Entrenched in the desperate year of 2020, continuously stuck in the four walls of my childhood bedroom, I discovered good music. Having spent most of my adolescent years listening to Top 100 radio, which looped the same ten songs over and over, I had been lulled into an Ed Sheeran-esque trance of mediocrity. Left with too much time on my hands, and, admittedly, with help from TikTok recommendations, I started building up a repertoire of music that resonated with me. I filled the silence with melodramatic ballads, gratifying instrumental sections, and compelling lyrics. When I was all out of songs to discover from my newest artist of the month, I turned to videos of live performances, obsessing over the raw talent they showcased, their stage presence, the roar of the crowd.
I thought about my own concert experiences, which had been sporadic but memorable all the same. I had seen some of the big names of my childhood perform elaborate choreographed shows with props, dancers, and fire sparklers. I had also seen some smaller bands, finding fame only in the Québecois scene—a microcosm of the music industry. I cherished those memories, remembering my shrill screams of excitement when my idols rose up in glittery costumes, the pride I felt adorning the overpriced merch, and the ringing in my ears the next day.
I started to value the music itself, untethered from impressive shows of electronics, lasers, and balloons falling from the ceiling. I became thoroughly consumed with the desire to be part of the experience I was watching, yearning to be in that crowd.
However, in this new era of my musical appreciation, I yearned for more intimate events. The artists I now liked no longer only consisted of A-list stars with the budget for such extravagant productions. Yet, even through a screen, the performances I watched emanated a completely different sense of what live music could inspire. I started to value the music itself, untethered from impressive shows of electronics, lasers, and balloons falling from the ceiling. I became thoroughly consumed with the desire to be part of the experience I was watching, yearning to be in that crowd. I waited two long years before that wish was fulfilled.
When my favorite artists began to announce their tours, best believe I was the first in the line, despite the obvious headache of having to rely on Ticketmaster. In the last year, the concerts I have attended have made some of the best nights of my life, the most recent of which having been bestowed by Weyes Blood.
The night was an impressive presentation of the artist’s newest album, along with a few songs from her 2019 release. After an interesting, yet slightly confusing opening act—who knew whistling was an art-form?—the stage was decorated with a gorgeous display of candelabras holding (I would assume) fake candles. Midway through the concert, Weyes Blood’s heart began to glow under the white fabric of her dress, earning screams of delight from the surprised audience. Glowing heart aside, the only other technological addition was a projector, used throughout to accentuate the moodiness of the songs, and to reveal the visuals of documentary-maker Adam Curtis during one particularly bewitching rendition of “God Turn Me Into a Flower.”
For the most part, though, the concert’s entertainment value rested solely on the music itself, relying on the talent of the band and the singer.
For the most part, though, the concert’s entertainment value rested solely on the music itself, relying on the talent of the band and the singer. And they did not disappoint. The musicians accompanying the frontrunner were all talented in their own right, blending phenomenally with Weyes’ powerful voice. They transitioned from the gentle melodies of “A Lot’s Gonna Change” to the folky and upbeat “Everyday,” satisfying my secret penchant for guitar solos more than once.
What’s more, Natalie Mering, who bears the name of Weyes Blood while singing, was nothing short of mesmerizing as she stepped out and onto the stage. As she immediately commanded the venue with her voice, I found myself closing my eyes, goosebumps rising as she began her performance. I turned back to find my friend sobbing as Weyes continued to frolic in front of us. I caught one of the roses she threw into the crowd after it bounced off the head of a man in front of me, which found all four of us jumping excitedly. She played all my favorites, surprising us with “Picture Me Better” as the second encore.
I smiled at the thought that I was still keeping the promise I made myself years ago, actively seeking to make live music an integral part of my adult(ish) life.
I left the venue in a state of absolute contentment, happily stuck with the ghost of her voice ringing in my head on the metro ride home. I thought back to the path my musical taste had taken, which led me to this strange, almost ecclesiastical artist. I smiled at the thought that I was still keeping the promise I made myself years ago, actively seeking to make live music an integral part of my adult(ish) life. As mainstream artists continue to spike their prices to egregious amounts, I hope to be able to continue enjoying the enchantment of the talents of lesser-known singers. In a sense, this deviation away from the fanciful distractions displayed by big names and the return to an authentic understanding of live performances as an artform is what truly revitalized my love of music.
