Interscope

Dermot Kennedy: Wrigley Busking /  by Liz Brown

The parallels between Dermot Kennedy’s Chicago event and his New York City busking in December were not lost on me. In December I was exhausted and hope broken and falling apart in every category of human entropy. And that wasn’t the worst of it. But I showed up, camera in hand, to Washington Square Park. I remember feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time.

Jump ahead to August. I’m in a new city, a familiar one—and dare I say, my favorite one. Suddenly the quality of life that felt exhaustingly out of reach feels vividly close. I feel happy, found, quietly and preciously peaceful. Better days came, just like the song I heard in December promised me they would. And today I showed up, yet again, camera in hand, to Wrigley Field. The hopeful feeling still exists in this place.

And despite the distance and the differences, still these songs have followed me all the way, these two busking events bookending two parallel moments in two starkly different seasons—both literally and in my life.

I’m so grateful to be trusted with such beautiful days. Thank you to everyone who chatted with me. Your echoing back of the melodies into the air is what makes those spaces feel hopeful and beautiful: never stop singing. (P.S. if you see yourself and want a copy of your photo, please email me at estorie@outook.com!)

Hayd: Bowery Ballroom & Portraits /  by Liz Brown

I have this thing I call “sad in a fun way.” It’s the sort of sad that you need to feel whole, to feel fully, to let the sadness pass and pass through you and move past you. Sometimes I can’t move on without a cry. And sometimes I’ll go to sad movies alone and let myself feel it all and take it in and let it go.

I listened to Hayd’s music on Wednesday before his show at Bowery and it felt like that. I had to stop listening after a while because I grew too nostalgic and melancholic and I needed to get work done. But I think that’s a sign of something well-written and well-felt: that you can’t help but feel it, too.

Jump ahead to the show. I got there at doors to secure my spot and since there wasn’t a photo pit, I landed right in the middle of a group of folks I didn’t know (which is really the only way it happens when you arrive somewhere by yourself). But this felt different. Slowly the solitary folks and duos became a group, as they asked each other’s names and invited each other to tacos after the show. Folks sat in groups on the ground, waiting and playing games (can we normalize sitting down between sets?).

Part way through his set, Hayd began describing the isolating nature of sadness and hard feelings, but the magic of all of us feeling it together now. Admitting we all feel it, and even singing into the feeling, takes something isolating and makes it a conduit of connection: “We’re not alone—we’re together as you can see.”

When he left, the person to my right wiped tears away and quoted the iconic Euphoria line: “Is this fucking play about us?!”

And maybe that’s the point: it is. We all feel the same things, but some folks have the magic of putting those feelings into words and into songs and making the rest of us feel less alone, by giving us a space to feel and sing the same lonely feelings together. 

So, yes, the fucking play—the fucking song—is about us, all of us, alone and together tonight.

Portrait Time!

Gracie Abrams: Music Hall of Williamsburg /  by Liz Brown

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.