Turn, Stall.

I want to remember the music of my day.

Just like how my father used to put on his golden favourites, on those three-hour road trips up to Tampin. The fields of palm oil trees would roll along to the sounds of the Carpenters and the Electric Light Orchestra.

I wonder what songs I’ll be playing to my children in the car.

A lot of thoughts run through my mind at gigs like these. I don’t really know how to dance, so I just stand in the safety of a shadowy corner, not quite knowing where to place my hands. Folded seems too offensive, by-the-side seems too stiff, so I settle on assuming the casual stance of loosely tapping the beat against my lap, in my oxy-moronic effort of ease, to slip into the groove.

I look in what can only be described as perhaps, a respectful awe at her. She exudes an energy I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s because she’s the alternative rock-chick. Or maybe it’s her Irish-Asian descent. There’s an irrefutable spunk about her. She’s tied her hair into 2 loose braids, leaving the remainder to fall about in wisps and tousles that whip about her as she drives hard along with the beat. She could very well be mistaken for a tom-boy, save a delicate dimple that pronounces itself with every mischievous grin. Her voice is rough, gritty and husky, and yet, as she effortlessly slides into head voice, maintains a distinct femininity about her.

I sing along with the melodies I recognise, no one will be able to hear me above the din anyway.

And still, as I watch her, straddling her impressive White Falcon, in her perfectly-fitted faded-blue jeans, I can’t help but envy. It’s a strange thing, this actor-fan, performer-audience divide. It’s very much an us-they, me-them experience. I cast my mind to the time I saw her on the Ellen Degeneres show or just last week when I had to Youtube her performance on a stage in France. Wow, all the people she must have met, all the places she must have been to. Every day is a change of scenery, another city to conquer, another thousand hearts to win.

I wonder what runs through his mind, as he dutifully makes his round around the stage front, documenting in his mind every switch and knob. Regret, perhaps. Or has it already simmered down into a bitter resignation at a past forgone, that can never be re-lived. And it can’t help but cross my mind – He could be so great.

This morning, I woke up with tunes in my head.