As a music-loving kid growing up in the middle of nowhere, I dreamed of going to concerts. I got some small tastes early, including my first concert which happened when I was so young I don’t remember it. I’ve been told it was a country revue at the Missouri State Fair, and that Roy Acuff told my mom I was cute. He wasn’t wrong.
I remember my parents taking me to see Emmylou Harris and Michael Martin Murphy on a whim in Kansas City when I was pushing 10 or so. And then there was the first concert of my choosing: Mr. Mister at the Missouri State Fair in 1986, shortly before I turned 14.
Consciously, I don’t remember being at any of these shows, or feeling the energy that separates a concert from listening to recordings, but I knew there was something special about seeing live music with a bunch of strangers.
Recently I’ve been spending too much time on Threads, where I tend to waste time throwing insults at bigots. Not that insulting bigots is a waste of time. It’s a very good use of time, but you know. I saw a post in passing last week where someone asked why people like going to concerts, because he couldn’t fathom the appeal.
That’s been lodged in my head. I don’t expect live music to be a cure for everyone, but I do know that it fixes me. Halfway through The Spring W(h)ig-Out of 2026, the curative powers are clear.
Okay, so I didn’t make it to the Woodstock Afghan Whigs show to see if it would fix my concussion and migraine. That’s not exactly how it works. It’s about healing broken souls and broken hearts. Which, if you’ve made it to my age with both intact, I gotta know—have you ever met people or left your house? Especially in the last decade? Because there’s some spirit-breaking shit out there.
But not two weeks ago Monday night in Boston, when I stood in line without a vertigo episode, talking to friends old and new, enjoying the show with a friend you’ll find with me in the ADA seating area.
(I keep spreading the word about ADA seating at general admission venues because it’s not something people know about. I didn’t until three years ago when the nerve compression in my lower back threatened to cut my time at a Son Volt show short. Don’t let pain keep you home—there are options! Not always great options, but call the venue or talk to me if you want to stop putting life on hold until you feel better. Music heals! Or at least distracts!)
I’m lucky to live in a city that gets a fair number of concerts, but since I listen to a lot of artists with niche/cult followings, it’s pretty rare that my favorites come to St. Louis. Honestly, I’m having trouble remembering the last concert I saw here. Every show that comes to mind was in 2022 (Ani DiFranco) or 2023 (that Son Volt show). So I gladly travel to shows, since it combines two of my favorite things. One bonus: I’m less likely to run into people I don’t like at out-of-town shows. Another bonus: I’m likely to run into people I know from the online groups I’m in for The Afghan Whigs and Wilco. That’s how I’ve met some of my dearest friends.
Cincinnati’s Afghan Whigs show brimmed with those magic concert moments that I’ve never experienced in any other setting. I lucked into sitting next to Paige, her friend Victor, and her husband in the ADA area, although there was some kerfuffle because of Paige not being disabled and an usher seeming to forget that disabled people like her husband are allowed to bring people with them. Just because we can’t stand in the pit for three hours or so doesn’t mean we want to be in isolation with strangers.
Anyway, before the show Paige, Victor, and I talked at length. They came in from nearby Louisville and have long histories with the band. I was thrilled to listen to their stories of past shows and shenanigans.
But here’s what did me in:
Before the Cincinnati show, a woman posted on my preferred online group about how she met her best friend at a Gutter Twins show (a side project with Afghan Whigs leader Greg Dulli and Mark Lanegan) 18 years ago. They attended many shows together and were “ride or die” friends.
The friend, with the so-appropriate last name of Love, passed away far too young in December. The poster was facing her first show without her bestie, and it was breaking her heart. She threw it to the universe—she wanted a shout-out for her friend from Dulli. Maybe a song.
And, because we live in a small, connected world, she got her wish. Dulli told the brief story of the fan missing from the show that night, said her name, and played “Oriole” for her:
As soon as I realized what was going on, I grabbed my phone, opened to the group page, and just posted a quick 💕, knowing I wasn’t the only one in that room of 1,500 people doing the same. I’m guessing I wasn’t the only one weeping by the end of the song, either, prompted by the lines,
Through love I wander seek my thunder slip my number, undercover
Tears shed for a woman I didn’t know, but who should have been there with us. Although she was there. We summoned her. Ms. Love.
I’ve said a bunch of times that I love a hometown show. This is one of my Roman Empires, something I think about far more than is reasonable: I’m fascinated by the places where artists originated. Whether it’s the town where they were born, or where they lived when they created important works, I want to see it.
I have a chunk of the foundation from one of Woody Guthrie’s childhood homes sitting on my desk (please don’t tell anyone) from when I stood in the former basement among blooming wild violets in the freezing rain. I grew up less than a mile down the road from where Scott Joplin invented ragtime. And I live in beautiful Belleville, Illinois, the childhood hometown of one of my all-time favorites, Jeff Tweedy.
I might have an issue, but I’m not too concerned. It just means that I make some unorthodox trips, and have to keep my self-awareness at the forefront so I don’t cross over into creepy stalker behavior. And I probably shouldn’t steal any more house parts.
One of the things I love about a hometown show is the relatives and friends in the audience. At a solo Jeff Tweedy show in 2019, I found myself in the box seats reserved for his family with his eagle-eyed Aunt Gail questioning me. That was frightening for a few minutes, but when she learned that I had legitimately been invited to join them, she was a delight.
What I experienced in those box seats that night was a revelation. A wide assortment of Jeff’s family came and went. Aunts, uncles, cousins. And they were so damn excited. They knew the words to his songs, laughed at his stories, clapped wildly at the end of each song.
Out of my family, I think my mom’s the only one who has an interest in reading what I write. I’m not convinced she’s not just checking to make sure I don’t do anything to shame the family name.
So to see the extended family come out for their rock star kin, being truly excited to be there and heap praise on him, blew my mind. I honestly didn’t think that was a thing that happened in places other than. sitcoms.
At the Cincinnati Afghan Whigs show, Dulli and bassist John Curly had their families and local friends in the balcony. At one point Greg rattled off the long list of their names. “Those are my peeps!” Pre-show, Paige told me that, at the VIP Q&A session that afternoon, Greg had joked that his parents, who do not get along, would be on opposite sides of the balcony that night. But they’d be there!
When that level of love is in the building, it radiates down from the rafters, cushions every song, and envelopes everyone who walked out of their home to go see a band play some songs.
Another story posted this morning from last night’s show in Denver: A man took his high school best friend who’s suffering from early-onset dementia at only 46 years old, to the show. It was likely the last concert of his life. Even though he’s “barely himself anymore,” per his friend’s description, he sang along with the second verse of “Going to Town”:
When you say Now we've got hell to pay. Don't worry baby, that's okay. I know the boss
He then turned to his friend, huge smile on his face and said, “That’s such a badass line.”
When I read about this today, I once again got weepy. Every corner of that story is filled with so much heart and love. A bit of music bringing a person back to himself for a moment.
Music is a conduit, whether I’m in the crowd or sitting on my couch with some edibles and my cat, watching phone-made concert videos on YouTube.
There’s one big difference, though: Sitting at home, the conduit is between me and the artist. He creates, and parts of me latch onto what resonates, what sounds good to me, what rattles my soul. But at a show, the conduit is between the artist and all these individual receptors, absorbing the messages and emotions along with most of the people in the room experiencing it in real time. We crackle and spark, our energy searching for connection and often finding it. Because you get this song? Me too! Tell me when you first heard it and knew.
Wilco People. Whigs People. Woody People. I’m lucky to be a small part of all three of those groups that fill me up in ways that make it worthwhile to get on the plane, throw up weird chili in the parking lot, and go. Which I’ll be doing next week with The Afghan Whigs in Los Angeles and the high desert.
I cannot wait to do it all again.
Another way to connect with me? You can buy me a coffee!
Music is legit magic—long may we crackle + spark ✨
Amen!