Let's coexist at a Cloud Control concert. The venue (the subterranean, vaguely nautical Barboza), is crowded. There's a lot of head bobbing. Some lateral movement, but largely the conditions are not right for it.
You're flailing your arms around in my face.
You've been doing it since the beginning. During the opener--an unambitious trio, perfectly coiffed, overly supported by a MacBook Pro, with nevertheless incredible singing voices (and a pretty amazing cover of Hounds of Love, I grudgingly admit)--I saw you up front dancing like a maniac, elbows everywhere. He's going to get into a fight, or kicked out or something, I remember thinking, maybe even hoping.
Now you're flailing your arms around in my face. I deserve this, maybe.
Is this a power play? Do you want my spot? Your elbows are kinda intermittently colliding with me, but I'm going to hold my ground.
Who are all these languid concert goers but a bunch of buzzkills, I guess you're thinking? You're flailing your arms wildly, and yet somehow are managing to not strike me in the face. Your friend, or maybe your brother--there's a lot of similarity there--is dancing like an arthritic chicken pecking at feed, but to a song 30% faster than the one currently being played. He's cleared himself an impressive little dance floor in the dense crowd. Those drunk thirty-something women celebrating a birthday don't seem to mind your antics, probably because you were all cheers and high-fives when they spontaneously screamed out an announcement of the birthday of one of their crew.
People yield to you. Eventually you make your way closer to the stage, somehow carving a path through the thick crowd. I feel a palpable sense of relief. The women are unfazed either way.
But it's a weird sense of relief and maybe I'm wrong to feel it. The band is killing it and no one's gotten hurt. You, the screaming drunk women, me, we're all apprehending this ridiculous thing in different ways, acting in totally different ways, and somehow we're all coexisting. So who am I to judge?