Twenty-six years ago this was all very different.

The only thing that’s the same is the instrument (in fact, it’s exactly the same, in one case). ILB is very different, however. At the age of 20 he was in a completely unfamiliar headspace. He was able to stand throughout an entire rehearsal. He had a section leader who hated him, a musical director who thought it was okay to bully, and a crush on the short, cute bespectacled brunette who played front row cornet.

I kept going back for the music. That was the only reason I went, essentially. I’d always wanted to be in a band. School jazz band was a faded memory and the rock band I’d started – despite having six members at one point – was mostly a dream. This was my opportunity to play music. I may have cried about what was said to me, and even ended up self-harming with the sharp end of a triangle beater at one point… but at least I felt like a musician.

It left an indelible mark on me, so much that when – years later – I wrote flash fiction set in the rehearsal room, I could perfectly visualise every detail.

*

One year later and the band I was in was a completely different situation. A fractured ensemble with an aging MD and uncertain player numbers. I came back laughing from my first rehearsal; by my third I had invented a girlfriend there on account of the lack of short brunettes in glasses. The one concert we played revealed that we actually had three times the people who usually turned up. My parents came to see it and everyone had a great time.

The next band had a guest appearance by my clinical psychologist, who was in the audience. I think we was surprised to see me alive. To be honest, I was pretty impressed with myself too.

I ate lots of millionaire shortbread at the concert where I depped for the wind orchestra my mum was in. I don’t quite remember much else about it. I’d never had millionaire shortbread before. What a day.

*

But, as I said, things change.

I no longer feel the raw sexual energy that tore through me while shredding guitar chords or squawking backing vocals as I gave myself to rock. Nor do I fix on the hottest person in the audience to try to impress from my position right at the back. Or time the notes I’m playing with the throb, throb, throb of my cock as the power of the music brings me to attention.

I’ve even married a bespectacled short brunette of my very own.

Yesterday I played with a large ensemble for the first time in decades. Same sort of thing; same sort of audience; same instrument. But I’m no longer being yelled at. Or belittled, or mollycoddled. For the first time ever I get a round of applause of my own because I’m the newest member and I played a solo. The guy who’s depping on the instrument next to me clearly sees me as an equal. That’s never happened before.

I’m not horny, or blinded, or powerful. I’m chill, unconcerned and bathing in the music. I play my part, I contribute and I enjoy the applause.

This time, it’s all right. This time I can just be without wanting to prove myself, get a bit of grace, or fuck any of them.

Just like at 47’s wedding everything ends with Bohemian Rhapsody, because of course it does. That is, apparently, what music sounds like.