched the most efficiently their thirst for dollars. If art was indulged and funded more, then money wouldn’t have to taint it - in some naïve utopia. I only see a horrible stew of business, fame and celebrity in the commercial industry. I can’t think of a more revolting mix and yet I can’t get enough of it. It’s one of those I-hate-you-I-love-you situations. Sometimes, IAMX feels like a small religion, a little world for fans to explore and be part of. Something pure? Maybe.
Are you listening?
Are you really listening?
Are you listening? He asks us if we want to have a drink with him, maybe go to a club. He’s dreaming. He asks us where we’re from. The corner of my eyes are squinted, Myriam has thick curly light brown hair. She says “Algeria”. Well, after all, everybody wants to be loved. We leave each other and I meet up with Alex. It’s been months since we’ve seen each other but from the manner we greet, it could have been yesterday. It feels great.
Are you listening? It’s the boy in the fast food who eyes my t-shirt and whispers under his breath “IAMX”. We know why we’re here. We get “IAMX + Bruxelles” badges at the entrance.
Are you listening? Voices. There’s plenty of them, muffled by even more. Somewhere in this mess of sound, the opening act is playing, trying to be heard. The crowd isn’t overwhelmed. He’s trying to build up the stage but his cord breaks. Pity. It’s dark. Cigarettes litter the floor and my sneakers are already sticky with all the beer. It smells like pot. It smells like sweat. It smells like anticipation. There’s a buzz. There’s desire lingering in the air. Antlers are dangling down from the synthesiser that is its throne. It’s wrapped up in black and gold. We’re all waiting for the alchemy to commence. We’re all waiting to celebrate de chemistry. The emotional concern, technical craft, the intense care and spirit, we want Chris. We wait and wait and wait. I’m right behind the tallest guy in the hall and I’m not happy. We wait and wait and wait. It’s been an hour and we wait some more. He has enough of it and go gets himself a beer. Our hearts need more than just unearned instant gratification. Reward comes through longing, waiting, supporting and deserving.
Are you listening? It’s the crowd going wild. It’s chaos. Love is chaos. Finally, the day starts as the lights go out. They come as a missile: straightforward and honest with nothing to hide, ready to explode. The stage goes from cords to chords; the audience goes from amps to amped. The room is saturated, overwhelmed with primitive emotions. Chris sweet talks us and someone screams “I love you”. He stops himself in mid sentence and looks up into the crowd with huge, amazed eyes. There’s a short moment of anticipating silence and then comes the response: “I love you too”. The naive, pure, astonishing enthusiasm that follows brings the atmosphere up to another level. When “Think Of England” comes on, I get pushed away from Alex. People are clawing at me, pushing me forward, pulling my hair and trampling my feet. They’re glaring and fulminating. I don’t know what happened but I’m now one meter away from Chris and he’s pointing at me. He’s right in front of me and he’s singing with his hand outstretched to me. I feel the hate burn down the nape of my neck. Like the drunk convinced he’s sober, I keep on falling over and over, deeper and deeper into the music.
Are you listening? There’s a roar. I panic when an arm firmly grips my shoulders. It’s a crowd surfer riding the wave and I’m at the barrier. Security rushes forward as he crushes my arms. Chris comes back to centre stage and bends down right in front of us. We’re smiling.
Are you listening? It’s gratitude.
Are you listening? The night is quiet. The air tastes pure. The noise is replaced by silence instead. It isn’t empty. There are so many thoughts to be heard and expressed without words. Ears are ringing and eyes are focused on the images painted onto our eyelids: the broken smile and taunted charm. We don’t need to talk; we’re still under the spell. They say you kneel before your heroes.
Are you listening? The lyrics are replaying themselves over and over in your head. Every word. He weaves magic into every little thing. The poetry of dirt and love, vulgarity and hope… From his little basement apartment in Berlin to the stages too small to contain the euphoria, it feels like he stole the words out of our moths and made it something bigger, something more beautiful and powerful and cynical – because cynicism is a lifeline. He looked tired. The wind is freezing cold; it bites you back to reality. He’s loosing money, sleep and friends during this tour, in his art. It’s a cruel world for small things.
Are you listening? It’s my rage; it’s my frustration shouting out at the world. His independence, his freedom and liberty are the virtues everybody is craving for yet the value of art is not recognised by all. So many bands have risen to fame because of their talent. They got rich, princes and princesses in golden dungeons of indulgence and greed. They’re not selling art anymore now, they’re whoring themselves with tracks without meaning; the lyrics repeating themselves on the ones that quenched the most efficiently their thirst for dollars. If art was indulged and funded more, then money wouldn’t have to taint it - in some naïve utopia. I only see a horrible stew of business, fame and celebrity in the commercial industry. I can’t think of a more revolting mix and yet I can’t get enough of it. It’s one of those I-hate-you-I-love-you situations. Sometimes, IAMX feels like a small religion, a little world for fans to explore and be part of. Something pure? Maybe.
Are you listening?
Are you really listening?
Listen to: Imogen Heap - Canvas
