I went to a twelve-hour drone concert and all I got was removed from time and space

Forget concerts that are standing room only. What about a concert that encourages the audience to lie down and fall asleep? That was the idea at ZZZZZZZZZ: Drone All Night at Rhizome, a two-floor community arts space in D.C.’s Takoma neighborhood. From 6 p.m. on Sept. 18 to 6 a.m. on the 19, 20 local musicians provided an ambient, non-melodic soundtrack to an all-night sleepover, where attendees were encouraged to bring sleeping bags and drift in and out of dreamland. 

When friends have played drone music to me in the past, I’ve typically filed it under “Appreciate That It Exists, But Not For Me.” But heeding artist and event organizer Naoco Wowsugi’s advice prior to the show to "just enjoy the sound because it's a passage, and you connect to yourself or others,” I reserved my all-night pass and showed up for a long 12 hours’ passage on Rhizome’s scratched hardwood floors, ready to see who — or what — I might connect to.

When I arrive promptly at 6 p.m., someone has started a pot of coffee in Rhizome’s small ground-floor kitchen that will be (thankfully) replenished throughout the night. Claims on valuable floor space have already been staked with sleeping bags throughout the two downstairs rooms. I head upstairs to find my own floor space in one of the rooms that will be available for deep sleep later, where I hear a sound that resembles the Dolby noise coming out of two speakers on the floor. The sound builds and deepens, sounding like a garbage truck rumbling outside, before reaching a furious crescendo that hits me with the force and decibel level of a 747 taking off. It seems like the entire house is shaking. I’m wondering just what I’ve gotten myself into, and if I should have grabbed a pair of ear plugs. 

I’ve come wearing my metaphorical reporter hat, ready to chat people up. But this is not an environment for yakking. Many people are sitting upright at attention, completely engrossed in the performances. Others are lounging with eyes closed, napping and or just riding the waves of sound. I’m not built for sitting alone with my thoughts, so I start sketching people to pass the time, and the music serves as decent background noise for getting into a creative flow state. (Some drone fans swear by its focusing properties, similar to low-fi beats for studying, and the genre is rooted in ancient practices of meditation.)

While a lot of drone music relies on synthesizers, vocalizers, drum machines and other electronic equipment that can stretch out or repeat sounds, basically any instrument can be used for drone if you put your mind to it. Among the instruments on display tonight are singing bowls, a cello, a theremin, bells, a crystal singing triangle, and various percussive tools. At one point, stepping outside for fresh air, I see a man trying to maneuver an enormous wooden horn that looks like it’s straight out of a Ricola commercial.

Around midnight, people start to drop off. The crowd is all ages, but it leans towards folks who are definitely up past their bedtimes. There are more people lying on the floor, and Wowsugi sporadically wanders the crowd offering cushions or blankets to folks who look uncomfortable. People curl up wherever they happen to be — including the performers, several of whom pop up mere minutes before their own sets start, or drop to the ground as soon as it’s over. 

I’ve managed to stay awake past my own bedtime, but a little after 1 a.m., feeling a bit like I’ve just emerged from a few hours inside an MRI machine, I retreat upstairs to my sleeping bag. The floor is packed like sardines with yoga mats occupied by people who are seemingly already deep into their R.E.M. cycles. I don’t actually sleep, but I do let the music wash over me, and I feel myself pulled by the ebbs and flows of the wall of sound. Laying in the dark without other outside stimuli, I can feel a trance taking over, like I’m losing track of time and space. Eventually, though, I decide that I’m too wired from coffee to truly zone out, and I rejoin the downstairs group to watch Naoco’s gong performance.

Alma Laprida — who plays a custom-made, medieval-inspired “tromba marina,” a bowed stringed instrument — is the last solo performer of the night, taking the stage at 5 a.m. “I have not practiced,” she had told me beforehand. “I'm going to improvise, depending on the collective vibe that I'm feeling. Maybe everybody is super excited or maybe everybody's sleeping.” She doesn’t mind performing for people who may not actually be awake and listening. “I hope my music appears in their dreams,” she said. She plays to an almost entirely horizontal crowd, wearing pajamas and a sleep mask across her forehead.

After Laprida’s set, all the musicians still in the house bring their instruments out and — one by one — join in a rousing, multilayered cacophony that makes for a fitting alarm clock, for me and everyone else in the house. After playing her gong with this ramshackle ensemble, Wowsugi wanders through the house with two small bells, which she clinks above each person’s head to wish them good morning. Once that’s done, she announces that it’s time for breakfast and asks who wants eggs. The couple dozen people left start to pack up belongings and help out in the kitchen, where organizers are handing out breakfast tacos, muffins, and many coffee refills. 

Earlier, Laprida noted that “there's something deeply political about getting together to do something and share. And in this case, there's this intimate act of people sleeping next to each other.” Even though I didn’t sleep myself, I still have that close-knit slumber party feel in the morning. Everyone is moving slowly and yawning, but there’s also an outburst of boisterous chit chat and hugs and farewells as people depart.

It might be the delirium of a sleepless night, but I too am still abuzz and feeling closely attuned to everything around me. The sizzle of butter in a pan, the rise and fall of traffic noises outside, the whir of the air conditioner: It all sounded a little more like music to me.