Defender

On seeing and hearing Flyte at Kings Place

In the lead up to Christmas, we are in the city to see the band.

This venue feels special. The interior of the hall is made from the wood of a single, 500-year-old Bavarian oak tree. They named her Contessa. We take our seats next to her and nod hello in the polite, keep-yourself-to-yourself sort of way.

The audience is full of couples. It makes a lot of sense - the sound of this band is love, I think. A thorough, persistent, practised love. I am here with my best friend.

The band walk out onto the stage. The musician on the left has his shirt tucked in; the one on the right wears his untucked.

After the second song my friend leans to my ear: ‘Really, we should be in a forest. They sort of look like woodsmen.’ I make a mental note to tell her about Contessa later, on our way home.

I have been eagerly awaiting this show. It is not formatted like the sort we usually go to. We are all seated, the band is accompanied by a string trio, and there is the possibility of a Christmas song in the air. Until invited to, the audience does not sing along. Every lyric, every note is given to the room with such precision. Here in the heartwood, the acoustics are phenomenal.

I am reminded of an anecdote I read recently - a writer recalling his experience at a concert. The whole time he kept his eyes closed and, in a lucid trance, saw before him another’s entire life unfold. I close my eyes briefly and then, as the audience applauds, open them again.

This band has soundtracked much of the last few years of my own life. I return to their music in times of loss and of calm. A couple of songs seem to stick each time, shrouded in new meanings, revealing the centre of a particular struggle and unravelling confusion. I anticipated, hopefully, that this evening would do the same.

Soon enough, the band play one song that tugs somewhere underneath - underneath the first few weeks of the month, underneath the long year behind us, underneath the city outside the hall doors, agitated as ever.

I haven’t listened to this song in a while, and hearing it now is like brushing up against the weave of an old sweater while rummaging through the wardrobe for something else.

I remember one specific, rough evening this track struck a chord, and how every time I have listened since I have felt dislodged. Now, sat halfway back in the audience, I feel displaced once again, opened up. There are old worries in the room with us.

A lot of people do not sit well with music that makes them feel this way, and I do not blame them. Tonight’s show, strings and all, teases a particular vulnerability from the audience. This teasing is not always fully agreed to.

This particular song, like most from the band, can be interpreted in all sorts of directions. Often, I point towards loving after a testing forgiveness - a forgiveness that loops around memories of unintended hurt, a sort of defending. For some, we can’t help but set out on the treacherous path of being a defender, even when we don’t really know how to take the first step, let alone the rest. Sometimes we play caretaker; sometimes we need taking care of. It is an exhausting exchange, but one that, with the right people, we always try anyway.

There is a palpable energy in the hall, so different to the usual sort. Everyone has sunk into the evening. Some hum along, others mouth the words.

As we file out, into the street, my friend and I agree: this evening, even the happy songs felt sad - perhaps it was the mellow timbre, perhaps the spliced-up oak tree. We decide this is not a bad thing. It is not often a whole room listens so carefully. It is not often we feel this much by choice.

London, December 15th