Ears Still Ringing

Thomas hadn’t eaten his muesli that morning—the only possible explanation for weather that hostile. Wind that restyled your hair without asking, rain arriving just ahead of the opening act. I got to White Trash already looking like I’d been through something and ordered a Beck’s before I’d even found a spot to stand.

Everyone had cancelled. Tired, couldn’t be bothered—the usual. So I’d come alone, which is sometimes the right way to see a band you actually care about. The bottle-return ritual repeated itself a few times—deposit the empty, collect the Pfand, buy another—until Blood Red Shoes finally took the stage.

I’d found a position near the front, which I shared with a girl who looked uncannily like Ron Weasley from Harry Potter and who was absolutely committed to jumping exactly on the beat. We became concert partners in the way you do when you’re both clearly there for the music: no introduction, instant solidarity. Laura-Mary Carter’s sweaty chest was more or less in my face for most of the set, which I had no complaints about whatsoever—except that the crowd behind me had decided my knees were the structural barrier between them and the stage. Every surge forward for a better camera angle translated directly into joint damage. I was the only thing standing between the band and the mob, and the mob cared nothing for my ligaments.

They were brilliant. Two people making a sound you’d expect to need four, and the room was exactly the right size to feel it in your chest.

Leaving, I was limping. My ears carried a high clean tone I couldn’t locate or stop—the kind of tinnitus that sounds permanent for the first hour and then fades just enough to make you overconfident. I was already thinking about heading to Knaack later that night. That’s what earplugs are for, I told myself. Not a great reason, but a reason.