Hands

on what we give, and what we ask for, and what we hold

I’ve been to shows where artists say “put your hands up” and most of the crowd pumps a halfhearted fist. I’ve been to shows where artists say “put your hands up” and the entire crowd bounces a beat with their arm and their whole body. I’ve been to shows where artists say “hold up your flashlights” and the arena is lit with ghostly sort of love. I’ve seen it done to better effect with lighters.

I’ll be honest, though: I’ve never been to a show where this most basic expression of love is requested, not demanded.

When MAVI played a small set at The Pearl, he apparently had to be off by 10 so he packed it airtight and it was my favourite kind of rap show, more spoken word than anything else. At one point I was standing close enough to see MAVI’s cheek curl around each syllable and the gentle grip he kept on the mic. It was in that moment that he asked for our hands.

Sit on that a minute, please.

“Can I have your hands, Vancouver?” he said, and we all shuffled closer to the stage, hands hanging obediently above our heads. I don’t even remember what the song was, but I remember the way he looked the entire audience in the eye, spitting bars straight through the dim air into the very cavity of our collective chest.

“Can I have your hands, Vancouver?” he says, and it was a beautiful plea of joy.

We are here, all of us, out of some kind of love. Most people don’t know MAVI; I’d wager most of the people lining up for a Charli XCX-themed club night at The Pearl at 10pm don’t know who MAVI is. I don’t care about that.

I care that MAVI cared enough to ask us for our hands on a Friday night in a city he cared enough about to play in. I care that we all bounced along in the same rhythm. I care that the big dude next to me kept yelling “SENSE,” because I kept yelling “sense,” and when MAVI finally played “Sense” we both shared a look, and I heard him sing his favourite line just after I sang mine.

The set finished just before 10 and MAVI ran upstairs to get a cup of tea before kicking around to sign records and take photos. He had a Pokémon card in his pocket, and, for some reason, people kept giving him the Pokémon cards they carried in their own pockets. Other fans passed joints to him and his crew as they, delighted, examined them closely.

I stayed ‘til the very end because I wanted to say thank you, for taking care of our hands, just for a couple hours. Hands that have walked through record crates and smudged CDs and flicked lighters in the cold and bounced along to other songs and hands that play instruments and hands that grip mics and hands that don’t do much at all but slide a disc into a player and hands that clasp in prayer and hands that wrap around a brick and hands that squeeze back and hands that know the weight of love and empty hands and hands brimming with joy and that night we had a room full of hands all raised towards our poet, our prophet, all devoted to his softspoken performance.

I stayed ‘til the very end and shook hands with MAVI and said thank you! and he didn’t say much in return, but I thought it must be tiring, giving yourself to the world in song over, and over, and over again.

I thought it wasn’t much, after all, to ask for something in return. Even if that something is as small and fabled and selfish as our hands.