Audial Exploration

The prongs slide into the outlet causing power to surge into the amplifier. The dial labeled master volume is turned up to 9/10, an inadaquate display of the massive potential energy resting in your hands. You slide the pick over the low string which vibrates violently, what is a C to a technical musician means only one word to you, thrash. You begin to chug on the string, rebeginning the vibration anew at over 10 times a second, the thin strip of metal seems to flutter like a hummingbirds wing in your hands. You move a few strings up, hitting the higher frets, what was a painful symphony of power now seems to transform into a sonnet. Your hands transforming every sound of the poem at your will, like a puppet master commanding a beautiful ballerina. She dances proudly, seeming to move the air around her like paper thin leaves flowing in the autumn breeze. Your hand moves again to the low string, once more causing the agonizing roar of a charging elephant, all sense of the ballerina is gone, but the memory has not faded, she is waiting to dance again, at the beckoned call of her master.

As you may tell from my description, I find music's aesthetic property's very appealing and thought provoking. Oftens times I find myself not playing any particular song, but simply moving from key to key to warp the music into more than what it is. What were mere audio waves change into emotions, and emotions into poetry in your mind and in the air around you. You do not need to know how to play an instruement well to experience the great depth of music, all you need are your hands, and an open mind.

The Straight Edge Review

Past the deep concrete forest of Cedar Rapids, and through a maze of flood damaged buildings, lies a garage known as the Straight Edge. It is a haven for the local music scene to show up, plug in, and thrash out for a handful of hardcore metal fans. My friend, after years searching for a legitament band, finally found his metalcore calling with the local group "How Vivid The Memory". After only a week of practice they decided to play for the insane Straight Edge-goers. Against my better judgement, and will to survive I owed it to him to watch at least one show. I went into my closet, and chose the blackest clothing I could find and navigated my way through the stink hole of downtown to find the structure. After what seemed an eternity of rotting wood and paintballed stopsigns I finally found the alcove that hid the Straight Edge. Perhaps 10 cars were parked outside and I could see band members moving instruments and stacking boxes as I carefully made my way to the enterence. I looked into the garage and knew instantaniously that I would not leave without some kind of injury. The size of the Straight Edge was probably smaller than your garage at home. It was small, it was dank, and it was somehow kickass. It was like that hideout people always find in zombie movies, only music was our weapon. The first band romped onstage (the far corner of the small garage) and the 30 people packed like sardines began to cheer in unison. Noise ensued. Normally, what sound would have caused me to vomit, pumped me up. It was not a music-listener relationship, it was one of deisel fuel to a fire. Suddenly it became my life blood, my energy, instead of just audial noise. I jumped up in the air and shoved the people next to me in an endless mosh, and I didnt care about the pain in my ribs from the last engagement, it was only more fuel.