The Hook
Sean Moore
Those noise-oholics. Those quiet-ophobics.
It's that part of the song.
Maybe it's a ho-hum melody. Your toes are tapping, in that kind of lethargic, reflexive way that they do. The beat's good, or good enough at least, in the kind of cookie cutter fast food assembly line prefab highly compressed noise arranged rhythmically that passes for music nowadays. In short you're into it, but you're not into it. This isn't the kind of song that makes you want to rub the fly of your pants into the back pocket of some girl at a club, spilling your drink over the entire left side of the dance floor in the process. Well, maybe you would, but you'd certainly be soft the whole time. That's probably her fault though. Not shaking it hard enough.
Where was I again?
Right. This isn't the song. Wasn't the song. Because now its that part of the song. In between the part of the song with the gummy, unintelligible lyrics and the part of the song that gets stuck underneath the layers of neurons and axons and dendrites and you'll need an auger and an aspirin or two to get out of your skull.
There's the hook.
The hook, where the music becomes original and personal for the tiniest moment, the only moment. Where the mood shifts, and things get real groovy, where you can't help but get carried away by the beat, where you feel it, really feel it, for the first time.
The part of the song that makes you want to jump in.
Jump in.
You know that look a dog gets on his face when he's on the edge of a pier? In that split second before he jumps with reckless abandon, instinctively making the Superman pose as the gravity pulls him closer and closer into the water. His eyes are wide, there's a fire burning hot in each pupil, tongue hanging out, a little mouth-cape flapping in the wind.
He knows it's his moment.
I'm surrounded by hounds, eyes fixed on that great body of water the one our conversation is drowning in. All poised, haunches cocked and ready to launch. Who's the lucky one that gets the next jump off. Who gets to make the next wave, ripples on the mirrored face. Who gets to make the bigger splash. Who gets to win. All of them, every one, waiting for the last few rings to flatten away to infinity in that reflecting pool - I wonder if they even see the water they're diving into, or just the glassy, shiny reflections of themselves.
I'm surrounded by hounds, and all of them, every one, are looking to be top dog. there's nothing to listen to but the panting, panting, panting as they wait to jump in.
A great conversation isn't much different than a great song. An ensemble of parts, coming together, all beating together, back and forth, ebb and flow, give and take, playing off one another.
This isn't the song. This is the wait your turn. This is the out-do your neighbor. This is the look what I can do. This is the look what I did. This is the I can do better. This is the did I tell you about the time. This is the never heard this one before. This is the one-upping. This is the arms race. This is the mutually assured destruction. This is the cold war.
This is cock measuring, and there are no ties.
This is the hook. In between the part of the conversation where one person ends one boastful non-sequitur and another one begins. The part where the ripples fade in that gleaming pool of water and the muscles tense and the spring tightens and in an instant it'll be off to the races because being first means it's you, interesting you, the everyone gets to bob their head to and tap their feet to and sing along to for the foreseeable future.
Make it count - every story needs to be better than the one before it. There's an irony if there ever was one, because it's only the ending that has any value. Surrounded by hounds, and all of them, every one, has their snouts in the air, and they're sniffing out, searching for a denouement. Getting ready for the next chance to jump in.
Jump in.
I'm surrounded by hounds, and they're looking at me like I'm the sheep. Looking at me like I'm dinner. Looking at me and don't know what to think because I'm still dry, still haven't made a wave, made a splash. Still haven't jumped in.
Jump in.
It's less of an invitation and more of a plea, now. More of a demand, even. More of a walk the plank situation, really.
None of it computes. Here I am, gagged and bound by my own choosing. Here they are, blindfolds on and earplugs in by their own actions.
Here I am, waiting for the right song, the right duet, the right instruments, the right band. Here they are, waiting for the right moment to jump in.
Jump in?
Thanks, but I think I'll take my chances on the shore.