Being in the presence of deep and abiding pain side by side with utter joy and openness is a disconcerting experience. Or perhaps it’s awakening, sobering. On a trip to Little Five Points and the Variety Theatre I witnessed both, and felt a bit like I was a traveler moving from the depths of hell into a kind of heavenly door, just witnessing what was before me, attuning myself to my experience. We’d gone into Atlanta to see Foy Vance, and had to our surprise gotten there early enough to have a pre-concert drink and a quick bite. Anyone from Georgia who’s been to Little Five, as most lovingly call it, know the atmosphere is like a pumped up Athens, and the bar/coffee shop we dipped into was a perfect example of that: Java Lords, connected to the side of the theatre. Dark and cozy and strange in its decor, there was something about being in the space that felt both like a circle of hell and a party all at once. A couple of older gentlemen were overtly aiming to get full on drunk for the evening, and starting their quest. We sat and had bourbon and then cider, and anticipated, and people-watched. The barkeep was a kind but subtle young man who seemed as clear-eyed as I was about his surroundings, though I was the one who had to pivot a bit to make sense of the strangeness, that feeling that some sadness was gnawing at the place. I eavesdrop and people watch all the time, and here I heard the jaded concerns of losing money, the despair over aging bodies coupled with the desire for dabauchery and a healthy dose of laughter.
We meandered Little Five, munching on samosas and hearing some street comedians and little groups of people lament the state of the world by making it ironic. And then we entered the theatre, and dove into the music.
The opening act, Ryan McMullen, was where it began for both of us, explaining a song that he said had touched people diversely—fans sharing with him the ways his music entered into their lives, consoled them. And these words touched us where Tra’s Uncle Sammy has just left:
I know you love me, but now it's time to let me go
And I know you're sad but please don't cry
After all it's not goodbye
We're just letting go for a little while….
Of course we realized that death is that pause, somewhere in the mind, but our hearts were still not in union with our minds, and so the songs challenged our sorrow and lifted it.
Then Foy came on, and with his whole self poured love and sorrow right into the audience. I witnessed my husband both break and lift himself; there was a man across the way who slumped in his chair beside people who moved for joy beside him, and I wondered at his fallen pizza, his half-finished drink, at his despair unlifted. There was a couple snogging and interrupted by the theatre staff. There was the woman sitting next to me, sharing the encounter of happiness even though she did not know me, finding Foy as funny and affable as I did. Then he sang to us:
No matter how much you're hurting right now
You know that everything will change in time
Oh, I just might see you in another light
Got no dog here in the fight
I could carry your burden, oh brother of mine
Weaving through it we came up and out of the moment, as blues and soul music should and does accomplish. It was a kind of beginning to the letting go that will be necessary, if we are to move on.
Then we stepped back into the bar after the concert— the man who’d been aiming at oblivion was nearly there, weaving in his seat with a drink in his hand, sleepy, drunk, and worrisome. Some friends subtly expressed concern for him to the barkeep, who seemed to know everyone there. Equally people who were there for the evening alone had found a place to just be, and peacefully attend to their experience; some were there with others and sharing in friendship, and Tra and I just took in our shared wonder at what we’d experienced, and what were now seeing of each other. Music drew it out of us. I felt torn between looking at the opening face of my husband and the closing face of the man at the end of the bar, wishing I could offer him some of the joy we’d just experienced. But I knew I couldn’t even if I tried, despair being cruel in this way, and I hoped he had the friends he needed to get through the night. As we left it looked like one friend had drawn him away to somewhere else. Who knows where he went to get away from—or move towards—his depths? Someone to carry the burden for a little while, anyhow. I knew each of us could if we tried do even just that.