I bore witness to the perfect concert but didn't take any pictures of it.
Beyond The Algorithm #08: Gen X apparently doesn't do vapes, and Tamara Lindeman and I both love wearing XL band t-shirts
How many people have to witness something for it to be considered an historical event? Five? Fifty? Five-hundred? Fifty-thousand? Five billion?
Just one?
Whenever I go to small-ish shows where phone cameras are scarse and attendees are utterly lost in the music, I think about this photography book I found while doing research into the DC Punk scene. Dance of Days: Two Decades of Punk in the Nation's Capital is one of the most compelling books I’ve ever come across, primarily because its brutal pages all beg that question. How many people have to witness something for it to be considered an historical event?
Does it have to be documented in some way to prove it happened? Do there have to be photos, videos, and plastic drink cups? Precious artifacts to suggest, “Oh, yes. One night, in early April of 2025, three-hundred bodies crammed into an event space and watched six master musicians play one of the greatest live shows ever crafted.”
Well—the only evidence I have to prove I went to the that particular show is four vinyl records, an XL band-tee, a lime green wrist-band, and a ridiculous, kick-ass story.
I know an opening act is worth their weight in gold if I don’t feel the urge to check my phone at any point during their set.
Sister Ray is easily the best opener I’ve ever seen, save for maybe Turnover opening for Men I Trust back in 2019. She’s witty, talented, and perhaps the best songwriter I’ve ever had the pleasure to discover live. Her voice slips out and hangs in the air like the sweet smell of fresh blue-berry muffins. Her lyrics toe the exact right line between poetic and raw, leaving you haunted and doleful and desperate to know more. The music lulled everyone in the room into a cocoon of soulful serenity. It was was exactly what we needed to transition into The Weather Station’s particular brand of ethereral, exitential, jazzy rock.
Like Sister Ray said, this was a room full of people who love music. Not just stars or songs or passive playlists—music. Those are always the best rooms to be in, period.
Let’s go back for a second, though.
Initally, I was bummed I missed out on seeing Anna Tivel (whom I also adore) open for The Weather Station at the Bowery Ballroom on Tuesday, April 1st. Of course, I’d neglected to buy tickets in time, and that show sold out several months ago. Thankfully, they added a show the following evening at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. I jumped at the chance and bought two tickets. Being a massive fan of The Weather Station’s sound and lyrical genius, I expected a good show. Hell, I even expected a great one.
Except—this show was perfect.
I mean it. There was not a single moment, word, or note out of place. From the moment I arrrived at the venue, to the moment I stepped on the train platform to go back home to Manhattan, the entire experience was pitch perfect.
Did the bartender give me more rum than coke in my rum-and-coke? Yes.
Did I let a rando Gen X man smoke me out in the middle of the floor? Also, yes.
Did I spend a small fortune on vinyl and band merch? Yeah. You bet I did.
Should I have done those things? Hmm, maybe not, but it’s been a week and I’m sitting here, listening to Humanhood on vinyl, wearing my XL Weather Station band t-shirt, and cannot bring myself to feel a single ounce of regret. In fact, the spiritual, airy side of me believes I was supposed to see this show.
Half-way through the set, I had the distinct feeling that I, along with everyone else in that room, was meant to be there. Something from deep in the recesses of my cross-faded mind said the following—
Music is why we’re alive, maaaan.
All of this material—organic and non—has been developed, invented, and created for this moment, right here. The stars have aligned and I am bathed in electric golden light, watching six incredible musicians connect over something real—so innately human.
There is no sweeter sound than that of a woman’s soft, but powerful vocals laid over a solid bass line and precious woodwinds. I can’t explain it exactly, but something told me this particular blend of voice, instruments, and reverb was created by the universe so that I could finally admit to myself that music isn’t just why we’re—as in the human race—alive.
Music is why I’m alive—why I’m here.
It was instanteous. It was like someone turning a light on after several days in a blackout. It was inticing and inviting and authentic. It was—yeah, maybe a direct result of smoking that random guy’s weed, but it happened nonetheless. I lit up on the floor of the most beautiful music hall I’ve ever seen with a total stranger and you know what?
I felt so seen.
I had the strangest impression that I must have seen one of Mozart’s operas back in whenever the fuck or heard Miles Davis play with John Contrane at the Café Bohemia in September of 1956. I must have been a Gen X dude named Jason born in 1965 and heard Sonic Youth or Stereolab play in their hay days.
Seeing this concert, hearing this band, it all made me think, “Wow. This is a story I’ll tell my unsuspecting, cooler, younger co-worker with a lip ring one day.” (Unless climate crisis kills us all first, which is likely.)
Young Co-Worker in 2045: You saw The Weather Station play in 2025???
Me: That I did. I was the luckiest sumbitch that side of the East River that night.
Young Co-Worker in 2045: Wow. I would have given anything to see them play live in that era.
Me: Yeah you would, kid. Yeah. You would.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Abby, you were stoned. Of course it was a great concert.”
To that I say, “Eh.”
I’ve been to plenty of concerts stoned and never felt as good as I did at this one. Everything just made sense there, okay?
The opener was great and a true stunner. The music overall was mind-blowing. The band’s chemistry was off the charts. The mix was crafted by the music Gods themselves. The crowd was thoughtful and proud and alive. There wasn’t a still foot in the house. The energy was flowing just right.
Even in spite the strangest hot/cold, rainy weather outside, the temperature inside was excellent. No notes. I didn’t have to take off my big-ass, Levi’s Trucker Coat.
The funniest part of the night was when this random Gen X man went on and on to me about TOOL, Pavement, Taylor Swift, and his new Dominican girlfriend. Finally, just as the show started, he offered me some of his drug of choice.
“You have a vape?” I asked, knowing how most Gen Z music goers sneak weed into the venues.
He guffawed and said, “I’m Gen X. We don’t do vapes.”
“Can I quote you on that?” I asked playfully.
“Sure, who gives a fuck? Here,” and then he handed me a lighter and a glass pipe.
It was—dare I say it—the perfect show.
After it ended, I met Tamara Lindeman by the merch table. While I paid for my vinyl stash, I told her my favorite Weather Station album was How Is It That I Should Look At the Stars?
She said, “Really? That’s the dark one. No one likes that one.”
“I do.” I reassured her. “It’s stunning. One of the most beautiful albums I’ve ever heard, really.”
Then, we bonded over our shared love of XL band t-shirts. I told her I liked to sleep in them and got embarassed immediately after I admitted it. I couldn’t believe I’d practically told her my plan was to jump into my linen bed sheets that very night and snuggle deep into her band-tee. She laughed anyway and showed a smile I’ve never seen on her face before—bright, shining. (The Weather Station’s music is dark and exitential as fuck, okay?) It was so, so beautiful.
I think she must have known I was stoned because she told me to be careful when I replaced the cellophane shrink wrapper over the album she signed for me. I didn’t even ask her to sign it. She just offered to and wrote “To Abby, 💛Enjoy💛”
I didn’t even dread the hour-long train ride home afterwards.
Photo Sources:
Everyone deserves to have a show like this at least once in their lives!
Some of the best are the ones that today only exist in the minds of those lucky enough to have been there.
Also: As a GenXer, can confirm we don't do vapes.
i saw the weather station & sister ray in dc & had the same exact thoughts—love this!