The rain is coming in sideways, like only Melbourne rain can, as I sprint to my tram stop on a freezing Thursday night. There's something special and beautiful about the violence of a Melbourne storm: it's truly unforgiving.
Forget your umbrella did you? Let me make sure you never, ever do that again.
When I finally reach sanctuary and huddle with a few other freezing people, sharing "what are we doing with our lives, standing in this weather?" looks and smelling like wet dog, I notice a man slowly walking through the shower towards us.
The way he was stumbling around and intently studying his surroundings suggested one of two things to me:
a) This man has just arrived after a time travel experience.
b) This man had been drinking pure alcohol for seventeen hours straight.
"Excuse me mate, can you tell me where I am and what time it is?" he asks me, while still staring at the tall buildings behind me.
It's finally happened Dom - you've run into a time traveller.
"You're in South Yarra, it's about 5pm on a Thursday and Tony Abbott is PM, but we're not too psyched about it."
I could see the Time Traveller taking the information in and figuring out his next move. There was something about his posture and mannerisms that told me he was out of his depth. He was from a different place, a different generation.
He paused for the longest moment, silently nodded and stumbled away. He then hunched over in the rain and took long breaths while staring at his feet - he almost looked like he was going to be sick.
His lungs needed to acclimatise to the oxygen changes in his new surroundings, obviously.
He walked over to the timetable chart, had a look and stumbled back.
"Look mate, I'm sorry but I'll be honest..."
"I'm not from around here and I'm not in a good way - can you tell me how to get to Pakenham?"
Pakenham may as well have been China - this guy had a long journey ahead. Maybe longer than the one he had just been on. I outlined what he had to do to get to Pakenham - it involved walking down to Flinders Street and taking the train.
"Jesus," he moaned. "Not a train... everyone with their canned music - kill me now."
Without another word, the man marched off again into the rain. He walked with a carelessness that you rarely see in these conditions - like he wanted to take in every droplet and feel what it was to be truly soaked.
What a mysterious figure. I should have asked him more questions, he could have taught me so much. I regretted letting him go.
'Canned music'. The term was of interest to me.
He was obviously referring to people on their smart phones, listening to their downloaded music. I had heard this phrase before and when I looked it up, I remembered where.
I had once read about a grumpy old composer named John Philip Sousa.
Around 100 years ago, Sousa was the most vocal critic of the first ever audio recordings.
Sousa thought there was something about music that could never be captured properly. He said that 'canned music' would be the death of live performance and refused to have anything he did ever recorded.
Maybe the time traveller was J-Phil himself. The pieces fit.
Of course, his protests against 'canned music' fell on deaf ears (well, actually, audible ears).
Recorded music is with us everywhere and forever. We are never far away from putting in headphones and escaping to another place - a better place.
As I was reading about my new friend, my tram arrived and the worries of my day all evaporated. On the tram was one of my favourite Melbourne bands - about to begin a Tram Session.
None of the other passengers knew what was coming, but as the band began their set, a hush descended on the packed tram as the band played.
With pelting rain hitting the windows and a city racing by in the background, the band rose above the distractions to capture everyone aboard for that moment.
As people removed their headphones and did their best to make eye contact with the musicians, I thought about Sousa again. He was half right. There's an element of music that can never be captured. Just like life cannot be captured.
That moment of creation can never be captured or reproduced.
Tram Sessions always manages to do something that perhaps needs to be done more and more today – remind everyone about the power of a live performance. Remind them that no matter where you are or who you're with, live music can find a way to move you. Remind them that nothing will ever rival simply being there and seeing it yourself.
J-Phil would have loved this.
As the packed tram applauded the end of the first song, I knew that 'canned music' would never kill off the magic of a live performance. No matter how good technology gets, nothing will replace moments like these.
On that tram, in the last place anyone would expect to be left awe-struck, everyone was given a fantastic reminder as to why it's important to experience live music.
We'll never be able to explain that experience properly – scratchy video recordings will never do it justice. I hope they never do.
It's better left as a mystery.Â
The magic of being there.
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
romaincrisis
janainaart
prguitarman
vaporwave
blakekathryn