Killing Me Loudly

Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly was a popular song when I was in 7th grade. I thought it was boring and melancholy. Ick. Nope. Didn't like it. When it came on I'd twist the dial of my Tootaloop radio hoping for Three Dog Night.

Years later I learned what the song was about, and I got it in no uncertain terms. It remains a favorite to this day.

Tt's about the singer's experience at a Don McClean concert. As she sat in the front row listening to him sing one of his ballads, she fell in love with him. That others didn't consider McClean a sex symbol, or that she didn't know him is completely irrelevant. What her heart knew was profound and absolute.

This part of the song gives me chills, especially her delivery: He sang as if he knew me, in all my dark despair. And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there.

Yes, I've been there and felt that.

But perhaps because I like roller coasters and spicy food and other exciting things, I don't get killed softly. I get killed fiercely and loudly and it's agonizing and I love it.

I experienced this at the Beat Farmers concerts I fervently attended in my thirties. When Country Dick was fully in the zone, totally living the moment, larger than life, I wanted him. I wanted him badly, as though he were a breath I'd die without taking. But I also wanted his zone. I wanted to be him, to connect immaculately with the music, the energy, the fury, the can't-go-any-farther-than-this. I'd get close- forbidingly close, going-toward-the-light close, a step away from where he lived, a chance away from being with him, and it was wretched and delicious.

I had a moment like that last night.

I know the singer personally. He's a sweet guy. But for one moment when the band had the whole audience in the zone in a hard-driving classic rock song, he was singing with such joy, such talent, and such power, I knew more about him than I ever expected to know and he killed me.

It felt great to be that alive.