I've been writing a lot more nonfiction lately, so I am taking a nonfiction writing class this semester. This is one of the exercises for that class; the prompt was to write about an emotion, and not discuss that emotion anywhere else besides the title.

Elation

I can feel my legs shaking with each step I take. I worry about my choice of high-rise footwear, and worry more about tripping over the band’s feet, or mic stands, or cords on my way to the front of the stage. I take a deep breath, adjust my dress, and wipe a small bead of sweat from my forehead.

The lights are hot and bright. Besides these, all around me is a permeating black. I feel swallowed alive in the darkness, kept moving only by the yellow-white of the spotlight. I can barely make out round, pale shapes below, in front, and further away, above me – the audience awaits. There is an intense follow spot on me as I walk from the back of the stage to the front, finally taking my place standing next to the world-famous bass player. Rufus grins at me – that old jazz cat smile – and I can feel my insides unwinding. His small nod speaks volumes; you got this, girl. Just like we talked about, you and me, playin’ the blues. I nod back, smiling just a bit, excitement waging a coups d’état over my nervousness.

I wrestle the mic from its stand. The clip has an iron-clad grip, and I can tell the mic is hot – my struggle creates some white noise and finally, having the small amplifier free, I stand calmly. I look slowly to my right. The silence is saturated with possibilities.

Rufus plucks his first string, a low tremor emanating royally from the 6-foot-tall instrument. Then he plucks another, and another, and his solo unfolds gracefully, soulfully, until a small riff that I know means my entrance is soon.

A deep breath. I open my mouth and raise the mic to my lips.

There is a timbre to my voice that I’ve never heard before. My mind goes blissfully blank and all I can see are the lyrics shining across my memory: Loneliness did not exist in a world with you living in it. The meaning is suddenly so clear, and a vision of him – the one I’ve been dreaming about for months now – shimmers into view. As the melody winds up, melts down, twists around, I think of him, wish he was here to hear me pour my soul out of my windpipe for him. I wish everyone I know and love was here, because I know instinctively that this moment will be important to me forever.

For once, I am not critical of my performance. Going into the last chorus, I know that every note was in tune, every run balanced, every pause creating an anxiousness in the audience for the chord’s resolution. I know that I deserve to be here, on this stage at the Blue Note, singing Rufus Reid’s ballad the same way he performed with Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan.
And then, I feel it.

There is a moment on stage that any performer will understand, albeit struggle to explain. There is a microsecond after the last note quivers to a halt and resonates all around you, waving your eardrums, shaking your very molecules. Between that microsecond and the moment the first pair of hands slap together in applause, there is an invisible woosh that washes over you – starting at the tips of your hair, then rolling down through your neck, your chest, your abdomen, your thighs, and finally out the tips of your toes, making every bit of your body feel like you could be defying gravity if you cared to.

This moment is exactly where it is felt. It is the emotion that keeps each performer coming back for more. It is the reason one falls in love with the stage, being in front of many to be acknowledged and admired, even if only for a mere second. It is when your hours of struggling and sweating and practicing, however fruitlessly, are finally vindicated.

After the woosh finds me like it never has before, the audience begins to applaud. First a few, then many, and finally the whole room sounds like thunder, rising to their feet in exaltation. A standing ovation from a full house can still bring any seasoned performer to tears. I turn to Rufus and thank him. He reaches out and his wrinkled, brown hand takes mine. I can feel the callouses on his fingertips as he pulls my wrist towards his face and kisses my hand. The gesture and the moment are timeless; I am Billie, and Ella, and Sarah. I am Jackie and I created this beautiful fraction of time and shared it, if only so briefly, with those around me.

As I retreat back into the darkness of the wings of the stage, I know that there will never be another moment in my life quite like this one.

People later asked me, “What was it like, being up there on stage with Rufus Reid?” I wished I could explain the feel of the microphone slipping slightly in my sweaty palm, the heat of the lights, the roar of the applause, the dazzling connection I felt with that incredible musician. But you can’t explain that sort of thing aloud. I just smiled and told them it was great. How can one ever explain that a performance has no twin?