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Performance ©

David Clarkson
Glenrothes, Scotland
1997

Standing in the spotlight, in the smoky atmosphere,
sensing all the people pressing, heavy in their stare
feel the sweat now trickle down between your shoulder blades
Have to play to make it right, the terror comes in waves

Expectant, pregnant silence as you begin to play
your heart rate peaks as fingers dance and folk begin to sway
responding to your rhythm, that pulsing throbbing beat
then you see the faces pressing closer at your feet

The music now takes over and seems to play itself
your mind goes cold and words just flow as though from someone else
You feel excitement rising as the throng respond to you
your fingers fly, your voice soars out; adrenaline coming through!

Then when you reach the climax, that final ringing chord
and when your voice just gently breaks upon that final word
Already you are groping through the thunderous applause
to play more, keep them panting, make it just the briefest pause

And so you launch into the next; enjoyment? You are glowing
you love the crowd, you love the song, the stamping thunder growing
You feel a strange sensation, you're floating up on high
Their souls are right there with you and you know the reason why

So now comes the finale, the time to leave them gasping
you want to rip the roof off and already they are clapping
You give the people what they want; you give them of yourself
then as you take your final bow, your insides seem to melt

You need to come down slowly from that tumultuous high
that deepest satisfaction, that brings to you the lie
that anything is better, inside you know what's true
that somehow, in the playing you recapture all that's you


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