When Samuel Cooper started playing, people got significantly less shitty.
The night up to this point had been marked by half-minded attention being paid by half-interested people who were less than half interesting.
It’s a common occurrence: people get bored and start checking their phones. They sip drinks and stare out at the crowd pretending to look for something. They put on faces of grimace and concern, as though they’re trying to convince everyone around them that they have something more important to do.
It’s really shitty. You know, someone is on stage trying to say something. They are putting effort into what they’re doing. They are trying to entertain. And what does everyone do? They check their phones and sip their drinks and pretend to look for something they’ve lost.
It’s something we all do. And it’s not something particularly abhorrent, but it is pervasive and we all see it.
So take note of the fact that when Samuel Cooper started playing, people stopped that shitty stuff and became significantly more cool.
It’s just evening. Just barely. The last rays of twilight still shoot out from the low west, but light or no light, everyone’s minds have turned to the night.
It’s that first crack from a beer can. Not in front of you––no, further off. Behind a wall or perhaps inside. You can hear it because the door is open. It’s comfortably warm tonight, so people leave doors open. Like the starting pistol at a race, that crack from a new can. It has begun, this night, and beer christens the voyage.
It’s that leg stretching out from the opened car door. The car you’ve never seen before that just pulled into the gravel lot. And from the first sounds of its engine coming through the woods, you were hoping––you were praying––that it had women in it. And it does. Oh, it does. And now with your night and your crisp beer, you know that you can throw away the day and let tomorrow’s worries melt like so many ice cream cones in a heat wave. Indulgence is the chief presiding over this little pow-wow.
It’s heavy. Very heavy. The drums are solid and deep and girls can’t help but move the parts of their bodies below their necks. It’s like they’re possessed. They aren’t trying to do it. They don’t even want to do it. Bust they must. The music commands it. Several girls try to fight the urge. They put on their faces of disillusionment. They hold their phones and text. They clutch their drinks, holding them steady at their chests. But it is all in vain. Their bodies commanded movement. And once the movement starts––so much flipping and popping––texting became impossible, and drinks have to be set down.
It was wild.
Dudes couldn’t help but notice the writhing girls in front of them. Their beady little eyes stopped scanning the room and settled comfortably on the silhouettes of long hair and tight jeans. Some were stunned and could do nothing but stare. Others, though, entranced by the movement of the women, joined in. Hard to believe, but people actually started grinding.
And this is definitely––positively––because Samuel Cooper started playing.
Photos and Story by Max Schneller