I’ve been to this concert before, in a way. The first time was an accident, the artist was an opener for a band I meant to see. I didn’t even remember his name, just that his only song on Spotify at the time was in a playlist I called on repeat. The second time was at the top of The Standard Hotel, at a free show I stumbled across days earlier on the internet.
The third time was tonight, at a sold out show at Webster Hall, some two odd years later. Surreal, isn’t it, to watch a room fill? To see the crowd building, everyone seeking to feel something the way that you do.
I used to be a music girl, in the way that some high school kids played sports and others did theater, I wore band tees and Converses and went to Warped Tour. A self-described Peyton among Brookes, I listened to music for the words, for proof that other people felt the same way I did, lost and alone and not entirely sure this world belonged to me.
In college I joined a committee that brought music to campus. I reviewed albums and concerts for the school newspaper and interviewed artists for the music magazine, staying on top of indie bands and pop stars, still looking for ways that other people were sad even when they were happy, that no one was ever really sure where they fit in.
