The Old Lady and I hit Ballard a few nights back to catch a performance by one of her former professors, a singer/songwriter type (I know, I know) who had commandeered a chai shop. He was accompanied by a young lady with a sweet voice wearing a flattering red outfit and the duo spun through a handful of original songs to a sparse audience of friends, family and wayward chai drinkers.

To our right was an older man with a mohawk who was clearly mentally/emotionally disabled in some way (I'm not knowledgable enough to guess at a cause). While the musicians prepared for their set, he sat alone at a table fidgeting, his eyes on the stage, waiting impatiently for the microphone stands and PA system to be adjusted. The music began, a gentle, fingerpicking folk and simple, clear vocals, nothing that would shake the earth but plenty pretty. But this guy reacted and how, it moved him from note one.

If I had any doubt that human emotion is merely a mix of chemicals reacting to external stimuli, this would dispel it ... you could practically see the endorphins flooding his bloodstream, his face contorting in response to the pleasure he felt, his fingers fluttering in mid-air, not in time with any music but simply curling in rapture. After a few numbers he rose and walked from one spot in the room to the next, rocking back and forth on his heels in a spontaneous, understated private dance, without a hint of self-consciousness.

It was the purest response to music that I'd ever seen. It was beautiful.