“And indeed there would be time.” -Mumford & Sons
Monday was the summer solstice—the longest day of the year. When all of summer is right there opening up in front of you.
Time has been on my mind.
My boyfriend and I went to a Mumford & Sons concert last week and it was a great night. I took the day off from work, we went out to Queens early and had dinner at Shake Shack (my world will never again be the same).
Actually, when I think about it, the night was kind of perfect.
Critics have been pretty brutal to Mumford, claiming that their music is filled with too much earnestness, too much yearning. And I can appreciate that point. But even still, I say screw the critics—I love them, yearning and all–and I love their collaboration with Senegalese star Baaba Maal “There Will Be Time.” I heard it for the first time at the concert, and I’ve played it over and over again since then (an unfortunate habit that I have).
But I started noticing something–a sadness I felt every time I heard the song, which was understandably confusing given what a great night it was. (The question of why I’d continue to play a song that was making me sad is for another day. More issues than Newsweek—that’s me.) It took me all weekend and through Monday to figure it out. I was driving home from work listening to the song and as I approached my street, I found myself not yet ready to make the turn home, so I just kept driving.
Longest day of the year. Soft yellow light and warm air. An early summer evening that might have felt vast and limitless years ago, but didn’t on Monday. It felt small and already gone.
And then I remembered this feeling from the night of the concert—this almost not-even-there feeling, like water splashed on my face: I could feel it all slipping away even as it was happening. I was aware of how long I’d been looking forward to the concert and how short each song was and how soon the night would be over, and I wanted to be there—really be there and nowhere else. I wanted to crawl inside the music and never come out.
Or maybe this. Maybe it wasn’t an attempt at being present but a wish that it would last forever. Maybe I was just getting greedy. Maybe it all felt like it was slipping away because I was trying to hold onto something in flight, because I wanted more than my fair share of pleasure. Maybe I was just so scared of the night ending that that’s all it did from the start.
Or maybe the concert served as a marker for me–a measurement of time. It was at a Mumford concert in Coney Island almost exactly a year ago that I realized that for the first time in my life, I’d actually fallen for someone. He was meeting us there, and I kept turning back to look for him, and when I finally saw him pushing his way through the crowd to get to me–as soon as I saw him, I knew: I was totally screwed. “Oh for god’s sake,” I thought to myself. I’d worked so hard for so long not to let anyone in. “Well, I guess I’m in it now.” At the end of the night we immediately started talking about going to see them again when they came back to town.
And then, between the two concerts, we struggled. We have just been through a really rough time, and it nearly broke us, and the concert last weekend was one of the first fun things we’ve done since coming out of it. So I guess it makes sense that there’d be a residual sadness, even from a really great night. It was hard not to think about everything that had happened in the past year–everything we didn’t yet know as we made those plans–about the things that would happen that would mark us as different people. About the narrow margin by which we actually made it to the concert together. We made plans as if they were guarantees.
About halfway through the concert, Marcus Mumford jumped off the stage and started making his way through the fans (obviously looking for me). He walked through the crowd on the floor and went so far back into the stands that for a time he disappeared from view. And before we actually saw him again, a cloud of particularly fervent screams began approaching–he was coming back toward the stage. I still couldn’t see him so my boyfriend picked me up to get a better look–and, of course to get a picture. And I did. I got my picture.Oh I couldn’t actually see him–it was all a dark blur through the screen of my phone, so I just kept taking pictures in the general direction of the moving mass of particularly loud noise. I examined the pictures later and realized that in fact, there he’d been. But I was so busy trying to secure proof of the moment, that I had missed it. I didn’t want the experience as much as the memory of the thing–a copy of a copy rather than the original. And I felt that right away. It was a sadness that took 3 days for me to understand.
I’m not worried too much though–I’ve already decided to see them again next year. And what could possibly get in the way of those plans?
photo credit: Highlands’ Evenings via photopin (license)