Last night I went to the My Bloody Valentine show and this was my evening.

I arrive about 7:00, Michael is running late. As I’m driving to the show, a few blocks from Palace Theater, Jan Witte crosses the street in front of me. I roll my window down and yell “Hey Jan!” and he stops, looks confused for a second, recognizes me, and says “You going to the Palace?” and I laugh and say “Yeah, I’ll see you there!” and he keeps running.

I don’t actually see him there at any point in the evening but I assume he enjoyed the show.

I wait around outside for a bit, people are mingling, very trendy crowd. There is a guy in a Sub Pop shirt. Another guy wearing a RIDE shirt. A lot of thick plastic glasses and beards. I don’t really see anybody I know except there is this midget woman who looks very much as if she is a meth head running around asking people for “two dollars” and they keep turning her down. I recognize her, she was doing the same in the Burger King parking lot while I was eating breakfast one day and she knocked at my car door window and I gave her some money. I don’t have any money to give her this time but it doesn’t stop her from asking me about six times.

I have to pee so I go into the Palace and use the restroom and then get stamped for readmission and go back outside to wait. I’m too excited to play on my phone or really do much of anything except stand there fiddling with the hearing protection I brought. Over lunch I made a stop to buy some good earplugs for concert listening because I didn’t want to lose my hearing or wear the foam ones. I text Michael, Jill has finally showed up to pick up the boys, his Uber driver is stuck in traffic thanks to the construction on 35W, I tell him I’ll wait inside for him. I don’t want to be too far back. He says that’s great but then asks me if I have a copy of his ticket in electronic form. I presume I do because it was an eTix purchase and I tell him I’ll send it to him.

I go into the theater and head to front left of stage where I immediately see Eric Elvendahl sitting down and we start kibitzing. He tells me about his new job replacing meters that he and Reed helped install 12 years ago. I tell him he is looking great, and he really is. He has lost weight, and he looks healthy and happy. I think that’s pretty awesome. I struggle to find my tickets in my email archive. Eric helps me recall them through the eTix website and pretty soon I have Michael’s ticket on my phone screen. I take a screenshot and send it to him.

Eric gets up to use a bathroom or something, I go to get a drink or something, and when I get back to the spot I’ve lost him. The opener comes on and they seem damn familiar but I don’t know why. Part of me thinks they must be MBV because they seem familiar and I have no idea what MBV looks like these days. I don’t recognize any of the songs, so I am unsure. I text Michael that there is no opener and MBV is on. By the third song I realize I’m wrong and I’m texting him a correction when he appears to my right so instead I just tell him I’m an idiot.

Michael has forgotten his ID and has black X’s of shame on both of his hands so I go get him a beer and get myself a G&T. Michael is afraid to drink while the house lights are up. He’s been waiting 25 years to see MBV, he isn’t about to miss his chance now over a beer. This is all fine and dandy with me. We make small talk about things I can’t even remember, and mostly we just watch them setup the stage for the big show. Michael tells me they have been having problems with false starts on this tour, and sure enough, when MBV take the stage they fumble the opening of the first song and have to start again. It’s the only fumble of the night and for the next seemingly several hours, I am lost in a wave of sound that physically causes my bones to tremble. There is very little in the way of stage banter or talk. There are no intelligible words sung. Just a fury, an ocean, a relentless dream of sound. Bilinda Butcher stands on the left of the stage, playing a succession of glittery Fender Mustang guitars and looking to all the world like a prim and proper librarian who just happens to be in the loudest, most revered, shoegaze rock band in the world. She has no stage mannerisms other than to stand still and play and sing with a little grin on her face like she cannot believe she’s still doing this at 56 either. Debbie Googe on the bass is much more dynamic. She spends the set living in the music, bobbing up and down and rocking her bass while keeping her back mostly to the audience and playing to the drummer, Colm Ó Cíosóig, center. At stage right, the legendary Kevin Shields makes things happen with his guitar that I cannot follow. I don’t understand how these four individuals are creating the sound that is assaulting my body with the tools at their disposal. It seems impossible but it is also so real, so visceral, that there is no questioning it for long.

During what turns out to be the final song of the night, the entire concept of melody or music disappears and they explode into a wall of solid, impenetrable, noise, the worlds biggest waterfall pounding in your ears during the demolition of the worlds biggest city, if I had fillings, they would be vibrating out of my teeth, it is the last musical, most discordant, loudest, sound I’ve ever experienced. 100 jumbo jets blasting their engines into your face at once. I stand in the sound, I resonate, people around me hold their arms up in spiritual ecstasy, I lose track of time, does it last 1 minute? 2? 5? 8? I really don’t know. It lasts longer than it has any right to do but I want it to last forever. I feel my feet leaving the ground, I feel my ribcage juddering, shaking cobwebs and darkness from out of my heart, who knew that noise could have this spiritual effect? Who knew that an assault of sound was just what was needed?

When the song ends, I slowly feel the earth beneath my feet again. The band leaves the stage. There is no banter, no encore, no toying with the crowd. They’ve come, they’ve played, they’re leaving now. The house lights rise. Nobody questions it, nobody complains, the crowd starts to file out.

I tell Michael my brother is probably here. During the show I have sent him some messages via Instagram, the only way I know how. I go to the restroom. I see Eric Skogen while I wait in line. At least I hope it’s him because I say hello. He is beardier than I remember him. It turns out that I am correct as I learn in a couple minutes. Eventually I am on the sidewalk in front of the theater with Chad Rhigher, Eric Elvendahl, Eric Skogen, Mindy Rhigher, Cam Kloekman(?), Michael, and a few others. Rhiger tells me that Reed is behind me. Michael says we should go say Hi. I don’t really want to at first but when he threatens to go over there without me I decide, what the hell. I walk up from behind him and give him a big hug and say into his ear “You may not like this, but I love you brother”

He turns and grins and there he is, my little brother, now 41 years old, Balder, but not as bald as me, greyer, but not as grey. We talk, I feel no tension. We haven’t spoken in at least years and the last time we spoke was bad. But this night we are brothers again for a few moments. We discuss Triumph cars and outboard boat motors. He offers me some spare parts. The feeling of total normalcy is the weirdest aspect of the situation.

Eventually we all go our own ways. I drop Michael off and drive through Taco Bell on the way home. When I arrive, the house is quiet, everyone is asleep. I tuck myself in and drift off to peaceful dreams. In the morning, I wake when the sun rises, I put on a pot of coffee. I get ready for work, I take the bus into Minneapolis, I write this journal entry and listen to MBV and smile.