albums i listened to all the way through

posted this week and every week (14)

May 04, 2025

I’m writing to you all from the first couch I bought with my own, super adult money.

It’s—fine.

As is typical of online purchases meant for New York City shoebox apartments, it doesn’t totally fit. I know the saying—measure twice, cut once. Well, I measured this tiny living room space fifteen times at least before ordering this sucker. Yes, it’s soft and durable and cost me a pretty penny, but no matter how great something is, if it doesn’t fit, you’re kind of shit outta luck.

So, here we are. It’s honestly okay. The real issue is the ottoman. It swallows the room. Honestly, every piece of furniture I have swallows this apartment. Cleaning this place is a constant game of tetris. Every time I move one thing to vacuum, another must come with it. Keeping the hardwood floors of a NYC apartment clean is a full-time job. Some weeks, I fall a little short in my responsibilities.

Still, I’m lucky to be here. I repeat that mantra to myself anytime the train stalls or doesn’t come at all. I repeat that mantra to myself anytime the elevator in my building stops working or my tiny Lower Manhattan office with no windows threatens to strangle me. I repeat that mantra to myself anytime I have the opportunity to go to a show in the West Village and then walk fifty blocks uptown on a cool Spring night just to talk to a friend on the phone (s/o to Andy’s Weird Ohio for that awesome conversation.)

Last week, Dino Corvino said he hoped I would write more about New York and give up noise cancellation. Frankly, I don’t write about New York because everyone writes about New York. What can I say that hasn’t already been said? U2 and Elton John and Springsteen and Billy Joel and Jay-Z and Alicia Keys and Simon and Garfunkel and St. Vincent and Interpol and Bob Dylan and Patti Smith and Sonic Youth and The Velvet Underground and even Taylor Swift have all written at length about this incredible crackpot place. It’s been written to death.

I don’t like reminding people I live here, especially on Substack where the general attitude towards NYC and LA is—well, that they aren’t as cool as people want you to believe. I disagree, but only in the sense that the coolest parts of this city have only revealed themselves to me since becoming a full-time resident.

It’s hard to explain to those with city fatigue why this city is indeed one of the best in the world. Beyond all talk of tourism and economy and Broadway and Wall Street and Times Square and Lincoln Center, New York is sort of unbelievable.

Here’s an example of its incredible power—

In January of 2024, I had the distinct honor and pleasure of seeing Sondheim’s last musical, Here We Are, at the Shed in its final weeks. Not only was the show interesting and existential and musically & lyrically impressive, I realized I was surrounded by dozens of actors, designers, directors, and composers I’d looked up to since I was 14-years-old. I stood in line behind actor Santino Fontana and composing duo Pasek & Paul. I walked past my favorite theatre historian. I genuinely almost passed out from the excitement of it all.

As I walked to the subway that night, I rode the world’s most intense sober high. I cried so many happy tears and practically skipped to 34th Street, listening to beloved musical theatre songs on my headphones. Nothing could bring me down. I was living my dream—seeing incredible theater alongside my heroes in the greatest city in the world.

Alas, New York City is a cruel, cruel mistress.

I wrote the following sentence in my notes app from the Uptown A train as it stalled for twenty excruciating minutes:

New York is the only place you can see Stephen Sondheim’s final gift to humanity, along with running into the theatre world’s best and brightest, and then get sandwiched on the train between a crying infant and a person who has unfortunately shit themselves in the last two-to-three hours.

See what I mean? Humbling.

Last night, during a particularly remarkable not-so-sober high, I realized rather suddenly I’m coming up on the three-year anniversary of my big move to New York.

On May 9th, 2022 at 6AM, I boarded a plane with just two suitcases and a backpack, headed straight for one of the biggest cities in the world—a place I’d only visited a total of three times. The excitement started to wear off the second I was seated in my ex’s first apartment bedroom, waiting for bagels to arrive. Never did I think I’d made a mistake, but certainly felt completely out of my depth.

Now, two apartments, four jobs, and three years later, I’ve built a life here.

I attended the Black Zine Fair yesterday and networked with strangers like crazy. I managed to get there on time and explore parts of Brooklyn I’d never seen in the process. Two of my local friends texted me throughout the day, telling me how much they missed me. I came home to my shoebox apartment and spent the evening with my roommate, watching YouTube video essays and re-runs of Nathan For You.

So—no. I didn’t end up a bureaucrat working in DC. I didn’t wind up stuck in the South that reared me, as much as I still long for it sometimes. I made the tough decision to reject those life paths and created one that’s weirdly working.

New York forces you to grow up at the speed of light. Sometimes, I don’t recognize the person in the pictures from just a year ago, much less three or five years ago. I don’t know what that really says, except that maybe that’s just what growing up really is—shedding past versions of ourselves like skin. We are left only with the memories, stuff, and documents to prove it happened.

I love this place, but it tests my patience at least thrice a day.

I kind of live for that now. There are too many people in this city who still don’t take the subway or have never taken the bus. They skate by on exorbitant wealth, often inherited from their parents or grandparents, and pretend like the world was built only to serve them. New York is their retreat—their playground.

I’ve never had the privilege to view New York that way. Even when I was a teenager and desperate to be here, New York was more like my escape hatch.

I remember the last day of my first visit here. It was a Friday in April, and the mega bus carrying my high school Glee Club was stuck in morning rush hour traffic. As I stared out the window, looking out over all the buildings, people, and bodegas, I felt immense, inexplicable sorrow. Sad to be leaving, yes, but also gutted to realize I may never make it back. It was the first time this city ever humbled me.

Now? New York is closer to my natural habitat. It’s difficult and expensive and ridiculous and sweltering and freezing and breathtaking and exciting and smelly and beautiful and all the other contradictory adjectives.

Mostly, it’s alive.

Here are the albums and EPs I listened to all the way through this past week: