A Primal Instinct

The lights went down and the orchestra began to rumble as a call cried out from the stage - a crisp, guttural voice. 

The floor beneath us began to shake as the stampede approached.

We turned in our seats, left and right, not wanting to miss a beat, as the impressive creatures strode the aisles beside us. 

The room held its breath. A collective intake of everything we had been wanting and waiting for.

My son turned to me, eyes wide in delight.

“Mum, are you crying already?” He giggled.

Yes, I was. Tears cascaded as I inhaled the impact. The sounds, the puppets, the energy of it all.

It was the opening song of The Lion King in Sydney - The Circle of Life. 

I honestly don’t know what came over me, but I had no power to stop it. I was completely swept up, the dust of the desert already in my hair as I headed to Pride Rock with the rest of the charge.

But I had certainly never felt this way watching the cartoon at home on the telly.

So, what is it about live performance that carries us on such a journey? And what do we really gain from that animal instinct?

Human beings have been seeking live performance, in particular music and theatre, since the dawn of time. Music, dance and oral traditions are an essential reason that Aboriginal Australians can boast the world’s oldest continual living culture today after 65,000 years.

Historians have concluded that communal music-making and performance has assisted in binding groups of people together. After all, their instruments weren’t created for solo reflection, but rather for gatherings of social and spiritual value. 

Derek Davis, editor of earth.com, says there’s “something that the live setting supplies: a responsive partner on the other side of the sound.” 

We don’t just flock to concerts to hear music. If that were the only reason, we’d simply plug in and listen to a recording. We are shepherded by the feelings induced by a collective response, and by the fact that performances shift and change because of us. 

We become the mate necessary for the ritual.

Everyone knows that the band gets better as the night goes on. And it’s not for want of hard work and good musicianship, but for the connection of the crowd. 

When a room is arid, the performers simply deliver.

But when there’s an oasis of reaction, performances lift - they reverberate like bouncing echoes amid a vast green valley. And the result is euphoric.

As entertainment producers Bongo and B write, when we attend a live performance, “we become part of something larger than ourselves, swept up in the energy and emotions that fill the venue.” 

And I think our reaction to theatre can be even more primal.

When we tell stories, we elicit empathy. 

Songs have a raw power to do this - they take simple language and careful tones, and form an influential alliance.

But when words, music and visions combine to move us, the Earth really can quake. We not only comprehend, but we see, hear and feel that which, in our reality, belongs to another.

Bongo and B reiterate that, “when we witness the vulnerability and authenticity of artists on stage, we feel a deep connection to their humanity” and, thus, I believe, we acknowledge our own. 

The performing arts hold a mirror to ourselves and allow us to collectively reflect on who we are.

I also think that the power lies in the sheer fact that this is happening before our very eyes. It’s not carefully curated, edited and mixed. It’s real. It’s ordinary people LIKE us up there doing extraordinary things. Just FOR us. 

It’s special. It’s humbling. 

And, for human beings, it’s cardinal. We seek it out.

I told a friend at work that we took the kids to see The Lion King. Her first question was, “Did you cry when the animals came down the aisles? Because I did.”

I have to confess, I cried more than once watching The Lion King.

It was the incredible voices.

It was the magic of the puppetry and costumes.

It was the familiar music.

It was the timeless tale of father and son.

It was the rumble of the orchestra.

It was the breath of the room.

And the heartbeat of one.

As we climbed Pride Rock with the dust in our hair.