Desperation

Maybe I’m 3 years too slow, but I’m discovering the sounds of Desperation Band. It’s funny how I find myself returning to this, after all these years. It reminds me of the time I was first introduced to Hillsong; when I could let the music and the words fill my mind and touch my soul.

Lately, I’ve been questioning the purpose of the platform. For a long time, I think to me, that’s as far as its meaning carried – just that, a platform. Crudely put, my once-a-week opportunity to pick up a microphone and sing into it. But I think there comes a point where even the ego tires of the ceaseless garnering of accolade and attention, and begins to recognise the hollowness of its own nature.

Suddenly, self-gratification no longer suffices. Actually, it can never.

The worship ministry has always been the most dangerous – the flashing lights, the elevated stage, the hypnotic sway of the crowd. It precariously toes the line between many a divide – technical perfection and purity of heart; pride and service; flesh and spirit. Music is a powerful and treacherous tool. With skilful hands and a keen ear, you could weave quite the intricate tale. With careful manipulation of dynamics, as the sound rises and falls according to a premeditated plan of action, you could create quite an atmosphere.

The high can really get to your head.

And no one would be able to tell the difference – behind closed eyes, a look of rapturous reverence on your face, uplifted hands and a perfect note.

And so, sometimes, I truly wonder whether we are serving anybody, or are we just a merry band enjoying the sound of our own voices echoing in our ears or resounding in a hall.

I you-tubed Endlessly, my favourite song from Desperation, and one user’s comments particularly jumped out at me.

‘This stuff, has the power to heal’, he said.

I wish our worship could have that effect on people.

And so, week after week, I find myself a keen student of this art that I know is going to take my whole lifetime to acquire, to live, to be… I find myself encouraged. I think I needed to remember again what it felt like to have my heart stirred, to be inspired. And now that I am beginning to catch a glimpse of what it means to engage with the purpose behind every note I sing, may I never lose sight of it. Just as I was found again – may the harmonies we sing, the melodies we play, the compositions we write – draw us closer to Him.

Yes, maybe music can make a difference.

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.

It’s Pouring

I sometimes like to go back and re-play the videos of our performances at Crema. Perhaps it’s the effect of familiarity, but it seems to sound a bit better every time.

I love all the times we made music together – The private side-glances that dart back and forth during the short intervals in between verses; the small laugh we share or the embarrassed smile on your face should you strum the wrong chord, or when N notoriously screws up the set, but is forgiven by everyone, dismissed as entertainment value, just because he’s too darn charismatic to hate.

I attach a lot of fond memories to Put Your Records On. It has become a signature song, and I am proud of it. I love the crisp, smooth, acoustic sound of the Taylor accompanying the contagious bounce in the melody. I laugh when N voices over in his lazy American accent ‘Just relax’ instead of singing it, and I shoot him a death-glare. It brings me back to cold winter nights when it was just the 3 of us curled up in a burrow of beanbags and quilts, the supper smell of chilli con carne, baked beans and cheese hanging thick in the air, watching Naruto until the wee hours of the morning. I love hearing N spontaneously burst into the high-spirited laughter of a little boy, D buzzing happily along to the opening theme song. Suddenly they’re children again, and nothing else matters.

And every time I feel like giving up, it takes a listen of Umbrella to stop me for a moment in my tracks. It’s the cool twang of the electric guitar coupled with the easy groove of the lyric that makes you just want to latch onto and hold on till the end. I like the sound of your voice layered over mine, how it fills up the empty pockets and bridges the gaps before fading into the distance.

And I wish you meant the words you sang, as much as I did.

I wish you believed in me more, that you would invest more into my dreams, help me to fly. That’s what people do when they love each other, don’t they?

I sit here, contemplating these things, watching a droplet slinking its watery trail down slippery glass.

Oh Baby, it’s pouring rain.