Connected by Vibrating Air

A reflection on live music, mental health, and changing relationships between body and place because of illness and disability.

The air hums scarlet, light made apparent in rays by the fog of the machine tucked in the corner of the stage. My shirt sleeves shiver around my wrists, and I can imagine my pulse radiating outward, surrendering its tempo to the guitar riffs enlivening the air. Bodies are around me, wind whispers at my neck from the open garage door of the venue, cigarette and weed smoke carried in from the street. I tilt my chin up, close my eyes, forget the edges of myself, and sway to the rhythm.

Metal is my musical home. Growing up, I remember dancing with my parents to System of a Down, Type O Negative, Pantera, Rage Against the Machine-their way of wearing out an energetic three-year-old at the end of the day. I would run my hands along the seemingly hundreds of jewel cases my parents had in their massive CD collection, a collection that was given up when they moved to Florida and had to sell the house. I still have some of the burned mixes my mom would make for long drives somewhere, back when playlists existed as silver topped plastic discs with a sharpie scrawled track-list.

Music lives in my body primarily through my voice, through an intimate relationship to breath and air. I’ve always loved singing, though my love of it is constricted by a deeply held insecurity about it, a fear of being perceived, an anxiety about surrendering control. Standing in a crowd witnessing abandon in the form of a guttural scream loosens something within me, grants permission to take up space.

The emptying Miller Lite bottle in my hand comes alive with resonance as the black metal band on stage delivers a breakdown, my face scrunching with approval, neck bobbing. I adjust the earplugs in my ears, rock to the rhythm, marvel at the way air becomes apparent when carrying sound. I have to restrain myself-cervical instability means that my head-banging days were finished by the time that they began, and I’m envious of the young crowd bouncing bodies around in the politest mosh-pit that I’ve ever seen.

My first concert was at 11 or 12, an outdoor event for Candlebox, a rock band my parents liked. I don’t remember the music, though I remember the CD my parents had was with a yellow cover. I do remember the crowd, the way the music moved through me. It was a family event, so very tame as far as concerts go, but I knew then that I loved being in that environment.

At 15 my parents took me to my first “real” concert, an all day event hosted by the local radio station (98.9 KRock out of Utica, NY) called the Dysfunctional Family BBQ. It was the first time I went to the front at a concert. I felt myself lost to the vibrations of the air, the spirit of the people around me, the musicians on stage. When Flogging Molly jumped into the crowd after their headlining set I remember thanking the guitarist, feeling profound gratitude for the experience I just had.

Throughout and after college I threw pennies together for shows, began a tradition of going to a show for my birthday every year, saw some of my favorite bands alongside some of my favorite people (a highlight, taking my younger brother for one of his first concerts to see Sonata Arctica for my 20th birthday). Beyond the larger concerts I’d sometimes find myself at, I began hanging out with musicians, frequenting local shows and photographing bands in my community.

Then, my health fell apart. Then, the pandemic happened. I felt myself fracture in ways that I am still trying to put back together. Connection to other people became painful, and is still painful some days. I didn’t go to live music for a long time. Instead, I blasted music through treasured Seinnheiser headphones I received as a gift, would have music on for 13-14 hours a day, my Spotify wrapped becoming a tally of how much I missed screaming with a crowd.

When I moved to Asheville in 2023, a friend invited me to a show. I was awkward, nursing a Miller Light while being introduced to people, crinkling my eyes above my face mask in the way I’ve learned to communicate smiles while wearing a N95. My heart would have hammered in my chest if it weren’t for the beta blocker limiting my pulse. Yet, I felt something come back to life that had withered as we stood shoulder to shoulder, bobbing our heads to the rhythm on stage.

Being able to stand in close proximity to others without the social pressure of engaging has been critical in helping me reach out to others socially again. I started attending a weekly showcase of folk music in the area, calling it my version of church for the near spiritual experience I would have every week (as a kid I was the lead singer for my church-an essay for another day), being brought safely in and out of emotional states guided by musicians and sharing an experience with others in a low pressure way.

Numerous sources cite the benefits of music therapy for individuals with PTSD and other mental health conditions¹, and while my experiences are not guided as they might be in therapy, attending live music has become a therapeutic practice. I find it ironic that I have to wear earplugs and sunglasses to make it through a trip to Trader Joe’s without intense distress, yet the stimulation of a loud concert reduces my stress immensely. A crowded room which would normally make my scalp crawl with paranoia becomes a container within which I can be held with the addition of live music.

Someone jostles into me from the pit, I stumble backward with my poor balance and feel a hand on my shoulder, the person behind me smiling as they help me stay upright. I smile back, the usual self consciousness I might have experienced in a different context gone. There’s a soft ache in the small of my back and I adjust my stance, wishing I had brought my cane to lean on.

There is a subtle grief in this experience, my body has changed, the way I experience this space has changed. My face is often sweaty from a mask in crowded spaces, I can no longer jump or headbang to let the music move me. Going to a show more than likely means severe back pain the next day, a bargain I make willingly to experience the joy that surges above the grief.

Truthfully, shows always have wrecked my body, but as an early-twenty-something I had more capacity, or maybe it was less awareness, less respect for this body that slips out of form often. Now, I understand my body more, which has allowed for a different experience more attuned to the sensations of air as it vibrates through the thick fog and scarlet darkness of the venue.

I look around at the range of people in the space, the kids too young for a drink mark on their hands jumping and dancing in the loosely defined pit, the couples swaying together in shared experience, the elders decked out in goth refinery, and I see my place among strangers. We are brought into this space by the expression of something, shaping the air, the space, with our presence in conversation with the musicians’ presence.

Something is inhaled, something is exhaled-something is taken in, something is let go.

1. Sources include the National Institute for Health, ptsdUK.org, Psychiatry.org, and more.