Everything Changes

straight ahead, his countenance fiercely devoid of expression, and I don’t need the houselights to know that all the color has been drained from his face. Matt briefly backs away from the microphone to play out the measure, and then steps back up for the second verse.
    And what were we to do there, how did we survive
    Remembering the light that used to shine in Mother’s eyes
    All I could do is lay in bed and watch the peeling paint
    You’ll never know what hell is till you try to love a saint
    Then Sam and Otto start shouting, “Saint Mom,” in two-part harmony into their mikes while Matt sings the chorus over their voices.
    (Saint Mom)
    If you’re so good why does it hurt so much
    (Saint Mom)
    If you love me why can’t I feel your touch
    (Saint Mom)
    Dad’s love was a nuclear bomb
    That blew your insides all to hell
    Left nothing but the shell
    Of Saint Mom
    And now Matt’s guitar is thrashing and wailing, and Otto’s laying down the thunder with ferocious precision, and even though the song wasn’t on the set list, the lighting guy has improvised well, suffusing the stage in a hellish amber glow, and the music unfurls like a flag in increasing sonic waves, growing louder with each undulation and practically throbbing with intensity, and Norm sits paralyzed in his chair like the Memorex man, buffeted and paralyzed by the music washing over him, and even though the whole thing shakes me to the core, watching Matt launch his pain out from the stage and watching my father absorb it, I still manage to think that this is what music, at its purest, is supposed to do, and goddamn it, Matt’s good at it.
    There’s another verse to the song, but Matt doesn’t sing it. Instead, he takes a scorching guitar break, his body bending and contorting as he coaxes higher and higher notes out of the Gibson, and then, just as he hits the climax of the guitar solo, he stops playing, and lets the guitar hang loose against his hips as he cradles the mike with both hands. Sam keeps the bass line going while Otto softens the beat, and Matt sings the chorus again with his eyes closed, this time slowly, his voice dripping with venom. When he’s done, he steps back, out of the spotlight and into the shadows, leaving Sam and Otto to finish out the song with a slow fade. Then there’s a moment, a crystalline instant of perfect silence, when the music has stopped and the audience hasn’t reacted yet, and it feels like the entire club has been stunned into silence. And then, all at once, the applause comes, not mounting gradually, but already up there, a surging wave of clapping and cheering that reverberates through the room like a storm. And at the forefront of this wave of sound is Norm, who has gotten to his feet and is shouting and cheering as he claps demonstratively, almost comically, his arms sweeping widely as if he’s trying to signal Matt, which of course he is. I wonder if it’s actually possible that he’s missed the point of the song, that he’s obstinate enough to have willfully overlooked it, but then the sweeping stage lights flash into the audience and I can see that even as he hoots and claps, his face is unmistakably streaked with tears that continue to stream from his eyes even now. And when I see his tears, I can feel my own, hot against my flushed skin.
    The applause lasts for well over a minute, and then Matt launches into “Bring Your Sister,” a hard-rocking, up-tempo number about teenaged lovers that actually got some radio play on the college stations last year, and the audience jumps to their feet, clapping and dancing, pointed fingers and fists waving in the air, punctuating the music. Matt doesn’t allow his glance to wander to our side of the room, and after a moment, Norm nods to himself, wipes his face with his sleeve, and turns to leave.
    “I’ll see you, Zack,” he says, straining to be heard above the music.
    “You’re leaving now?” I say. As I look at him, I notice for the first time that his remaining strands of hair are grouped together in a symmetrical network of rows, like on a doll’s head, the unmistakable grid of a failed hair transplant. That Norm went to extreme measures to try to reverse his baldness is hardly surprising, but it’s the fact that I can look down at his scalp that throws me for a loop. I didn’t notice before that I am actually taller than him. I wonder how old I might have been when that happened.
    “I think I’ve seen what I came to see,” he