Everything that is broken needs remedy. A vase has to be glued together. A cloth has to be sewn. Broken skin has to be bandaged. And broken hearts also need repair. With hearts however, restoration is not that easy. It differs from person to person. Some of them drink, some of them hide, some of them weep, some of them write. And some of them listen to music.
I wouldn't like to bore you to sleep by recounting the story of my past week (or rather past two months or even past one and a half year), may it be enough that my inner core has been shattered and needed repair. As in all times of need, I turned to music first, looking for concerts that would steer the ship of my mind away from the angry waters. By doing so, I transformed this week into a seemingly endless row of nights spent awake in smoke-laden places filled with people and music. The one I wish to tell you about right now was held on the 18. of March and had managed to calm the raging and self-destructive beast of my soul for an hour or two.
I learned about the event through a girl, one of the members of the band called Slamballet, who was a schoolmate of mine back in the times of splendor I spent in my high school. I was sort of stalking her band for a long while, but never ever managed to get to one of their gigs and this proved to be a perfect occasion. The venue was Treehugger Dan's Bookstore & Café at Lázár u. 16., owned and run along with its two brothershops by a very friendly and welcoming expat from Massachusetts, who's been living in Budapest for 19 years now.
Slamballet consisted of a guitarist-singer guy, a violinist-singer girl (my acquaintance), a singer girl, a bassist guy and a drummer guy. Their beginning of the music acted like a switch for me, disconnecting me from the outside world. As I was sitting on the soft sofa, the hands of music took me away to a place where only me and the stage existed. Organic soundscapes composed of the girls' voices, soft and natural sounds of the drums and cymbals hit by bare hands and the dynamic and energetic yet soft strokes of the guitar built up our surroundings. The smile could not be deleted from my face, the music was so carefree, independent and sincere, like a perfect world we all would like to live in. It was like an old friend, who you haven't seen for a long time and then suddenly you meet. You go to an old-fashioned café with wooden walls, and talk and talk and talk like there's no time. You tell all your worries, happy moments, highs and lows and she listens. You pour yourself out and she always replies. Her responses fill your soul's wounds and fractures one by one, till you are ready to live on and step into another day.
The music left me after an hour of thoughtless drifting with a final, warm hug, and I set out on the streets of my beloved city, my feet not touching the ground.
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