albums i listened to all the way through

posted this week and every week (18)

I have a series of pre-show rituals. I know it may be weird for a regular non-musician like me to have such things, but it’s true. I’ve practically got it down to a science.

1. Eat a snack around 6:30pm and wait till about 7:15pm before heading to the venue. (I never want to hang around there by myself for more than twenty minutes.)

2. For Manhattan venues, take the local 6 train to Astor Place, Bleecker, or the Bowery.

3. For Brooklyn venues, take the express 4 train to Union Square. Transfer to the L train and ride just under the East River to Bedford, Lorimer, Grand, Montrose, or Jefferson.

4. Once outside in the fresh air, walk the two-to-ten blocks of pavement listening to what I like to call “Show Adjacent” music. Most of the time, this works to calm my nerves and get me excited for the show. In the case it doesn’t and I want to find the nearest trashcan to barf, I will turn to my tried-and-true—Sonic Youth.

Something about Sonic Youth blasting through my headphones at full volume as I make my way along the streets of New York feels oh-so-right. I feel remarkably cool and alert, like no one can touch me. I walk so confidently when “Into The Groovey” or “Incinerate” in their infinite sound waves fill my brain with infinite pleasure.

Then, the second I pull out my very obviously of-age horizontal ID and give it to the bouncer, I’m a 21-year-old loser again, unsure of exactly how to exist alongside the real adults. He gives it back with a “Go on in,” and I’m trapped in a galley-way bar, surrounded by cooler people with cooler clothes, cooler tattoos, and even cooler friends. It is rare I see another woman at these things alone. Mostly, it’s men in their 30s, 40s, and 50s skulking along the back and side walls, beer in hand, looking for any reason to connect with someone else there.

Or—maybe that’s just me.

See, I’ve been to enough of these shows to know what to expect. Doors open at 7pm. There is lots of waiting. The first of two or three acts goes on around 8:10pm. The main event will go on at 9:15pm or 10:00pm, depending on how many groups have opened for them. They will play a 45 minute set and likely be “convinced” to give an encore before everyone files out of the too-small room to an even-smaller bathroom, the merch table, the bar, and/or outside in plain view of the bouncer to smoke. (I can’t believe how many youngsters are still smoking.)

I go to most shows alone. It’s sort of my MO. I used to buy two tickets at a time and beg whoever was in my vicinity to go with me. I’ve had a few concert-going pals over the years and enjoyed many of those half-yelled, half-whispered conversations in close-quarters. You know the ones—where you have to repeat yourself at least three times to the person standing right next to you. I love those moments as much as the next person, but honestly? I go to so many shows now that it often works out better for me to fly solo.

Thankfully, at a show on Friday night, I was lucky enough to meet up with fellow Substacker Thomas Morra and spend a few hours reveling in the poetic and musical genius of artists, Adelyn, hemlock, and Lily Seabird. Thomas was kind enough to recommend Lily’s music to me a few months ago, and I’ve not the been the same since.

In a recent interview with Rolling Stone, I read that Lily is only 26—a year younger than me. Yet, at the show, she walked around the room with the air of someone twice her age. Onstage, she seamlessly transitioned between grateful singer-songwriter and total fucking rockstar, surrounded by her adoring family, friends, and fans.

A few months ago, Thomas told me I would surely feel weak in the knees watching Lily play live. By the end of her set, the first thing I told him was “Well, my knees are sufficiently weakened.” There was so much to love about her performance. You cannot help but feel connected to her and her band of uber talented Burlington, VT guys.

After the show, I asked her which of her band t-shirts she preferred. She sheepishly admitted she loved the release tour shirt because she designed it herself. I bought it without a second thought. There was so much I wanted to say to her:

“Your music is the best thing I’ve discovered this year.”

“You are easily the most prolific songwriter of your generation, alongside MJ Lenderman, Cameron Winter, and Olivia Barton.”

“I’ve listened to Alas, probably twenty times at least.”

In reality, I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I just kept repeating how amazing her performance was with shaking hands and a dazed expression. I left shortly thereafter, with all the merch I could carry along with a fresh copy of the June gunk showpaper. While meandering behind the young bar-goers scattered along the sidewalks of Alphabet City, I kicked myself repeatedly for not talking to more people.

How I manage to feel at home at every zine fair known to man but can’t find the guts to talk to my favorite artists at live shows without panicking, I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier to say “I’m a zine librarian,” and occupy some “expert” space in that vein. It’s a bit harder to explain what Substack is and what exactly it is I do here.

Some days, I don’t even know.

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When you go to shows alone and no one chooses to talk to you, you tend to learn a lot about the people around you—why they’re there, who they’re there with, and how exactly their week went. They laugh together like they’re in a 90s sitcom as your eyes shift over the expanse of the room, wondering if you look as awkward and unwanted as you feel.

“Something must be wrong with me,” you think, over and over and over again. Even when your beloved musical heroes surround you; even when you remember all the cool people in the room love the same music that you do, something must be wrong with you. You do not belong there. You are invisible. Even your newfound status as a wannabe Substack music journalist isn’t enough of a reason to try and fake it till you make it. Nothing you ever do at these things seems to be enough. You are always too much or or too little.

Of course, these feelings melt away as soon as the music begins. The music always brings you back to center. Something within you shifts the second the bass line kicks in, and suddenly, you’re at attention. The self-centered noise of fear, anxiety, and insecurity dulls just enough to enjoy the sweet sounds someone else spent years writing, recording, and playing. It’s all so breathtaking in a way nothing else is.

You wish you could live in that space forever.

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Thanks to Thomas Morra, Brigitte, and Andy’s Weird Ohio for their incredible, often life-changing, recommendations.

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

• Reckoning (1984) by R.E.M.~X

• His N Hers (1994) by Pulp~

• Short-Staffed at the Gene Pool (2001) by Ruby~

• Trash Mountain (2025) by Lily Seabird**X

• Alas, (2024) by Lily Seabird**

• 444 (2024) by hemlock**

• Inside the Marble (2024) by Margaux**

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Key —

~ = recommendations from Substackers & friends

** = albums I’ve heard before

X = listened to more than once this week

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