Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Destin Cavazos, vocalist/bassist: Hey there! This is Destin, Alec and Henry and we are exPorter out of Santa Barbara, California. Usually we’re out here promoting our shows but this time we’re going to tell you all about shows that have made us cry… or almost cry. I don’t know how many shows we’ve seen between the three of us but it’s a lot and there have been some pretty special ones for sure.

Henry Kish, drummer: Well, I can't say I've ever cried at a show but whenever I see a band I love live for the first time, I always have this weird feeling of realization that these people actually exist. It’s almost a guilty thing, as if, “how have I never heard of this band before” but no crying.

Alec Cavazos, vocalist/guitarist: Yeah, I’ve cried at a couple of shows and they’re mostly Blink-182/Tom DeLonge related. He’s the reason I play guitar today and one time Blink came to the Santa Barbara Bowl so we were all stoked to go see that show. 

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Back in 2019, Otherworldly Entity was lucky enough to open for the legendary nu metal band, Cold, at Buffalo Iron Works in Buffalo, NY. It was such an amazing experience because we didn't just play the show and do our opener thing.

We loaded into the venue about five hours before the doors opened, so we had a lot of time to kill. I lived in Buffalo for about 10 years, and even though I had moved away by this point, I still had a lot of friends around, so we invited a couple to the venue to hang out with us. We ended up spending a large chunk of the day sitting around with Sam, Lindsay, Jon, Nick and Scooter, better known as Cold. It was such an amazing, eye-opening and surreal experience. But why?

For this, we need to rewind back to 2001. I had just started dating a girl named Meg, and it was the day of her birthday party. We were both 14 years old; I had just started playing in my first band the same month, and I invited my friend Phil over to help us set up for the birthday party. The day before, I purchased Cold's 13 Ways to Bleed On Stage album, so while we were setting up, we put the CD in. By the time we made it to track four, “End of the World”, I was absolutely in love with what I was hearing. There was a darkness to it; a genuine humanity, the raw emotion coming out of those speakers spoke to me. I turned to Meg and Phil and said, "Some day, I will play with Cold." Phil said, "I think your band needs to get better." I said, "I don't care if it takes 20 years, it'll happen."

In 2008, I married Meg. In 2011, Phil lost his battle with depression and took his own life. In 2017, Meg and I went through a difficult divorce, and I ended up surviving a serious suicide attempt as a result. By the time 2019 had rolled around, I had lost these two people that shared in that decisive moment with me in 2001, and to some extent, I felt like I had lost myself, too. Two of my closest friends for over a decade, and my own sense of self. But here I was, 18 years later, sitting in lawn chairs behind Buffalo Iron Works, smoking cigarettes, having drinks, warming up to share a stage with these legends.

We killed our set, we really brought the energy. We even covered System of a Down's "Spiders", an homage to Cold's spider logo. When Cold took the stage, I went nuts. That is, until I heard "End of the World". My world had ended multiple times since that day in 2001. But here I was, in the most epic of circumstances. I had to go backstage and just relax for a while.

After the show, when the fans had all left, Scooter came up to me and gave me a hug. He said that he saw my story of my divorce, my suicide attempt and my unlikely survival. He said, "I'm glad you're here." I said, "I wouldn't miss it for the world." He said, "No...I'm glad you're HERE." I knew what he meant. He didn't need to say more. That day changed my life - it started a new chapter in my life, and a new push in the future of Otherworldly Entity.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It began with a movie. A British movie that was released in 1990 starring Martin and Gary Kemp as East London gangsters, titled The Krays. As a child I was obsessed with this movie. I was 9 when I first saw it; 9 years old and I’m watching the true story of the Kray brothers causing carnage all over East London. Martin Kemp as Reggie, and Gary Kemp as the slightly more sociopathic Ronnie.

It was during this period that I discovered that my new favourite east enders were the bassist and guitarist from the 1980s, new romantic powerhouse unit, otherwise known as Spandau Ballet. So, after successfully completing a full decade of existence, my parents decided to take me to see my new favourite band as a birthday present.

Now this is where my now 10-year-old mind got a little confused. I believed I was going to see Spandau Ballet. I did not know that Spandau Ballet didn’t exist as they once did. I was also unaware that Martin and Gary Kemp were the actors/musicians who played the characters of the Krays in a movie. I believed they were them, if that makes sense? So I genuinely believed that I was going to actually see the real Ronnie and Reggie Kray playing in my new favourite band.

Instead I ended up going to see Tony Hadley perform with some original members of Spandau, but not Martin and Gary… and definitely not Ronnie and Reggie.

I was sold a lie by my parents. I felt betrayed.

“Where’s Ronnie and Reggie?” I would inevitably ask. My mum laughed.

“Martin and Gary you mean?”

“Who?” I replied.

It was during the show that my mum explained to me that Ronnie and Reggie Kray, although they were real people, were not the people in the movie. They were merely portrayed in the movie by actors, who also happened to be in Spandau Ballet, but were no longer in the band. I was utterly disappointed.

It was pretty much instant. I lost all interest in what was going on in front of me. I looked down at the greatest hits CD I’d brought along with the hope of meeting the Krays and getting them to sign it, and felt deflated. I leafed through the inside cover looking for some hard evidence that my mum was wrong, but instead I found the exact opposite. Written evidence that she was telling the truth. How could I have been so blind?!?! Reggie was in prison and Ronnie died in prison. The mathematics of them ever being able to form a 1980s, new romantic powerhouse unit was impossible.

Although quite upset, I decided to try to enjoy the rest of the show. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was back-to-back hits, from “Lifeline” to “Gold”, from “Chant No.1” to “Through the Barricades”. It was awesome. I’d almost forgotten that my two favourite east-end gangsters were not here. I even enjoyed it so much I still wanted to get my CD signed, so I begged my parents to let us stay a little longer with the hope of meeting Tony Hadley, the charmingly charismatic frontman of my favourite band. After about an hour of loitering, I got lucky. There he was: Tony Hadley. The only man to ever fight with the Kray twins and live to tell the tale.

Now was my moment. I plucked up the courage, felt my marker pen in my pocket and shuffled over to say hi. I can’t remember what I exactly said to him at the time, but I do remember him shouting, “Here’s a little geeza,” at me. I held out my CD and marker pen with enthusiasm. He reached out his hand to take them from me and then abruptly paused.

“Naaaah sorry mate, I can’t touch that.” He exclaimed tapping his finger on the pictures of Martin and Gary Kemp on the front. “That’s naffin’ to do with me mate. I could get sued.”

He then chuckled, turned his back and left the venue, leaving me stood there with my pen, my CD, my parents and a single tear trickling down my 10-year-old cheek… I hoped the Krays would get him.

That was the time I cried at a Spandau Ballet show.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

For as long as I can remember, The Beatles have always been a part of my culture. I’ve always been disappointed not to be born during the 60s because I always loved this period for all that it brought for rock music.

My dad is a huge Beatles fan and he used to play their songs with the guitar and sing along. It is also with their songs that I started to learn English. At one point, I wanted to understand their lyrics (I am French) so I practiced my English with them! At 4 years old I was learning the piano, and I think that 4 years later I knew how to play “Let It Be” and “Hey Jude”. At 11 years old, when I learned how to play the guitar, I wanted to play “Blackbird” or the guitar riff of “Day Tripper”.

When I was about 13 years old, my dad offered me a ticket to go with him and see Paul McCartney live at the Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy (named Accor Arena nowadays) in Paris. It was a dream come true. When we arrived at the venue, the place was so crowded; many famous musicians and singers were in the audience (for example, Sting was there). Everyone was waiting for this epic performance and man, it was epic! 37 songs played! I was singing almost all the songs with him, not being able to sit down for more than two minutes on my chair because I was so involved in the show.

When he finished the first part with “Hey Jude” and I heard the entire crowd singing along, I just felt the tears coming. It was magic.

The very last song of the show, “The End”, was just a pure moment out of time and space. I felt so connected with his music and his performance; seeing him on stage just changed my perception of how I wanted to play music, and my vision of a band (he has really wonderful bandmates as well).

I saw him on stage one more time in the Stade de France 10 years later, and once again I was impressed by him. He was more than 70 years old, and he performed as if it was the first time he went on stage, with a smile on his face all along…

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It was 28 May 2002 at the Royal Spa Centre in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, England. I couldn’t believe the great Hank Marvin himself was going to be playing in our sassy little town...

Years earlier, at some tender age or other, I heard and saw on television a band full of guitars (and one drum set). Flashy red guitars they were. I was only little, and those men with those gorgeous red guitars were kind of doing a shuffle dance as they played. How didn’t they trip over? It was just a guitar sound, mind - no singing. They called themselves The Shadows. They did have someone who sang with them sometimes though and when he did, I turned it off. His name was Cliff Richard and was obviously trying to copy the King, Elvis Presley.

That guitar sound just stuck into my head and I desperately wanted one of those beautiful red guitars, especially the one Hank used with the lever that had a white knob at the end. I thought he used that to pick the strings with and didn’t realise that when he wobbled it, the notes quavered somewhat.

Then I heard more similar music from some guys called Jet Harris and Tony Meehan. Their “Diamonds” and “Scarlet O’Hara” were added to my music collection, along with “Dance On”, “Wonderful Land” and “Foot Tapper” (the latter three from The Shadows). It wasn’t until much later on that I found out Jet Harris and Tony Meehan used to be in The Shadows and even later on than that, Jet Harris was actually playing ‘lead bass’ for “Diamonds” and “Scarlet O’Hara”, not a Stratocaster! Needless to say, The Shadows and in particular, Hank Marvin, was my first love of music before the advent of The Beatles, then Led Zeppelin, then Dire Straits and so on.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I’m thinking I should re-title this article to “The Time I Bawled Like A Little Bitch At A Devin Townsend Show” because that might be closer to what actually happened.

I’ve always been very vocal about my love of Devin Townsend. As a musician, he is easily the one that influenced me the most since I discovered his music circa 2013. Since then, he has also helped provide the soundtrack to my life; his music has seen me go in and out of borderline abusive relationships, touring the UK with my band Novacrow, couch-surfing due to homelessness, and almost every other experience I’ve had. I have seen him at every opportunity I’ve had, even flying to Bulgaria to catch his set at an ancient roman amphitheatre!

On this occasion, however, I bawled like a schoolgirl mid-set. Tears of joy, mind you, but tears nevertheless. It was during his headline performance at Bloodstock Open Air 2021, specifically during the song “Spirits Will Collide”. Let’s take a look at what led up to that moment (insert dreamy glissando and wavy transition) …

That’s right, Bloodstock Open Air was one of the first major festivals to re-open after the COVID pandemic! Most international bands were still hesitant to tour or simply couldn’t get the paperwork in time, but fortunately Devin was not one of them. As a big fan of the guy, I had been following him throughout the past year and a half and he was clearly having a rough time with the pandemic situation. And he obviously wasn’t alone - regardless of your stance on the pandemic/lockdowns, the whole situation was rough on an awful lot of people.

Whilst I personally enjoyed the time off and found the first few months very peaceful and good for my mental health, it eventually started triggering anxious episodes that I had never really experienced before and it just started getting worse from there. So when the festival came round, I think most people were excited to just be getting away from things for a few days and pretend things were back to normal for a weekend.

That said, when Devin hit the stage I was several drinks in and SUPER excited for it. He didn’t have his usual band, so the whole stage show and sound was very stripped back, which gave the whole headline show a bit of a more intimate feel in some ways. He went through his usual set, and for me it was the first time I got to hear him play some Strapping Young Lad songs (songs from his metal band that he’s been saying since 2007 he would never play again) so already emotions were high. Once “Deadhead” started playing (a slow burning, eight-minute, epic love song), I could feel the emotional tension rising as everyone was just so dang happy to be there, listening to this hugely inspirational man scream his lungs out about how much he loves his wife.

Eventually he started riffing an intro for “Spirits Will Collide” whilst talking about the whole previous year. Given the strong and uplifting anti-suicide theme to the whole song, I knew he was going to pull all the strings out for this little ditty. He invited a crowd of people onto the stage, along with a giant gorilla and elephant to parade around the stage as he started belting out the lyrics. I was just as happy as a clam, gleefully singing along until the sudden reconciliation of my own struggles with mental health, what this previous year meant to the world, the uplifting message of the song in question, and the fact that I have had such a fun time away from the everyday tribulations of life, all hit me at once and I started crying. And clearly I wasn’t the only one who had these thoughts as people all around the crowd were also crying. The rest of the set went on and it felt like a magical afterglow - everyone was just so damn happy to be there; Devin himself also seemed so excited to be on that stage. It was just a wonderful performance for everyone involved. 10/10, would cry again.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It all started with a 4-year-old girl falling in love with the album Bring Me To Life, or “the CD with the pretty girl’s face on it”.

Even at a young age I was drawn into the soothing voice of Amy Lee, accompanied by these classical and rock aspects perfectly intertwining together to make a movement and/or masterpiece. I had a hard upbringing and really relied on the lyrics of Evanescence who, for me, felt like she was speaking to me. Funny enough, her solo single “Speak To Me” is one of my favorites, especially the live version.

So there is 4-year-old me, who heard Evanescence once and all of my hopes and dreams were laid out in front of me. I started piano lessons that same year and started singing at age 7. I had so many obstacles in my way and people who didn’t believe in me, and each year my confidence plummeted a bit more. Around the age of 10, my mental stability really took a turn for the worst and I was just this sad, angry little kid. That year I started using piano and singing as a coping mechanism. I would play for hours instead of inflicting self harm or to distract my mind. I started to write my own songs then as well, but the first song I always seemed to play when my fingers touched any keyboard was “My Immortal”. I’ve never related to a song more. As a kid I was so tired of being there and I was suppressed by all of my fears. Every word she sang hit home for me.

Now we fast forward about 20 years, and I walk into a bar that changes my whole life. My cousin and I went out for a girls night and there was Leaving Eden up on stage; the first time I ever cried at a concert. The first thing I noticed was that the band was female-fronted, and although a different sound than Evanescence, they were epic! I knew then that I was meant to be up on that stage with them.

They played an original song - it might have been “How I Miss You” - and I had tears falling, goosebumps; I was truly moved.

Then BOOM! I am playing keys for Leaving Eden. BAM! Singing and starting to write songs for Leaving Eden. Drum Roll Please! Now I am seeing Evanescence live for the first time.

I was counting down the days until the concert before the pandemic postponed it. I was so upset for weeks. When the time finally came, I was absolutely blown away.

Having such high expectations, I almost expected them not to be met. No one is that good. But Amy Lee took my expectations and threw them out the window with the first song they played. When the grand piano came out for “My Immortal”, I knew what was coming. There I was, standing in the crowd, watching my life played in front of me through her song. I think I sang the whole dang song with her. It was as if nothing else mattered; I was completely entranced in the moment. It’s crazy how music literally feeds your soul. I needed that. In that moment, it was like my life finally had meaning. I finally made it somewhere and I almost felt like I owed some of that to Evanescence. I was so emotional, I didn’t even notice when I began to cry. With my hands up in the sky, I lived in the moment and sang my heart out.

There were so many moments where I literally saw myself up there. I never realized how similar we were in our performance styles at the keyboards, even the way she moves while singing. It’s like without even knowing it, I conditioned myself my whole childhood with her music and it has made me a better artist now. I could only dream of opening for Evanescence and sharing a stage with Amy Lee, although a long shot I will never give up hope!

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I always wondered how people become followers of "cult bands". Well, well, well, here is the story of how I became just that.

I've seen The Flaming Lips live five times so far and it's going to be a lifelong ritual to see them every single time I possibly can. This story begins kind of dark though. On June 16, 2012, I had tickets to see Radiohead - instead, a terrible incident happened at Downsview Park in Toronto, Canada. While lined up outside with tickets in hand, eagerly waiting to get into the concert grounds, we watched parts of and heard the stage roof cave in from afar. What we didn't know at the time is that it had fallen onto members of the crew and ultimately killed their beloved drum technician and injured three other crew members. This information was not released to the public until days later, but all we knew was that ambulances were arriving on the scene and the concert had been indefinitely cancelled. Radiohead is not a band that tours very often, so not knowing about any injuries at that time, everyone waiting to get in to see their favorite band was devastated. Although we didn't know the extent of what happened, there was so much heaviness felt in the air from worry and disappointment. Before I move on with my story I want to take a moment to send my love and best wishes to everyone who suffered from this horrific incident, and love and respect to their beloved drum tech and family. Putting myself in that situation I can only imagine how horrifying and devastating an experience like this would be. There have been ongoing lawsuits since and I hope that the friends and families can be helped and find justice for this terrible event.

After this happened, about 10 people that I was going to the concert with walked to a nearby park. We sat and literally threw a ball around like we were all sad kinds from Charlie Brown. We then decided to look up what else in the city was going on and saw that The Flaming Lips were playing for free at Yonge and Dundas (If you don't know what that is, it's Toronto's take of Times Square). We all geared up and hopped on the subway to make it to that show on time. The air was heavy before The Lips hit the stage and somehow, looking around it felt collectively recognized. I knew only of The Lip's biggest songs - "Do you Realize" and the song from the Batman movie. With the knowledge of those two tracks I was actually really excited to see them play as I had zero expectations of what it was going to be like. Oh boy, now if you haven't ever been or seen what a Lips show looks like, be prepared, or don't be (cuz it's a fun surprise). You have never seen anything like it before nor will anything ever compare after. There will be the most colorful light shows you eyes have ever laid on, rainbow metallic confetti stuck in your clothes for months, frontman Wayne Coyne will be floating and singing around the crowd in a plastic bubble, the most intense synth and bass sounds injected into your veins, and overall there will be love felt so violently like you've never felt before. My senses were overloaded. The come down from a Lips concert sometimes takes days and it's wonderful. Wayne did mention his sorrow for the collapsed stage and his friends in Radiohead the night of that show as he knew that a lot of us had come over from that concert to this one. I cried so much that night for so many reasons. The emotions were just like the show, overloaded.

That concert was the first time my partner told me he was in love with me. Imagine a concert like what I've been telling you about, and on top of it, the young rush of love to make your heart flutter at a million miles per hour. I will forever connect my love for The Flaming Lips and their music to my still current love of 10 years. I cannot listen to a Lips song without hanging on to every sound and word as feelings of love are so deeply connected to the sounds. My first time seeing them was a beautiful, unforgettable snapshot that I cling to dearly in my life. Typing this out now I'm feeling choked up in my thoughts, thinking about that night and how emotions ran the gamut. I cried so hard and so much that night. I cried at my newfound admitted love. I cried worried about what happened back on that stage. I cried about life realizations, and I even cried holding strangers standing all around me that night. We all felt it. That night was one of those moments in life where you are in the moulting phases of being reborn. That's the night I realized magic really does exist in this world of ours. If you know what I am talking about, you know.

Since then I will never miss a Flaming Lips show. I've quit jobs, I've travelled, I've gotten tickets to whole festivals just to see them. Every single time I go, magic happens. If I were to get into every magical story that has happened at each of their shows, you would be here reading for a long ass time so I won't put you through that. lol. What I will say is that after that fateful summer night, I've over the years managed to meet Wayne Coyne and the rest of that gracious band to have beautiful chats with them. My band even hosted the official after-party here in Toronto the last time they played. I hope that one day I get to not only open for them (what a full-circle lifetime achievement that would be) but also get to work with them musically on a project. The Flaming Lips helped me believe that magic exists and that none of these dreams I want are too far fetched anymore. 

Here I am, 10 years later, an avid follower of a "cult band". Every person who goes to their shows then has a magical story to tell about it. In short, it's not just that time I cried at a show, it's that I will cry every single time I see or hear The Flaming Lips. It's a beautiful, magical, connective cry and It's comforting to look forward to.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I know some people say that you should hold your feelings inside and some don’t want grown men to cry, but as a music lover and a musician myself, I tend to love the shows where I connect with the artist. Where I feel that the song is written for me or about me. I can truly say that I have been very emotional on many occasions at shows but there are a couple of very special moments that I tend to go back to when I want to remember a really strong, sad but also empowering moment.

In this case there was a very small show for a school for pop/rock/funk artists called Kulturama. Young adults were performing and there was a lot of talent in that room. The thing is that I know that one of the singers, a very young female singer, had cancer, and it was terminal. She did not have much time left but with the support of her friends and with heavy medication she had pushed herself to be a part of this final show. 

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It has to be said upfront: I cried at all David Bowie concerts I was lucky enough to witness, and I was fortunate enough to attend quite a few of them. The first was in 1987 on the rather ill-fated Glass Spider Tour. By that time I had been an avid fan for four years, ever since my sister bought the album Let’s Dance, which got me hooked from the scratchy guitar intro of the opening song, “Modern Love”. I was still a child back then, but immediately knew that Bowie was the gate to something bigger. So I started digging into his back catalogue and also the oeuvre of his friends and collaborators he would always be keen to mention in interviews to boost their exposure: Lou Reed and Iggy Pop. Through them, I got into the disciples of this Sacred Triangle such as Psychedelic Furs, Joy Division, Echo & The Bunnymen and ABC. It’s fair to say that without Bowie I would possibly be listening to Top 40 radio and wasting away in some dull office job.

When the man announced he would be touring the better part of 1987 after four years off the road, the excitement was enormous. We got tickets for the show on July 1 at Vienna’s Prater Stadion, and in the weeks before the show, anticipation would build to an almost unbearable extent. Come the day of the concert, and you’d find me by the gates as early as 10:30 in the morning. It was probably the hottest day of the year, and my skinny 14-year-old self struggled not to faint until the doors finally opened at 17:00. From then on, another two hours to go until the forgettable local support band and another four until Bowie’s grand entrance.

And suddenly there he was, abseiling from the stage top - remember, the tour was called Glass Spider for a reason, with the stage resembling a giant spider - and I couldn’t hold back the tears. There he finally was, the man I had been idolizing since I was 10, live on stage right in front of me. He looked a bit ludicrous in the red suit and this awful mullet-cum-quiff haircut, but who cares! It was Bowie for Christ’s sake! I remember I managed to recompose myself after the first thrust of emotions, but tears would roll again during “All The Madmen”, “Heroes” and “Absolute Beginners”. I vividly remember so many details from this show it’s ridiculous. Though it’s fair to say the album Never Let Me Down and the Glass Spider Tour were not Bowie’s most glorious moments, I’ll forever cherish the memories of that night.

I would see Bowie many more times and in much better artistic shape. The Sound+Vision greatest hits tour, Tin Machine - yes, I really love this band - Outside and Earthling tours in the 90s, Heathen and Reality tours in the 00s… Bowie always put his heart into the performance, whether it was in a small club or in a huge stadium. Of course, the most Bowie-related tears I shed was on January 10, 2016, when he unexpectedly shuffled off this mortal coil. The memories of our first in-person encounter on July 1, 1987 remain.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Dreams really do come true.

This story begins in 1985, when 9-year-old me was blasting the newest album (on cassette) called Synchronicity by the biggest band in the world and my all-time fave, The Police. Being the youngest of five kids in my family, I relied heavily on my big brothers for new music I could steal – I mean, borrow from them. Little did I know that months later while sitting at #1 on the charts for a goddamn year (no exaggeration), this massive group would do the unexpected and… break up?!

Along with millions of other fans, I was absolutely devastated. It was the first time I ever felt so empty, almost like what it would feel like if my parents got divorced. I wasn't born when The Beatles broke up but now I could understand the massive impact that must have had on the world and my father, Efren Pereira Sr., who was a super fan. It was he who sparked my love for music with a vinyl collection that included The Fab Four, Motown, Sly and the Family Stone, the Bee Gees, Elton John and basically nothing but the greats. I would spend the rest of my adolescent years dreaming of the day when my band would reunite, because all bands do that eventually right? Wrong.

Fast forward to 1995.

I was inspired to start my own power trio we called Wide Mouth Mason, which featured yours truly on bass and vocals like my idol, Sting. We played our first sold-out show at our legendary campus bar Louis' Pub on the University of Saskatchewan campus (go Huskies!), where every huge Canadian act at the time had also played on their come up. It was no surprise the biggest hit of the night was none other than our cover of The Police's lesser-known 1978 soft single, “So Lonely”. It felt so satisfying to live vicariously through my heroes, but nothing was ever going to fill my nostalgic appetite more than them getting back together.

A few years later, I got click-baited into purchasing a copy of Rolling Stone magazine with the lads on the cover and titled, 'The Police Reunion'. Could it be true? Well unfortunately, that was a hard NOPE. They merely reunited for an interview which ended up feeling like a couples therapy session. Sting apologized to Stewart, who apologized to Andy, all due to a big miscommunication and years of living on the road in close quarters with your brothers. I believe, however, that this played a key factor in what was to happen in 10 more years.

Super fast forward to 2007.

At the prestigious Grammy Awards, a mystery band was to be kicking off the show, and low and behold when the lights came on it was like they had never left. The crowd and millions of people watching around the world went berserk, including myself obviously. And just like that, with no warning the unthinkable happened - they were BACK!

I had all but given up hope of a reunion until this historically shocking moment. I mean, it had been 22 years after all. And to the pure happiness of every fan, they announced a worldwide reunion tour that would be starting in wait what... CANADA?!

I wasted no time in joining the online fan clubs to give me the best shot at buying tickets to a concert. I snagged a pair to the Montreal show for two reasons:

1. It was taking place towards the end of their Canadian tour so they will have shaken off any rust by then.

2. Montreal had been a place where they had spent a lot of time making records and forming close friendships, so I knew they would be treating it like a hometown show.

I was right!

So here we go.

In the scorching heat of July in 2007 at a packed Molson Centre (now known as the Bell Centre), home of the famous Les Habitants hockey team, my partner at the time and I were sitting 15 rows up on the bass player’s side of the stage with nothing but their iconic gear laid out in a perfect triangle. There was a buzz unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I realized my dream was about to become a reality.

Through the darkness, you could see three figures appearing from backstage. As the crowd roared into a frenzy, there came the blistering intro guitar riff of their classic smash hit, “Message In A Bottle”. And there they were – Stewart Copeland's lanky frame smashing his drums with surgical precision, Andy Summers hammering those add nine chords, and of course, their fearless frontman Gordon Sumner aka Sting, smacking his gorgeous 1959 Fender Jazz with most of the paint having worn down to the wood from the thousands of shows he had performed with it. And there was me, a grown man bawling his eyes out, completely overwhelmed with an emotion and joy I didn't think was possible to experience. Suffice to say, it was the best concert I have ever seen and probably will ever see in my lifetime. At one point I snuck my way within a few rows, and as they did the real version of “So Lonely” as their encore, I swear to god Sting looked over as I belted out the harmonies to his verse lyrics.

What.. A... Night!

The next morning, the power in our hotel room serendipitously went down so my fiance and I strolled over to my fave breakfast place called Eggspectations. By the time I sat down to order, I kid you not, in walks drummer Stewart Copeland with a stylish lady. I waited until they ordered and then we approached them. I got to tell him how much of an influence he has been on my music career. He then offered to sign the concert swag we didn't realize we were still wearing. A legendary moment with a legendary performer.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Growing up in foster care, the closest thing I had to a father was my Children's Aid worker, Ron. He was my rock and although it took me years to trust him, once that trust was solidified, he became my greatest confidant and role model. He helped me through some catastrophic experiences, even at the expense of his job. He was the kind of man who always did his best to do the right thing and do right by those he worked with. If it weren't for him, I genuinely don't know where I would be today.

Ron introduced me to a band called Supertramp and we'd blare it in his car while drinking coffee. He gave me life advice, spoke of his own experiences in the foster care system and told me all the ways I should be getting my life together - and let me tell you, he wasn't wrong.

In my early 20s, just shortly after realizing that he was a safe person, I found out Ron had terminal cancer. I found out early in the week, and he was gone by the weekend. Heartbroken and riddled with grief, I went out and bought all of his favourite albums. I don't think a day went by that I didn't play them on full blast, choking down tears in total disbelief that he was no longer here and that I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. These albums became the soundtrack of our unusual bond and always made me feel a little less alone in the world.

One day, a few years after his death, I was scrolling online. I discovered that Roger Hodgson (one of the founding members of Supertramp) would be in Ottawa in the coming months. I had to go! My partner at the time and I instantly purchased the best tickets we could afford, which included the opportunity to watch him and the band soundcheck. We got our plans together, and I was over the moon!

When we showed up the night of the show, we unfortunately missed the soundcheck. I never received the email regarding soundcheck times, and we missed it by an hour or so. Little did I know that the universe had bigger plans for me that night. Suddenly, someone approached me and asked me if I had missed the soundcheck and explained that some people unfortunately never received the email. They said they were the touring manager and that they'd like to make it up to me by allowing me to meet Roger himself. I was absolutely gobsmacked! As I gathered myself together, they turned to me and said, "Just go over to that table over there and ask for Ron; he'll set you up."

Needless to say, I cried at that moment and cried the entire duration of the show. I was so overwhelmed with joy knowing that my father figure managed to be there with me in spirit. Call it fate, or whatever you wish, but I truly felt his presence and know he was there with me that evening.

This experience just further solidified that Ron will always be with me. His legacy lives on in those he's influenced over the years, the music he loved, his stories and his beautiful family. Ron will be involved in every major life event I have moving forward, and I know he will continue to throw little curve balls at me to lead me down the right path. Though I wish he were here, I can assure you that whenever I'm feeling low, it isn't uncommon for me to hear someone blaring Supertramp with their system up and their windows down. Thanks for always sticking with me, Ron.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I grew up in southeastern Virginia, where there weren’t a lot of people who looked like me - a second-generation Asian American born to immigrant parents with accents. I was used to the teasing about my last name and my ethnic appearance, and I accepted the pressures my father’s culture imposed on me - study hard, get good grades and all that.

I did have a few Asian classmates, but they all seemed to play right into the stereotype of the model minority, with all their academic excellence, particularly in math and science. I tried really hard to fit into this mold too, but it was always a struggle.

While my parents put me in piano and violin lessons, I think they saw it as merely extracurricular activities that might later look good on a college application; another stepping stone toward becoming a doctor, engineer or scientist. I don’t think it ever crossed their minds that music could become a life-long passion or calling. To this day, I don’t think they know the role that music played in keeping me emotionally stable, even going so far as keeping me alive during my worst times.

I don’t remember seeing many prominent Asian Americans in the arts as a kid growing up. There were a few, but I’m happy to see there are so many now more than ever. And while I didn’t have many role models as a kid, I’m grateful that as an adult I can still be inspired by people who, by virtue of being Asian Americans with an affinity toward the arts, have a shared experience with me.

I’ve probably cried at more than one Kishi Bashi show. But this one was particularly emotional. The venue was tiny compared to places where I was accustomed to seeing him. It occurred to me later that he had chosen it on purpose, to create an intimate experience. This one was different. He had brought his parents with him to the show.

I could see how proud of him they were. He even had his father go on stage and play a traditional Japanese song on saxophone. It blew my mind that his parents, first generation Asian Americans, could be so supportive of their son’s artistic work. His parents, like mine, had started him in music as a young child, but they allowed him to pursue his creative calling, and even supported it! I did feel some pang of jealousy, wishing my parents had been like his. But the overwhelming feeling was one of joy, as his performances always elicit from me. Joy from being wrapped up in the enchanting musical experience he created by his performance, but also joy in knowing that he had not been afraid to take risks, so why should I?

As he stood on a chair in the middle of the audience, surrounded by fans with flashlights creating a warm glow around him, he led everyone to sing with him. The experience was beautiful and overwhelming and wonderful, and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

During the performance he spoke about how supportive his parents were and how grateful he was, and he even had a message for his audience. He talked about how he dropped out of engineering school and went to music school instead. He said, “I had the support of my parents. If you have any kids who really want to go into the arts, give them a chance. It’s important for humanity.” If I wasn’t already in tears from experiencing his music, that statement opened the floodgates.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I was going through the worst heartbreak I had ever been through up until that point in life. Actually you know what, still to this point, I haven’t felt as heartbroken as I did that summer.

In 2018, my life totally flipped around. My best friend, my band mate and someone I grew into adulthood with for five years moved on with someone else, and as dramatic as it sounds, I was relearning how to do life by myself. I mean that in every way it can be taken. I couldn’t wake up without thinking of texting her. I couldn’t eat, leave my house, go anywhere without tracing back to a time where we obviously would’ve done the same together before.

Trying to make music was horrific. Today, I know what I was so stuck on back then was codependency. But at the time, I just thought I was empty. It felt like I had nothing of my own at 22.

The timing between my breakup and breakups among some of my friends lined up pretty simultaneously. So we had endless nights where we’d call each other up to hang out and do anything we could. Sometimes when we talk about it now, we refer to our binges out and about as a means of survival. It’s so, so, over the top, but truly it felt like while others at the parties we’d go to were there for a good time, we were there so we weren’t at home beating new records of how much we could cry.

It was Canada Day, and a friend invited me to tag along to one of his friend’s shows. They’d be headlining a festival in a park; there were fireworks, there were carnival games. I don’t remember much else; I could hardly see past myself those days. I called my friend while I was out there; she was one among the heartbroken club who I knew would appreciate a day like Canada Day not having been spent alone, and while she debated at first she came.

We hung out for a bit before Courage My Love’s set, found things to laugh at and hold tears in about, and then we went to join the others on the grass for the show. They totally crushed it as per usual. I think at the time they were on an album cycle for Synesthesia.

Being around live music was still really hard at this point. My ex and I experienced half our relationship playing live music together, being around live music, so for most of the set I was doing breathing exercises, grounding myself - casual. It wasn’t until they played “Need Someone” that the waterworks started.

It wasn’t that I was crying about my ex though. The song’s really sweet because it speaks to being there for someone, regardless of what toll that might be on yourself. It made me feel really deeply in my chest how lucky I was to have my friends. And while maybe there wasn’t any unrequited love in the dynamic, it was an unfortunate situation for both of us, but we were both there.

Later at night the fireworks went off, and most of the day I dreaded watching them because I knew I’d hold it to the previous Canada Day. But it wasn’t half bad. My friend sat right next to me, arm in arm, and in silence for bits at a time.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I first heard of Rihanna the summer I turned 17, when I was working as a ranger in an all-girls forestry program in Northern Ontario. On one of the last days of the program, the coolest girl at the camp told me that she liked Rihanna, and that was it; my life was changed.

Six years later, in 2012, I was in my third year of university for music. Studying pop production and singing, I had no shame in the Rihanna posters taped up on my wall. Not only had I devoured all of her music, but I was a true fan of her brand. Her seemingly badass confidence inspired me to no end. I channeled Rihanna in every song I produced, every show I performed and in every spit-spackled scolding I gave to the boys vying for my affections. Rihanna was the spirit I called on to propel me through the tumultuous first few years away from home.

So, when Rihanna announced Toronto tour dates for March 2013, I was ready. I scraped together every dollar (and I mean scraped) in order to pay for the most expensive concert tickets I had ever bought - only my idol could conjure such lavish expenditure from me, which I planned and bought months in advance.

And then, out of nowhere, I won a pair of tickets for Rihanna's surprise 777 Tour that November.

A Facebook contest I entered had paid off...

So I cried!

I cried from shock. I cried because I was so broke that I couldn't imagine being able to afford seeing Rihanna twice in the span of a year. I cried because the show was the next day. I cried because I could invite a +1. And I cried because I was finally going to see my idol, who in large part had influenced my entire career path, and I was seeing her in person tomorrow.

That night was a whirlwind. I called my biggest Rihanna-loving friend and we made a plan to ditch our music improvisation lecture to go stand in line early the next day at the Danforth Music Hall. I barely slept, and the next day we dressed our best and made our way down to the venue two hours early so we could be first in line.

Pushed up against the stage, I remember seeing Rihanna walk out like a god. She was like the living manifestation of all of my hopes and dreams. And when she sang her hits, notably "Cockiness", “Birthday Cake", "Diamonds" and "We Found Love", we sang along every word. I touched her hand as she waved it through the crowd, and I beamed with happiness.

Months later, when we saw her at the ACC, thousands and thousands of fans surrounding us this time, we laughed and cried again.

It's surreal to think of it now, so many years later. It feels like I'm explaining the moment that I met a Messiah. But for me, it was truly a life-changing concert, and I'm in awe looking back on that once-in-a-lifetime moment.

The time that I won tickets to see my biggest musical inspiration, Rihanna.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It was the spring of 2013 and The JUNO Awards were being held in my hometown, hosted by Michael Bublé. I was super into Bublé’s smooth crooner vocals as a kid, and I was sure he’d put on a good performance. I was all coiffed, suited and booted in generic hipster attire, having been styled meticulously by my first girlfriend with suspenders, dress shoes, a bowtie, some pomad, and a smug smile that says, “Yeah, I heard of them ages ago.” It was a year after I graduated high school, and as such, I had zero confidence in my ability to dress myself.

Somewhere between us getting ready at her mom’s house, we found the time to argue enough to warrant the occasional silent treatment from one another. Arguing was the activity we did the best, and certainly the most frequently throughout our relationship. When her mom dropped us off at the venue, we took our place in the long line at the entrance, and despite our catty antics with one another, my ex and I got to talking to the other JUNO attendees on either side of us. I tried making conversation with a 40-something year old man in very tight leather pants, but he wasn’t very talkative and he must have found the deathly stranglehold on his groin distracting, as he squirmed around uncomfortably in his tight leather prison. It seemed clear to me that this was the first time he had worn them. I turned away from him to a small woman, not much older than the first man, who was telling anyone who would listen that she had followed Michael Bublé from all of his previous appearances across the country, and was excited to finally be able to see him live again for the 400th time. She also showed us a picture of her with Oprah, and I noticed the strained expression on Oprah’s face was identical to mine at that current moment, as I examined the uncomfortable photo that was the background on her phone. “What a shameless, crazed fanatic - I can’t stand people like this,” I thought. Security opened the doors and my ex and I filed into the arena, with about 50 bodies between us as we dare not look at each other’s annoying face (*sigh*, young love…).

I found myself perpetually pushed forward from the in-flowing crowd behind me, like garbage in the trash compactor of Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope. I ended up being stationed about six feet from the long, narrow stage, with my ex being about one foot from it, sandwiching a bunch more stinky strangers between us.

The event was finally officially getting under way, and the lights shutting down heralded the beginning of the night’s entertainment as a voice called, “Please welcome your host: Michael Bublé!” Every person around me sounded out their enthusiasm with unbridled excitement at seeing a REAL LIVE CELEBRITY! Michael walked up the stage steps with his arms turned up towards the heavens, walking slowly like a Greek god greeting us peasants. I was well out of my adolescent Bublé phase, and as such was unaffected by the hysteria. Again, I scoffed to myself, “What sheep! What brainwashed, mindless-“ and as Michael drew closer to me, crossing the strip of stage, I felt my heart rate start to increase. As Michael’s beautiful head swivelled in my direction, I could feel my armpits sweating off my cheap sports deodorant. I was immediately gripped with fear, as I started to understand that the gut reaction to seeing Mr. Bublé just feet from me was making me lose control. The shrieking in my midst was at a fever pitch, and from the depths of my desperate, 19-year-old soul, a ball of unpredictable fire was making its way up my windpipe. As Michael passed directly in front of me, my arms shot up towards the ceiling, my mouth fell open and I cried out (to my total shame): “MICHAEL! YOU’RE AMAZING!”

Even the tweens beside me looked at me with contempt, as my arms slowly descended and I realized with horror that I was without a doubt the most despicably desperate of all the brainless sheep there that night. As I felt my JUNO pass that hung from my neck between my sweaty fingers, this realization combined with all of the previous pent-up emotions from my ex and I fighting, and a single tear rolled down my baby-faced, razor burned cheek, as I silently mourned the loss of my self-respect.

Not to sound like a melodramatic 20-something, but I’m pretty positive that live music is the best thing that exists in this world, and if you asked me a year ago, I would have told you there was no way I could live without it. From basement shows to stadiums, I spent many years being at probably at least one show a week. I’ve traveled all over the country for live music and I do believe it is one of the most pure, wholesome and good things this world has to offer.

About five months into the live music dry spell that became life-during-COVID, after live streams had long become old news, The Front Bottoms announced a drive-in show at Monmouth Park Racetrack. Within minutes I had a car of friends set on going, and though I was positive it was going to be a strange show, it was still a show. A real show. And I was thrilled.

On a warm night at the end of August, in the home stretch of a summer that didn’t really feel like summer at all, we sat in the parking lot of a racetrack, surrounded by cars staggered out like we were pieces on a checkers board, ready to see a show. My three friends and I parked ourselves atop my friends’ SUV, two of us on the hood, two of us on the roof - masks on, pool floats as pillows, clutching boxes of Girl Scout cookies and Diet Cokes, waiting to sing our hearts out.

It was golden hour when the show began. By the end, the moon was shining perfectly above the stage. The sea of cars honked their horns after each song. People were dancing on top of their cars and screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs. It was wholesome. It was perfect.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

This story starts when I was 12 years old…

I was sitting on the piano bench at my music teacher’s house, figuring out the song that I wanted to learn to play and sing at our annual recital. The song that stuck out to me was “When You Say Nothing at All” by Alison Krauss. As she placed the sheet music in front of me, I noticed “Written by Paul Overstreet” and that was the first time I ever learned what it meant to be a songwriter. I also learned that Alison Krauss had done her own rendition after it was originally sung by Keith Whitley. In that moment, I became fascinated by this beautiful song and little did I know that it would change my life forever!

One day my mum told me a story of the time she visited the Island of Hydra in Greece. She was travelling with her friends in April of 1975. On a sunny afternoon they were visiting the sea, sitting at the wharf while watching locals play backgammon. Suddenly, a young man approached their table requesting a light for his cigarette. My mum’s friend immediately recognized the glimmer in his eye...you guessed it, there was Leonard in the flesh. Sun-kissed flesh. Eventually it was revealed that everyone had roots in Montreal and so a cigarette light turned to an evening of illuminated conversation. My mum’s friend explained that she was a songwriter, and in need of a guitar while abroad. Being the gentleman (and woman-magnet) that he was, Leonard graciously offered her his nylon string to borrow. Leonard was on retreat in Greece, and had plenty more guitars to choose from. He invited everyone back to his place, where they sat in his kitchen surrounded by brick walls, open windows, sea breeze and homemade bread and chicken soup off the stove. My mum describes being so in awe of the unfolding events that she was caught speechless. She recalls watching Leonard flirt with her friend, and being in disbelief that she was sipping soup made by Leonard Cohen.

On the fourth of December 2012, almost 20,000 people gathered in Toronto’s Air Canada Centre to worship, weep, laugh and to bask in the world of Leonard Cohen. My mum and I had been counting down the days for this event. Leonard was nearly 78 at the time, but the way he greeted his adoring fans you wouldn’t have thought he was a day over 30. Limber, lean, leprechaun-like and suave as ever in his black suit, fedora and shiny shoes. The classic Cohen look. He ran on stage with legs that carried him as if he was floating on air. His long fingers holding the microphone with a gentle strength, and perhaps a touch of arthritis. His eyes were cast into shadow by the brim of his hat. Suddenly he looked up into the vast space and his slight smile was illuminated. Perched in the top seating section, my mum and I felt the distance dissolve. It was as if Leonard was in arm’s reach. He seemed so at home amongst this sea of faces, he welcomed us with warmth and wit. That was the night a colossal stadium transformed into a temple, an intimate tower of song.

Soon the booming applause turned to silence as Cohen set the stage with “Dance Me to the End of Love”. Gracefully he lowered himself to his knees, as if praying on the rug while he delivered “Bird on a Wire”. The cabaret-style melodies were woven together by gentle high-hats, sensual bass lines and a fiddle, adding a flirtatious zest. The nine-piece band played as if they shared one body, and Leonard was the ringmaster. Each song guided us into a different state of mind, memories flooding in for both my mum and I. He seemed to transcend human form, and yet was so deeply real. He whispered with a slight growl, “The older you get, the more lonely you become, and the more love you need...There ain’t no cure for love.”

When the time came for “Hallelujah” the audience was primed and ready. The silence was so palpable that you could almost feel it surrounding you like a veil. I took my mum’s hand and we exchanged a glowing glance as the guitar progression touched our ears. “I heard there was a secret chord..” The silence broke for a brief moment with feverish applause, people rose to their feet, then together we landed in a meditative stillness. The people in our row became our neighbours, as we joined voices and the entire stadium sang in harmony through the chorus. We shared this brief moment in time where no matter who you were, no matter what seat you could or couldn’t afford, we were all together in a shared reality. Heartbeats synchronizing and voices melding into one resounding “Hallelujah.”

Long-time collaborators of Cohen’s, The Webb Sisters and Sharon Robinson chimed in with their gospel-like harmonies. I remember the goosebumps cloaking my body, and the tears flowing through me from the depth of my belly. This song that I had heard hundreds of times, this song sung by hundreds of artists was suddenly new to my ears. Landing with fresh mystery and an undiscovered depth, I closed my eyes and let the collective voice wash over me like the medicine I didn’t know I needed. My mum and I wept and sang together, feeling closer and more aligned for having shared this sacred moment. It was as if we were sitting in Leonard’s kitchen, enjoying homecooked songs. The word-wizard, the musical magician that I worshipped became the human that I will continue to admire. There are times when I pick up my guitar and think of his chapped hands holding his acoustic on stage that night. He caressed the strings with an intimacy I will never forget. I imagine Leonard is hanging out in a place where the drinks are cold, the songs are flowing and there is a fedora for every occasion.