What might have been lost

As soon as I saw the line winding down from the evening into the basement, I knew it would be a sweaty night. The air turned from pleasantly humid to what-hell-must-feel-like the instant I was shuffled into the bowels of the church along with the rest of the scruffy, artfully un-shaven, plaid shirted concert go-ers. Hydration became the fain focus of the crowd and we herded ourselves towards the corner where a man stood protectively over a large plastic tub of spring water. The audience seemed to gulp as one but it was of little use as the agua oozed back out through our pores, leaving us sticky, salty, and unsatisfied.
The first artist that took the stage did little to help the listeners, letting them fall into a sleepy lull through pretty, quiet, unimpressive songs. Their name was as forgetful as their tunes. Luckily the second act shook our bones a bit more. Bowerbirds, a three person, multitalented group of music makers pierced our ears and our eyes with bright colors, pretty singers, and a set of unclassifiable music with influences from folk, eastern europe, and a love for harmony. Each member sang and played, their song's progressions were marked by rotating positions, and the female singer unabashedly hiking up her dress to wrap her legs around the base drum. The lead singers sweat seemed appropriate for the situation. It was harder to tell who was hotter, those under the lights or those crowded below. I could feel beads of sweat running from my collar bone down between my breasts, only to catch itself on the leather belt around my waist. There's something somehow wonderful about air that feels the same temperature as inside your body. You somehow feel more connected to your environment and those around you. The stage was lit in red giving the room the impression of being inside a human body; generating heat and being heated with liquids flowing all around. Despite and because of the discomfort, it was perfect.
Bon Iver took his time to take the stage, coming off and on, tunning instruments, holding cables in his teeth, and then leaving us to wonder why we were still there. Some people collapsed in panting heaps on the floor, surrounded by a forest of shins and smelly feet.
But nobody left.
At long last, the object of our adoration and the reason we were quite possibly risking our young lives entered the stage, awkwardly shirtless, accompanied by an equally bare-chested band. The boys were clearly as hot as we were, and launched into the music with little introduction. And there has never been such music. Despite the heat, Bon Iver threw himself into the songs. His eyes sweated salty tears and his lips trembled into yells. If the point of listening to music is to realize the beauty of emotion, this show was successful. The band of "skins" played as one, every inperfection and misplayed note was part of a bigger, wiser plan. Bon Iver played the crowd's favorite, Skinny Love, early, as if to show them that his hit was nothing compared to his favorite, which was probably Wolves act I&II. For this song Bon Iver graciously instructed us to join the men on stage and lend our voices to the song. The audience obediantly complied, which allowed the band to reach it's climax for the evening. the air was filled with music, I have never been so completely surrounded by art before. The low notes rattled in my ribcage and trembled in my thighs. I couldn't tell whether I was singing or crying but I felt the song in a say I never would again. Eventually the band cleared the stage and left Bon Iver to what he does best; play his songs simply, stripping them down to their clean, white, beautiful bones. The show ended in a religious room, not because it went down in the basement of a church, but because of the love felt by every person in the room. A love for music, for emotion, and for an artist named Bon Iver.