rage: an offering to the goddesses
"OH. MY. GOD!"
We screamed this a hundred times. Two hundred times. A thousand times. Pure banshee force catapulting from the deepest parts of our lungs. Our diaphragms. Our aging follicles and newly-forming sunspots. Four decades of feminine rage forged by fad diets and eyeliner, baptized in the hot water we drank from the hose, released in the shroud of ragged flannel. An offering burned in a pyre of latchkey afternoons and hours lost in the cassette tape foldouts of lyrics we yearned to memorize. All for the pair of goddesses on the stage below.
Our offering was seasoned by countless other words, profanities and disbelief ruling our vocabulary. We didn't know where to put our beseeching hands other than in dancing fists toward the glittering sky or grabbing each other's shoulders to shake us awake from this dream. Because...this had to be a dream. A sea of momentary cynics despite the verifiable proof before us: the sound of that haunting piano intro and the view of hair that still floats with every effortless whip of her neck. How dare we deny the gift that was being presented to the chosen ones?
The Universe gave us their talent at two distinct points on the timeline. The first when we were peeling the shrink wrap off our very first CD in 1995. The second, a decade later when we were trying to Shazam her power note while watching Grey's Anatomy. They existed as separate voices in our first cars, our iPods, our Bluetooth earbuds. They ran as parallels to each other as they collaborated with the greats and blessed the world with all the permutations of their talents. On and off tours, never crossing over or collaborating with the other. None of us knowing how we craved the sacrament only they could supply to our yearning souls, our inner teenage selves full of angst.
A year ago, with no warning or pretense, our feeds were suddenly bursting with a flood of videos where the latter artist covered the former. Dozens of recordings from various perspectives of reaffirmed devotees. Each video pinned us to our seats, our beds, our floors. It didn't matter if it was the first or the 31st viewing: our jaws kamikazed to our V-creased bosoms, our pupils dilated to dinner plates to take in every mesmerizing second. My fingers shared one of the recordings with a friend and wondered, "Are you as big a fan of this as me?" When she said she was, we made the plan to journey to our concert Mecca.
On that fateful September Saturday night, we readied ourselves for the occasion. Vintage boots and bohemian jewelry. We drank The Mother's wine against the sunset and marveled at the landscape. Our voices belted out every word we knew. Our bodies danced under the constellations. Our eyes cried at every word spoken that moved our spirit.
And then the Universe delivered to all of the devoted a kindness, a gift we had spent the last year silently asking for and never imagining we could receive. The haunting piano intro. A bodiless voice anointing us with, Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me. The woman on stage looking over her shoulder for the other. The audience anticipating having their own personal recording of this cover.
It hit every believer at different moments as the song progressed. This wasn't her voice. It was the other's. Then the other ran out in her sneakers and tie-back apron. Both of them were suddenly sharing the same stage between the Red Rocks. None of us were prepared, yet every one of us were in need of this very moment. A moment brimming with so much talent, we choked on the overflow and banged our heads in gratitude. The Earth stopped moving so the sky could get a lingering view. The wind caressed our faces as we wept. The rocks shook and bent toward the sound of grit and strings and revelry.
As a stranger on the internet said: "We are women of a certain RAGE." Considering the events our Elder Milennial and Gen X selves have lived through since we set foot on this spinning rock, it's a statement that feels most accurate in describing us. Using their voices and a wailing guitar, Mama Brandi and Father Alanis opened up a portal into another world that night for us to scream into. And scream, we did.
We raged.
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