Bagsy
Live Music and the Dionysian
Three weeks ago I went to a concert for the first time since December 2019. My identity depends on live music. No wonder the pandemic was so crushing. Last month’s show reawakened a sense of self I had not encountered during these times even more than I expected.
I felt fortunate to live in St. Louis when Foxing announced earlier this summer that they would play at The Pageant for the first time ever to play their new album in full, followed by older hits. This was an upgrade for Foxing to say the least, as they worked the venue back in the day and aspired to play the same stage in their hometown where they witnessed so many of their favorite artists. Unfortunately, they did not sell out the venue, so Conor did not get a tattoo on-stage of a gooey butter cake.
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That’s okay. It was still one of the best shows I’ve ever attended. I don’t know how much of that praise is attributed to my seemingly endless drought of concerts, but that doesn’t matter. The show was therapeutic unlike any other.
It felt foreign to finally lean on a barricade again. This was my first time at The Pageant, a venue I had been so eager to experience since I moved here exactly two years ago. Yet at the same time the atmosphere – the band performing feet before me, the pandemonium so typical in the pit at alternative shows, and the letting go of life’s toils in a room full of strangers – enveloped me like an old friend. You can find me at my giddiest when the room turns dark, the venue ceases its anticipatory background music, and the shadows of my favorite band loom onstage before the set begins.
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I could rave on and on about the music, but I already reviewed Draw Down The Moon a couple weeks ago. Of course, it was magical to hear these new songs live. But the night was equally magical for Foxing, as Conor could not resist genuinely thanking the crowd for making the night happen and supporting the band during its ups and downs. The audience chuckled when Conor mentioned Anthony Fantano’s soul-crushing review of their sophomore album and how defeated their young twenty-something selves felt. A voice hollered back to Conor: “Anthony who?”
The night proved my theory correct on why I lost a large part of myself to COVID-19, even though I never caught the virus. In college I read Nietzsche’s “The Birth of Tragedy,” which explains why art is indispensable to human nature. Briefly, Nietzsche poses a dualism between the Apollonian and the Dionysian: rational versus irrational, order versus chaos, individual versus unity. Neither is good nor bad; the Apollonian needs the Dionysian and vice-versa.
I am introverted. Large gatherings do not appeal to me. Concerts, however, are an exception. I am a different version of myself. There was no way for the pandemic to satisfy my Dionysian side, so there was no interplay between these two forces. Work and self-improvement dominated my daily life during these times (and continue to do so). I was not entirely sure if I felt like I was missing something because I simply craved group social interaction, or if it was something else. After all, having nothing to look forward to besides spending weekend after weekend alone in an apartment, digging for ways to self-entertain, grows old after a while for nearly anyone.
But live music is about more than simply being in a crowd. It is no secret that Nietzsche also adores music, and in this text he further differentiates between the Apollonian and Dionysian according to their art forms: the former remains relegated to visual representation, while music ignites the latter and, as a result, the rebirth of tragedy. Music is the only art form that is also a universal language. Apollo overcomes individual suffering and brushes pain away, but Dionysus forces us to surrender our individuality and feel joy in universal existence. These sound like meaningless words, but I have not yet encountered a better description of how live music makes me and so many others feel.
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Much of the audience traveled from out of state to St. Louis so that they could witness this album release show. I cannot decide if that is itself a tragedy or a success. It pains me that a band this good cannot draw many people from their hometown to a show in their hometown. Of course, people hesitate to attend concerts during a pandemic. But Conor admits that St. Louis does not draw their largest crowds. Foxing has always felt like my little secret, which, though selfish, makes my relationship with the band more intimate. At the same time I wish they had more success because they deserve it. I cannot think of another alternative band that works this hard. From a different perspective, it is admirable that Foxing filled a room during a pandemic with people from all parts of the country, which speaks to their success.
This show, this album, and ultimately this band forced me to reexamine my relationship with St. Louis. I know I am biased toward Chicago, the city which feels like forever home. Between that and the pandemic dominating most of my time here so far, I haven’t given St. Louis a fair chance. Tell me to nitpick the city, and I can find several things I dislike: suburban feel, bad public transit, relatively worse live music scene, and more.
Foxing, on the other hand, imbues me with some optimism about living in St. Louis. After the show some fans and I hoped we could chat with the band after the show, but no one knew for sure if they would want to interact given COVID-19. We had not done this in awhile. To our delight, Eric and Conor briefly spoke with us and signed things. While waiting for my turn, I reflected on how almost exactly two years ago, I saw Foxing play a weird daytime festival next to Wrigley Field on the night before I moved from Chicago to St. Louis all by myself to start a new chapter in my life. I never forget how important that transition was for me, and there was no band better to play that role than Foxing. I think Eric and Conor recognized that when I shared that anecdote with them.
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It could not have been a show during the COVID-19 pandemic without talking about COVID-19 at some point. Conor told us how awesome it was that everyone followed the rules – masks at all times and proof of vaccination or a negative test – without issue. He and I also commiserated over the annoyances of people telling us how our faces should look; we agreed that wearing a mask was not only not so bad but also great for avoiding that issue. As venue staff kicked people outside, he insisted on walking me out to squeeze in a few more words. He asked if I liked St. Louis, genuinely curious, and I admitted that the band was probably the highest point for me. Conor encouragingly said that I simply haven’t found the right parts of the city yet. His response did not feel like a false optimism at all. Especially after feeling quite low for much of this summer, I needed his reminder that there are still new things to discover, whether that be in St. Louis or anywhere else. Hope.
Even though I missed the last Metro ride of the night and begrudgingly had to call a Lyft to get home after the show, I returned to my apartment the most human I have felt in I don’t even want to guess how long.