Rhian Sheehan’s Auckland concert on Friday for the launch of his new album A Quiet Divide, felt like a 120 minute soundbath.
We are sitting in the front row… so close we can hear the stage’s floorboards creaking with every shift of a body, and I can watch the faces of the musicians closest to me as they play.
I am subjected to a glorious assault by sound – filling, emptying me. I hold my breath and breathe through my senses – tasting, seeing, feeling the music like an extra heartbeat. Exhaling light, timpani, piano; the cello bow drawing through my cells like strings.
Rhian Sheehan’s music speaks to me in a world beyond words – a nonverbal language of melancholy, joy, desolation, playfulness, hope, loss, forgiveness, abandonment, fellowship.
I close my eyes and see mountains, forests, meadows, freedom, flight.
I want to tattoo the sound of the metal music box mechanism on my body, so you can hear it’s tune when you run your fingers over my skin.
Even when the show ends, the music doesn’t. It fills my chest like a billion gently fluttering birds, digs its way into my body through my pores, leaving me giddy and brimming with sound.