Worship and Tribute

It had been a particularly long day. I woke up at six in the morning to get to work two hours early for training. It probably didn’t help that I had been going to bed late all week and the night previous was no exception. The good thing about getting to work early was being able to leave early, which gave me time to get ready. I stretched, grabbed some snacks since I knew I wasn’t going to have time to eat dinner, and freshen up before I began my trek to LA.

I walked to the bus stop, which was a six minute stroll from my house, that took me to the train station. From the train station, I took the Metrolink to LA Union Station and from LA Union Station I took it to the Metro and from the Metro I walked three blocks to the venue. I packed a protein bar that looked half way near edible but it tasted like dry card board covered in chocolate. There was a peculiar aftertaste that made me question what it was I exactly put in my mouth, something that hasn’t happened since 2017 when I had Malort in Chicago for the first time.

I’m not quite sure what made yesterday different than any other day but I noticed more creepy men in their cars than usual, ogling me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. It was like I was 20 years old all over again, eager to find the nearest indoor area that was man free. I had a hard time finding something to wear and wasn’t overly thrilled by my appearance heading to the heart of trendy LA—a simple grey t-shirt with a green cardigan. My back hasn’t been in the best shape lately, something I have been desperate to fix and unfortunately I was in a bit of pain so I was figuring out ways to ease it by stretching and adjusting my posture, which was more than likely seen in a sexualized manner rather than “I’m having a hard time standing right now and I will have to figure out a way to stand for three hours straight without my legs giving out”.

It was the side glances as cars turned and noticed me on city streets, the hat tip from the man in the moving truck that I purposely ignored as I was eating the chocolate covered cardboard protein bar, the man parking the car in front of the venue who paid more attention to me than parking the car (I later discovered this was an indie film director who attended the show).

I ended up at the venue, standing behind two Millennial men having an insufferable conversation about Conservative Mormon co-workers and for the first time I truly I understood why Gen Z finds our generation to be absolutely lame. As I was standing in line, a friend of mine passed by. I’ve known him for a few years and while I have only hung out with him a couple of times prior to the gig, he was the perfect person to see the concert with and for a few hours reminded me there are some good, decent men in the world. He is a gentle soul who feels a lot and has a fiery hate towards police and politicians that inflict unnecessary pain and violence to those who are oppressed. Since he lives in LA, it’s the homeless. We spent the time in line talking about Lingua Ignota, the elections that happened a few days prior, and his upcoming nuptials with his fiancee, who sat out going to the concert with him because Lingua Ignota’s music was just too intense for her liking, but told him to have a good time. He made me feel comfortable and at ease with what I knew was going to be a heavy evening.

As we entered the venue, I noticed the floor was at a slant. One of the weird things about Southern California architecture is how buildings are built on hills, cliffs, and other awkward placements, which feels like it’s testing fate considering we are prone to earthquakes. I could feel pain radiate from my back to my thighs to my calves and straight to the soles of my feet standing on even grounding. This was going to be a long evening. Maybe I should go to a doctor to check it out, but I get the feeling the only solution I’d be offered is to lose weight, and quite frankly I have better ways of spending $20 than having a medical professional berate me for my size and dismiss my pain so I’ll pocket the $20 and continue to stretch and take an Alleve.

The first act of the evening was Ioanna Gika, a waify woman who has the voice of a siren with long, blonde tresses, donning a white toga with a black, long sleeve shirt underneath. Her movements on stage coupled with her beautiful voice made me realize the celebration of femininity in a sea of metal heads. No one would expect to see tall, beefy, intimidating long haired men in Black Metal t-shirts literally bow to a feminine figure like Ioanna, but what a lot of people don’t realize about metal fans is most of them are big softies who feel intensely, which is why they find themselves attracted to heavy, foreboding music.

After Ioanna’s set finished, the crowd shifted, moving closer to the stage. I felt like an impatient child on Christmas day, waiting for my parents to wake up so we could open presents. The crowd was able to capture a quick glimpse of Lingua Ignota as she came on stage to personally adjust the lighting to her liking, which felt like something I would do. I’ve read numerous interviews where she stated she is a perfectionist and control freak when it comes to her art, which is just relatable to me as someone who feels like the world will collapse if I let someone else take control. One of the conversations I had with my friend is how Lingua Ignota goes about making music—it’s more of an academic ritual for her versus emotional. Not to say her music is hardly emotional, because it very much is, but she does an immense amount of reading on niche topics to help shape the themes of her albums. In a Quentin Tarantino-esque fashion, she uses genre to mask the true emotions of the art being created. In a way, the research she does is just another way she processes what’s happening in her world, an escape from the horrors of reality.

But the time came. The projector started and pastoral scenes of the Pennsylvania countryside with an overlay of Jimmy Swaggert sermons played on loop in the background, She sauntered on stage, turning each light on, one by one, like a pastor getting ready for the Sunday sermon. The lights faced us, the crowd, in an opposing fashion I was not accustomed to. She could see us, putting the crowd in the vulnerable position of being gawked at by her. It’s easy to be lost in an array of random strangers at a concert because the lights are always focused on the person on stage, but Lingua Ignota doesn’t want that. She disorients you by taking that sense of security away. She will recognize you from her throne and shine the light on you as she sings at great length about her pain. She wants you to let the wound open so she can enter you mind, body, and soul. It provides her with a safety net to let out such raw emotion, shining a light on all of us who are merely spectators of this exorcism we are about to witness.

You could hear the sounds of cicadas buzzing and nothing more. Everyone fell silent as she perched the stage, standing still in a green chiffon dress. All of a sudden, the pain in my back, my thighs, my legs, my feet, subsided. I felt safe, calm, and at ease. Everything was going to be okay. I trusted that whatever journey she would bring us on, she would make sure it was one that would make us better by the end of it. With bated breath, we all stood still, eyes solely focused on her. Waiting. Breathing. Silent.

Sinner, you better get ready…

A wave of emotion overcame me as I heard her sing. Every song she sang took on a whole new meaning in a live setting, especially taking into account the story behind the making of this album which was her surviving an abusive relationship that took a toll on her mentally and physically. New meaning was attached to the lyric:

In unforgiving night God came
Plainly spoke my given name
Upon your pale, pale body I will put many hands
(Sinner, you better get ready)
And rough, rough fingers for every hole you have
(Sinner, you better get ready, hallelujah)
The Lord spat and held me by my neck
"I would die for you, I would die for you" he wept
The Lord held me by my neck
"I wish things could be different" he wept

A song I’ve listened to hundreds of times all of a sudden clicked with me seeing her on stage, performing the track. It’s easy to get lost in the religious imagery, but she’s singing about her ex raping her yet emotionally manipulating her as he’s violating her. Maybe it was obvious or I was just oblivious but it was the first time the track, “MANY HANDS”, made me feel so viscerally I wept.

“DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR” is even more intense when you’re face to face, hearing her voice in agony in real time.

I don't eat, I don't sleep, I don't eat
I let it consume me

How do I break you
Before you break me?

It’s always taxing for me to a certain degree listening to that track, seeing it live exacerbated this by 1,000.

I noticed during the performance Lingua Ignota was adopting the movements and stances of Evangelical pastors—limbs akimbo, her torso contorting, flamboyant hand gestures with wild eyes as if she was letting the spirit of God overtake her body as she sang gospel to the rest of us, spreading the good word. Even in the way she sat on stage, perched, “manspreading”, like a youth pastor meeting us at our level. Was she being saved or was she saving us?

I had taken video on my phone, so I only saw this when I got home and was reviewing the footage but I noticed someone in the audience, up front, holding their hands out in front them towards Lingua Ignota, as if she herself was one of these pastors.

She rounded out the set with “PENNSYLVANIA FURNACE”, referencing old Pennsylvania folklore to reflect how relationships are conditional with narcissists and the sting of betrayal showing unwavering love and blind devotion:

I feel your voice
Above all others
Above all others
Above all
Me and the dog, we die together

I lost it, and couldn’t hold the whimpers in anymore. I was still drying my eyes, hoping to dear God the house lights wouldn’t come back on before everyone could see I had been crying, when she came out for an encore performance doing her cover of “God’s Gonna Cut You Down”, which felt like an appropriate way to end her sermon and say good-bye to all us—with a hug and a gentle kiss on the forehead. We were back where we started, safe and sound, yet forever impacted.

Maybe this is what religious people feel like every Sunday, as if their souls have been cleansed. This experience just feels so close to me, so personal, that talking about it feels almost sacrilege. The pain she sings about is the pain I have felt, the demons she’s faced are the same ones I’ve faced (and still facing). Her music is the only thing that has made me feel less alone about the trauma I have endured, and has unleashed a reckoning within me that has only become stronger and louder.