Lights (red, blue) flicker-flashed over the fence, waving an aggressive hello to (a) the night sky and (b) the hundreds of students gathered within its perimeter.
It was the noise — some fuzzy, some funky, some fishy, all of it loud — that drew the lights to our compound, and it was the noise (the officer said, annoyed) that suspended our little soiree.
“So be it,” we told the officer (who seemed upset at our reluctance to be upset).
“Aren’t you upset?” he asked. “No,” we replied, suppressing grins.
“It’s no sin to whip up a wee bit of noise pollution,” we told ourselves. “It’s no sin. It’s revolution.”
We started — some time back — loud, fast and less-than-agreeable: noisy, hold the core.
We’d heard Will and Courtney — Molly, Paul and Lou — whose sounds would hold us Tiger Trapped (gutter-bound) eyes trained on starry moods.
We’re ideologues, we’re misfits, we — you, me, the bourgeoise — said without a shock. We’ve started something interesting, some analogue to rock.
So, uncoupled from sound logic, adherent to fuzz-box warfare, we — sons and daughters of Adam (Ramos) — pledged fealty to all the odds, ends, nooks and crannies Our Lady never cared to explore.
Outside stadium walls, underneath sticky floorboards, overhead by houses next door, we made efforts earning — one … two … er, a few — unwelcome knocks on the door
(“Oh, hi officer! Is something the matter?")
Too loud? Too fast? Are we? Are you? A bore!
“This is the Minneapolis Police,” a friend of his once said. “The party is over.”
“If you all just grab your stuff and leave, there won’t be any hassle.”
And we did. One after another, up and left, we followed, “Kid’s don’t follow!” blaring within our hearts, sighs and sirens occupying our ears.
No… not here … not now … maybe next time… maybe next year … but not here … not now, but…
We started something. Cracked it open.
What of the cops? The cops don’t care! We told ourselves, pretending.
We’ve started something and we can’t finish. The end, for us, is near.
We need more, we need it now. The kids want s--- to hear.
Caterwauls or whispers, songs of love or fear. Rhyme them if you want to, but it’s not strictly necessarily from a creative standpoint. You can really do whatever, but …
Do something.
Write a song or write a poem. Find something you'd like to say.
Start a band or go it solo. Find a friend who wants to play.
Host a show or throw a thing or go see one if you can.
Don’t sit around daydreaming, wanting us to understand.
You’re better off to share it. We’re down to lend a hand because…
…now we’ve found a rhythm, and…
We don’t want it to end.
Contact Mike Donovan at mdonov10@nd.edu
The views expressed in this Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
Tuning: a message from the Notre Dame music scene
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
