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{ September 24, '98 }
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Stage Lights.
Keyboards, guitar, drums, percussion, voices; where is this? Microphones, a sequencer a mixer. This is not a music
store or a recording studio. Neither is it a rock concert. It is an auditorium empty of people, but full of chairs,
and full of sounds. Eighteen or so people crowd the stage. They are practicing the music to be sung in the church
meetings this weekend.
A young man is absorbing their actions, listening and watching, hoping soon to join his friends at the keyboard or
on the microphone, a neophyte. In his mind his talent has never been less substantial, yet he hopes for a chance to
bloom.
Hidden behind a thicket of drums and cymbals, and in a flurry of swift movement, the drummer sets the pace for the
music, punctuating rhythm and order into it. A percussionist attacks the cowbells, aloof to the others, and
seemingly by instinct alone. The musicians' faces glow peacefully, some with playful smirks, others with expressions
of intense concentration. Even while the music plays, some of them sport with each other, poking fun at this or that,
or turn and face each other as they play their instruments. The background vocalists smile and exchange contented
glances. The guitarist, imbibed in his thoughts, fleshes out the sound of the computer-controlled keyboards in the
background.
Our young man, with slight awe, merely gazes upon these ‘professionals'. His day will come. The stage lights will
blind his eyes as he stares out into the audience in the dark. He too will wear a face of contented interest, and
be part of the organism that is the band. I am that young man.
Return to the Green Room, or to
Day by Day.
email me at aeortiz@iname.com.
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