My husband’s taste in music is arguably better than mine.
Actually, more than that, he likes to listen to a variety of artists where I end up going to my ‘favorite’ list on Tidal, and playing the same things over and over again. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably still be clinging to the CDs I bought in college, listening to Lisa Loeb and Rusted Root and Norah Jones over and over and over again.
After our second date, Lucas made me a mix CD (think High Fidelity…) full of indie bands I’d never heard of, opening my eyes to his tastes, and ultimately his heart. Over the years he’s put together mixes and playlists introducing me to musicians that otherwise wouldn’t have been on my radar. A number of years back the lists started leaning heavily on the Frank Turner side… and by the time Frank’s album, Be More Kind, came out, I was hooked. He’s been a prominent figure on our road trips and we all have a favorite song for a favorite mood.
Frank Turner’s songs have brought us together as a family in a way that only music can do. They mean something different to each of us, but together we have shared memories of driving through Arkansas singing Nashville Tennessee, family game nights that have turned into sing-alongs, a family trip to Canada to see him play on my birthday (the kid’s first gig!), and for Lucas and myself, we can just look down at our arms and see the tattoos we had done in honor of an anniversary during The Lost Evenings festival back in 2019.
During the pandemic, Frank did live shows on YouTube every week for a while. He played to his audience from his living room, his wife was in charge of monitoring comments and also keeping track of their fundraisers — they gathered donations for their crew, and also for venues that were at risk of going under during lockdown.
We watched every week, sometimes the kids would join us, other times it was just the two of them. Every single week I cried… Frank’s lyrics are a big part of the reason why I love his music, they’re poignant and resonate in many ways. But more so, I missed the way I felt at gigs. Those shows from his living room were a reminder of life before… but also what our current reality was, and the very human need to create, to connect, and to persevere.
Flash forward to 2022, and *finally* we felt comfortable enough to head to a show when his tour came our way earlier this week. And my word, in the span of a year two — even with the live-streamed shows — I’d forgotten.
I’d forgotten what it felt like.
The crowds pushing up against one another, music so loud you can feel it vibrating in your chest, people singing song lyrics by heart, the energy of a crowd of people gathered by a common interest. Lucas singing loudly as he stands behind me, his hand grazing my hip to check in when the crowd gets rowdy. The way your voice goes hoarse for days after singing your heart out. How you can find yourself, the best version of yourself, in the middle of a hundred people.
I’d forgotten what loud, live music can do for a normally quiet person:
It can make you feel alive and connect you to yourself in a way that nothing else can. In the midst of the community and shared singing, for moments here and there you can only hear yourself through the din. There’s comfort in the crowd, there’s freedom in knowing that no one cares how you look when you dance, no one is paying attention to you, their eyes are on stage.
I tend to be very aware of myself, but in a crowded venue, listening to your favorite musician, there’s a freedom to be unabashedly yourself. In fact, if you’re not, that might bring more attention than anything else.
The other night I listened to my normally reserved husband sing as loud as he could for two hours straight. By the end of the night, my dancing legs felt like jelly, my throat was hoarse from singing, and my soul was on fire.
I forgot for a little while, what it felt like to be unapologetically, uninhibitedly myself. In that crowd, I finally remembered, and I don’t want to forget.
{Originally posted on Medium}