The last time I was in this venue seeing this band was also the first time I started imagining myself taking photos in spaces like these. That’s the night I met Dom and Ellie and asked about their cameras; I even spoke to veterans like John whom I’ve seen at nearly every gig I’ve been to since, arm raised, Canon blazing.
Michael and I reminisced about that last night; it hasn’t even been a whole year, but it feels a lot longer. In that time, I’ve enjoyed figuring out something like a style and bits and pieces of a technique with the limited gear I’ve allowed myself to procure.
Concerts are great for that: low lighting pushes you to better understand your exposure triangle; fast action hones your reflexes, especially with a manual focus lens; the frenetic energy of it all becomes almost meditative through the viewfinder, capturing your special moments of zen in the drama. And mosh pits keep you on your toes.
Watching three-quarters of the show from the back this time, I had a better sense of the whole that I tend to miss when I push to be as close to the stage as possible: this thing we take part in is a liturgy with every one of us there engaged in rituals of one kind or another.
The more concerts I go to with a camera in hand, the more I realize that I’m much more interested in people than I think or pretend I am; it’s like the camera awakens a recessive gene that draws me towards all the little dramaturgies milling around me, only 1% of which I actually point a camera at. But it’s something about that heightened optical awareness that somehow makes me more present in the moment, taking mental photographs in wistful silence.
My mind often drifts in concerts like these and finds itself on strange shores. Like Peter stepping out of his boat to walk on water like a madman and a fool, I think the camera both extends your reach towards the other and exaggerates the distance between the two. It reminds you that the gulf between you is completely imaginary and then convicts you for your little faith when you doubt.
I think I’ve grown in my photographic practice since October, but I’m yet to figure out how to step out of myself. I don’t think that has much to do with photography though.
I wonder how much of what we do so ritualistically at concerts or behind viewfinders or screens has to do with music or photography or even having a good time. Or maybe it’s just me who drifts along the waters of the overflowing compartments of my mind in moments like these.
Before church, and maybe even now, after church, it was in crowded spaces like these that I experienced something akin to transcendence. Isn’t that why we engaged in mass ritual to rhythm and harmony in the first place? This is an ancient technology; a code embedded deep within our human design.
Or maybe it’s not that deep. Maybe it’s our minds that need to be pummeled into submission by the sounds and the lights for that easy access to insight to come true. Isn’t that what transcendence means? To step out of this thing and float off?
Yeah, maybe it’s not that deep.
A band like this brings out more than your usual ritual behavior; there is a real liturgy of sorts, just as their personas and event marketing purport. Yes, some of the typical fare takes on added meaning in context: the holy relics from the merch table, the sacred objects thrown from the stage- I overheard one guy announce that the candle he’d caught the last time he was here has a special place on his altar; you could not tell if he was joking from his tone of voice.
But beyond the aura we give to any artist we’re devoted to, Batushka seems to offer fans a higher order of catharsis. I saw people with their eyes closed and their palms clasped in what could only look like prayer; others writhed and gesticulated in what felt like religious ecstasy – was it all an act? I’m not so sure. Not when their responses to liturgical actions throughout the set looked so personal and raw: like the middle finger held up towards the sprinkling of water – that counter-aspergillum had to come from somewhere or other.
The last time I was at their show, I bought a wristband with the band’s name on it, БАТЮШКА, and it was only as I put it on that the meaning of that word really hit me: “father.” There was something ominous about wearing that word around.
I’d be curious to know how much the patriarchal pastiche of this band allows fans to tap into ancestral parts of themselves they could not face otherwise.
You know how they tell you to use this time you still have to say everything you want to say while you still can? I draw a blank. Nothing. Like misplaced keys, there’s nothing there.
Well-meaning folks ask how I’m doing and encourage me to take the time to be present despite the distance, but my mind short circuits as their kind voices echo and drone. What am I supposed to say?
Everything I’ve ever said that meant anything at all, I had to write down. I had to be out of the room when those words were read too; and now I’m meant to be present?
In truth, being so far away is what’s been keeping me sane. But time is ticking, and I can’t hide outside the room for much longer and still face myself. Soon, so painfully soon, I will have to find those words to say.
It’s easier to use other people’s words. That’s why I love music so much; it’s much easier to let someone else do the feeling for you.
“Nobody in this house
Wants to own up to the truth.”
Our lives are meant to stretch out into some neatly arcing narrative, but they’re more often than not merely episodic – what do we say at the last season’s finale? How are we supposed to feel?
“I crawl in shotgun,
and reach into his mouth.”
I was always supposed to be good at using my words.
“There’s no good way to end this
Anyone can see –
There’s this great big you
And little old me.
And we hold on
For dear life, we hold on –
We hold on.”
The guy in this first slide asked me if I was sure that I wanted to be there with my camera – “there” being right on the edge of the mosh pit that was sure to come.
I was.
These photos won’t be winning any awards, but I really wanted to see what would happen when I got caught up in the melee.
“You will learn that this continuous progression seems to extend infinitely into time. But you will learn likewise that time also is an infinity.
And that is life. Life must be lived, not learned from. And that is why in full consciousness only there is freedom. And that is why you learn awareness. To live life, in full consciousness, in freedom. Unbound by possessiveness, the possessiveness of your mother, the possessiveness for your son.
Now I can say no more. … Now I, the father, say good-bye to his child.
We will meet again. But as brothers. As men together. As equal parts of one great life. No longer separated. But in that consciousness of our oneness which gives us our only freedom.”
(Frank Waters, ‘The Man Who Killed The Deer’)