Member-only story
Featured
Kendrick Lamar Brought Me to Terms With Post-Concert Depression
Sadness when the music stops
Last month, Christine and I were wedged into a corner at The 1029 Bar in Northeast Minneapolis celebrating my birthday with a handful of friends. It was karaoke night. Karaoke happens Wednesday through Sunday at 1029, so I suppose it’s not a rare event.
Us being out at 10 p.m.? That’s rare.
The space was loud, I was preparing myself to slip out and make it home to my pajamas, but not before Christine cupped her hand against my ear, probably unaware she was yelling, “If I can get tix to Kendrick for your birthday, would you pay $75 to go?!”
I gaped, managed to sputter a “yes,” and then she was off, weaving through the crowd, sliding behind a group of 20-somethings, offering herself as a backup dancer as they sang Chappell Roan.
Christine has two kids under five, so I felt like the 2025 version of Laverne and Shirley with a premeditated escape plan the night of The Grand National Tour in Minneapolis.
With the self-reckoning of Kendrick Lamar’s “Count Me Out” mounting in the background, Christine talked loudly over the music as I searched for my lost sock, chaotically making our way toward US Bank Stadium.
