Gracie Abrams: Music Hall of Williamsburg

Transparently, the day of this show was awful. I won’t go into specifics here (I promise you’re not missing out on any juicy details), but I got home around 4pm, exhausted and sad, and immediately started crying. 

To top it all off, I was mad at myself. I had been looking forward to this show since it was announced and now here I was—so exhausted that my bed sounded equally exciting. Lame, right? More like burnt out.

After prepping my gear, changing my clothes, eating dinner, and dropping off a Depop sale at the post office, all I had time for was a half-hour nap. Then I chugged 16 ounces of cold brew (not a decision I’m proud of, but we’re doing our best here), pulled on my Taylor Swift hoodie over my cargo pants, and literally ran to the train station. 

Side note: I may never shoot a show without wearing cargo pants again. How did it take me over a decade to discover this?!

So I arrived at the venue, burnt out and barely present, but determined to do my best. I had a venue contact to get in a little early, but he wasn’t picking up his phone. I explained the situation to security, ready to argue my reasons to do my job. But I didn’t have to. They were so kind, cheerful even, and made sure I had my credentials and access early. Not only did they not give me any issues, they gave me help. Part of my guard slid down into relief.

After the meet-and-greet ended, I snagged a spot on the right side, second row, behind a couple gals who were decked out in Y2K-style outfits and accessorized with seltzers. 

The doors opened at 7, but the show didn’t start until 8. You might not know this, but I have a likely-permanent nerve condition that makes standing for any length of time painful. So sometimes between doors and the show or between bands I’ll sit down, if that’s feasible. In that moment, it was, so I did. I sat cross-legged on the floor in my cargo pants, playing sudoku. 

When the girls in front of me turned to restock their drinks, one almost tripped over me and mentioned offhand—not in a rude way—that maybe I shouldn’t sit there. I replied my usual reply that my nerve damaged leg required it sometimes and it is what is is! Immediately, their expressions became concern: “Do you need to keep sitting? Would you like to sit on the stairs? If you would, we can save your spot!” Somehow my pain and the vulnerability it caused broke the seal and from then on, they became my concert buddies for the evening. We held each other’s spots for bathroom breaks and chatted between sets. 

And here’s the most amazing part of it. The girl to my right told me: “Whenever you want a better view, you can stand in front of me. Like we can trade spots.” And she meant it. Literally every other song during Gracie’s set, she’d turn back to me, offering her closer spot. 

Between sets I looked behind me and in that moment another girl caught a glimpse of my Taylor Swift hoodie and this launched a conversation about who in our general proximity was a Swiftie and which album would be re-released next. In that moment, I realized that these are my people. These are the kind of places I belong.

When Gracie began, we danced and cried (and I photographed) for over an hour and at the end of it all, I asked the girls in front of me for a portrait and they asked me out to drinks. I had plans and couldn’t go, but I took their number and took their photo (see below) and I’m going to send this to them. 

I guess what I’m saying is I’m grateful. It’s okay to rest, but it’s also okay to show up as you are, even if it’s messy and imperfect. There’s space for you here. There’s joy for you to find. There’s belonging for you, even as you are. I promise.

I can promise that because I found it. I found it in the security guards who went out of their way to help me out. I found out in the girls in front of me who invited me to be their friend for the night. I found it in the little Swifties behind me. And I find it weekly in the words of Gracie’s songs (right now it’s “Unlearn”). I promise these places exist for you, too, if you show up open and ready.

Gracie Abrams: New York, Night 1

Keep scrolling for more photos!

The best part of my job is that I’m simultaneously an observer and a participant in something beautiful. It’s like being a bridesmaid. It’s not your wedding, but you’re there and you’re somehow part of it: a spectator and an observer, but you’re also bringing value to the moment by being there. Your gaze, your presence, the way you show up in that place and bear witness: it matters. And that’s what I remind myself. My gaze, my presence, how I show up in that place and how I interact and how I carry my camera and how I use my eyes: it matters.

That is really the only way that being a music photographer is like being a bridesmaid. I’ve definitely never shot a show in a floor-length dress from David’s Bridal (if you know, you know). But I’m there, holding the figurative space between being part of it and being outside of it; and holding the physical space between the stage and the crowd; and holding my camera and sometimes holding my breath. However, you better believe I’m singing along (if I know the song) or dancing or sometimes crying, all while working. If you went to any of the All-American Rejects shows a couple summers ago, you definitely saw me skipping and hollering “Swing, Swing” along with the crowd while I worked. I’m not part of the crowd—not really—but I’m in it and what I’m doing changes the way you’ll remember the night. Or at least that’s my hope. I carry a lot of hope into those dark rooms. Most of my hope is found in the humans. Most of my hope is for my age peers and for those that are coming up after us. It’s for the dancers and the outcasts, the ones who show up to shows alone and who are brave enough to say “hello” to the person next to them.

Since the Gracie Abrams show was pit-free and I had the time, I showed up early so I wouldn’t be that photographer who shows up late and tries to cut the whole line—and then gets stuck standing next to those same bummed or angry fans all evening. No one likes that experience so I try to avoid it as much as I possibly can by getting there early and waiting it out with everyone else. Drew Barrymore said something yesterday that I just can’t shake. She began: “I care what people think [of me]”—she paused and corrected herself: “No, I care how people feel.”

And there is the nuance. You can do everything right in your career and sometimes people just won’t like you because of your haircut or the color you highlight a spreadsheet or something equally miniscule. You can’t control how people perceive you and to the degree you can’t control it, you can’t hold it too tightly. But how people feel around you—while you also can’t really control their feelings—you can control the way you treat them with kindness (yes, cue Harry Styles). So that’s the kind of career I want to live. It’s taken me a long time and I feel like I’m still on the runway, waiting to take off. But I also know that the people I’ve worked with have received beautiful images and I’ve gained their respect and that’s worth so much more than a quick fix. Kindness: it matters.

Since I was waiting anyways, I decided to do fan photos. It’s easily been 2 years since I’ve done them, really (shoutout to Covid for that). I still get nervous every time: it took me about 25 minutes to talk myself into it. But then I did and almost everyone said “yes.” The last gal just lit up, grinning, with the most enthusiastic “yes” I’ve heard. And then I remember why I do this: yes, it’s creativity, but it’s also the people, the connection, the being part of something big and beautiful. 

After photographing the fans all the way to the corner of Ludlow, I made my way back to my perch by the nail salon (cue Lorde). It wasn’t until I starting to shuffle towards the door that I realized (remembered really—I’ve thought of this before) that I’m just the right person for this. While, yes, it is hard sometimes to see yet another inexperienced dude get a huge tour while I’ve worked hard for a decade (cue Olivia Rodrigo: “jealousy, jealousy”—at this point I’ve cued enough songs, I probably should make an accompanying playlist), do you think the moms in line would let a random dude take a photo of their daughter? Probably not. I’m basically the size of a 15-year-old and as a result I’m way more approachable and way less intimidating. 

This thought always follows: there are spaces made and meant for me. I don’t even know all of them yet, but they exist and I won’t miss what’s mean for me. I will find myself and I will be found. And I’m here right now and that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. So here’s my reminder for you: you’re right where you’re supposed to be. There are opportunities and paths ahead of you that are shaped just the way you are made. You have not missed out on what’s meant for you. So dance through the sad songs and lean in because where you’re headed is golden.

Right at 6 when doors were supposed to open, someone walked by with their phone ringing. The ringtone? “I’ve got your picture, I’m coming with you, dear Maria count me in!” 

And somehow that song, that moment, as I walked into a dark room full of strangers, all holding the same songs behind their eyes and in their throats for a night: somehow it all feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be. If you ask me why I keep doing this work, why I exist in this musical periphery, this story, these moments, these are the reasons. The belonging, the becoming, the space between the crowd and the stage, the space between what I see in through my camera and what I share with the world. It’s beauty in the faces of the crowd and the beauty in the pauses between songs as the artist notices the crowd singing along and grins. It’s catching my breath and catching flickers of light and on lucky days, I get to catch flights, too. But mostly I hope we all catch a little bit of a reminder of the ways we are found and why we need each other. I hope we remember the feeling of everyone else singing along, of feeling less alone, even in our gentle sadnesses. There’s a beauty in those things, too, and maybe the beauty is found in not having to feel it alone, you know?

So here’s your last reminder: You belong here. You belong in the rooms you step into and you don’t have to earn that belonging. You are enough and you are not too much, no matter what feelings you carry today. There will always be songs for the feelings and rooms to dance in to those songs and there will always be someone else who feels the same way, I promise. We are all less alone than we feel and the way that 250 people realized that together on a Tuesday night: thank you for letting me photograph that feeling.

P.S. if you’re reading this and are like, “oh, hey, that’s a photo of me!” email me at estorie@outlook.com and I’ll send you your fan photo. We love to see it!