"The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you." Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace
To the left of Nick Cave’s left foot, at the lip of the stage, looking up in reverent, fevered wonder, right cheekbone partially obscured by a power supply: it’s John Darnielle, 16 years old, loving his life for at least the next 35 minutes and probably until at least 2 a.m.
Imagine a scene. Something penetrated with light yet as if seen through a gossamer-covered lens. Psychologically things might get quite dark but there’s always the light. You’re in a country home at the very end of summer. Everyone in the house is costumed in white linens and sheer cottons—this may be a hundred years ago, this may be last August. The period details are vague and out of focus but the feeling is specific. It’s about 5pm and the sun is still warm but not blistering—it’s unlikely you will break a sweat. The wind gently whispers through the tall grass and you’re not quite sure where your shoes are but it’s no matter. You open the screen door and step out onto the porch, gazing at the large field that proceeds the house. And then slowly—melancholic but not mournful—you begin to walk.