Communion

Audience, congregation, and mob

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A massive crowd fills a large stadium for an evening concert. The entire audience is on its feet throughout, and song after song is chanted back to the performers in perfect unison. Tens of thousands of mobile phones illuminate the night, as though populating a galaxy with tiny, wavering stars. There is an illusion of spontaneity in the way the people sing along to the lyrics, but the palpable thrill of the experience belies its almost mundane sameness. Bodies and voices are performing a well-practiced rite of communion.

Familiarity would seem to be the point. There is something deeply moving at times about sharing an experience in a large crowd, even if the experience is nearly identical to every other one of its kind. Just watching a song on video from one of these concerts can be very affecting. The internet overflows with images of ecstatic crowds and their beloved stars performing in vast arenas not only in the United States but throughout Europe, Asia, South America and Africa. There are dozens, or more likely hundreds, of bands and solo artists who can summon such huge audiences, and whose fans return year after year to hear the same songs again and again. The Grateful Dead may have been the first band to have had an army of followers go on the road with them, in effect, but they were far from the last. Fans form a subculture whose very essence is to attend a band's concerts repeatedly. In the documentary Road Diary, about Bruce Springsteen's return to the concert stage with the E Street Band after a pandemic hiatus of several years, we see fans emerging like swarms of hibernating creatures from their enforced isolation, showing up by the hundreds of thousands across the country and the world, as if in response to some faint, remote signal.

The draw is powerful and persistent, and is framed by certain unchanging features that are remarkably similar to many religious practices: ritual repetition of texts, standing in reverence, fanatical devotion, near sanctification of those on stage. A modern rock, rap or pop concert is not LIKE a religious experience, it IS a religious experience. The one does not literally copy the rites of the other, but both are responses to the same psychological imperatives, which include an abiding need for human solidarity and a respite from the trials of living. From the Beatles in the 1960s to certain K-pop bands today, the adulation of fans can sometimes approach a level of hysteria that is hard to distinguish from its religious counterpart. Apart from the venue, a muted video of the overwrought swooning of mostly female, mostly pubescent rock fans is hard to distinguish from the frenzied ravings at a Christian revival meeting. In both cases, achieving a state of unconscious and uncontrolled surrender is a sign of the devotee's limitless adoration.

The most important ingredient that is shared by concerts and religious gatherings is the conviction that participation is life altering: that the strong emotions and sense of communion that accompany the event are not illusory and transitory but real and long-lasting. Those leaving at the end of a concert, like those leaving a church service, are often convinced that what they feel in this moment — the sensation of being transported to another plane of consciousness, a perception of universal harmony, and a broadened sense of possibility — will translate into a permanently improved state of spiritual well-being, and that everyday life will be profoundly transformed, not only for themselves but for everyone present, by virtue of just having been there.

But will it really?

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A communion of like-minded souls is not always a spiritually uplifting spectacle. Under the right circumstances, a mutual enemy is as powerful a unifier as a common interest, perhaps more so. We get a nice warm feeling while watching a concert together or singing Christmas carols. But the flip side to this record is equally compelling: the love of one's fellows may also arouse tribal loyalties that are defined by hate-filled opposition to some other group. We see this play out, usually with violence, on many levels: from urban gangs and marauding football hooligans to racist militias and national armies. These groups are glued together by very strong feelings and ideas, not least a sense of superiority over their enemies, real or imagined. Musical numbers often play an important role in stirring these sentiments, too, in the form of anthems, marching songs and the like, and for reasons that are familiar: to arouse strong emotions and build a sense of community. But, chillingly, not always for the advancement of peace and love.

In a bucolic setting outside of Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, there is an outdoor amphitheater where a national song festival is held in the summer every few years. This is not strictly a musical entertainment, but an expression of national solidarity. During the Cold War, when the tiny country was absorbed against its will into the Soviet behemoth next door, these festivals were subtle acts of defiance against its communist overlords, who forced their own patriotic repertoire onto the program. After 1989 and the dissolution of the Russian empire, expressions of national pride became rather more overt and full-throated. It is to be expected that a small country surrounded by much larger and more powerful ones, and which has been overrun by invaders repeatedly through the centuries, would take every opportunity to articulate their national aspirations and find strength in numbers. For the Estonians, these songs are no doubt deeply moving, and the occasion to sing them in such a setting a source of considerable satisfaction. Though their message may be patriotic, they do not glorify the conquest and subjugation of neighboring countries. But let us not confuse the emotions aroused by this event with those of the ordinary ticket-buying public, whose life and liberty do not depend on the sounds emanating from the stage, however much they may convince themselves of their significance.

The tender but fleeting camaraderie of a cadre of music fans, brought together more or less at random, can hardly compete with the bonds of blood that keeps these other kinds of packs marching in tandem. Likewise, the supposed kinship of a religious congregation, with its peaceful hymns and professions of universal brotherhood, have often been harnessed for rather more nefarious purposes. Consider the medieval Crusades, or the original Islamic conquest of the Middle East and North Africa, among other unsavory examples. The priesthood talks a good game of love and charity, but the officers' corps has weapons on its side. A gun is not an argument, but it is no less persuasive than a catchy tune. Some cynics would argue that "religious warfare" is not even an oxymoron, but that the threat of violence has in fact always been an inherent part of religious indoctrination, while the kinder and gentler teachings of the prophets, let alone the sweet charms of the troubadours, are in fact aberrations in the sordid history of humanity.

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There are several scenes in Maria, the new film about Maria Callas, in which the depiction of her life takes a pause and the spotlight finds her, alone on a vast, dark stage, about to breathe life into one of the great operatic arias. We hear the opening notes of a surpassingly beautiful and intensely stirring melody by Donizetti, Bellini, or especially Verdi or Puccini, effusions of lyricism unsurpassed in the annals of Western music. As the artist takes the audience on a journey through the aria, the troubles of her own life, especially the horrors and deprivation that her family faced under Nazi occupation when she was young, dissipate into the background, along with the worldly cares of everyone listening. This music, in the hands of the masters and performed by artists of superior skill, overwhelms the struggle of existence for a few brief minutes, and carves out of the maelstrom of life a hushed sphere of space and time which, paradoxically, is both empty of earthly travails while also imbued with extraordinary emotional power.

Singing a solo aria is often likened to walking on a high wire without a net, and the audience in the opera house reacts as if they were in fact watching an aerialist high above the Earth: leaning forward imperceptibly in their seats and holding their collective breath, stunned into utter stillness by the sheer impossibility of what they are witnessing. Many are moved to tears. When the final notes fade into the darkness, the silence is broken by an eruption of applause and cheering that is frequently accompanied by incessant pounding on the floors and even sometimes on the walls, an ecstatic outpouring that, in its fervor and duration, is unlike anything to be found in any other form of human entertainment.

One hesitates to use the word "entertainment" because people do not come to the opera merely to be treated to some superhuman feat of wonder, but to be transformed. Like the pop fan, theater-goer, sports enthusiast, or congregant, they search in vain for a transcendent experience that brings not just joy and jubilation but the power to rearrange the DNA of humankind. This ceaseless yearning for communal euphoria in all its possible forms, from the ordinary to the sublime — the perfect song, the walk-off home run, the papal blessing — springs from the stubborn, indestructible hope that life can actually be good and beautiful despite all of the evidence to the contrary.