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.

On one particular day, I was catching a shuttle when the driver shared that he was the son of Keith Urban’s international tour agent, or at least that’s what he said. He gave me the best insider tip I’ve gotten – ever. According to him, Keith Urban was playing a pop-up show at 12th and Porter that evening. It wasn’t being broadly advertised, except by word of mouth and one tweet from Mr. Keith Urban himself, a couple of hours before the show.

After hearing this, I thought about how I was going to sing with him that night. I called my mom back at home and said, “Mom, Keith Urban is playing a show tonight and I’m going to sing with him!” Of course, Keith had no idea…

I need to explain that I am a HUGE Keith Urban fan! I love his music and he’s hands-down my favorite male artist.

Off I go with my two other Canadian pals and bandmate. As we waited in line, I signed my Come Find Me EP with a note to Keith along the lines of “I want to sing ‘We Were Us’ with you!” I may have even left my number and email!

As about 300 people filed into this intimate venue, Keith Urban started playing “Little Bit of Everything”, followed by most of the fan favorites. I wasn’t super close to the front, so I had to make my way through the crowd, fighting for space and elbows. A few ladies weren’t about to give up their front row spot either, even when I said, “I just want to sing with Keith Urban!” So, I waited for a quiet moment, and said, “Keith, Keith! My name is Lisa Nicole, I want to sing with you”, and handed him my CD, to which he surprised me with a reply of, “What do you want to sing?”

At that time, “Fighter” was his big single, but I wanted to sing “We Were Us” as I’ve been singing that song live since it came out. When he pulled me on the stage, I really couldn’t believe what was happening and this is when I started to choke up, saying, “Honestly, you’re such an inspiration.” When I first got on that stage, I was at a loss for words, but he instantly made me feel so at ease, joking about how “I’ve barely met you and your name is tattooed on my arm, it’s crazy” – a reference to his wife, Nicole Kidman, who was also there at the show.

The moment I started singing, “the crowd went wild” as they say, and you could tell Mr. Urban was pleasantly surprised if I do say so myself. When the chorus hit, we faced each other and sang. Yes, Keith Urban looked into my eyes and I sang a song with him – on stage!

When the song came to an end, we hugged (twice)! Back when hugging was okay, thank God! And the last thing I said to him was, “You have no idea, that was such a blessing to me.”

When I got off that stage I was in complete shock. I went to the bathroom, where I ran into a few people. The first was Nicole Kidman herself, who so kindly said what an amazing job I did. I was starstruck again! I chatted with his band after the show as well, and then I went outside to call Garrett, my boyfriend. I could barely tell him that I had just sang with Keith Urban (!!) because I was so excited, when a girl tapped my shoulder and I hung up on him. That girl was Hayden Panettiere, also known as Juliette Barnes on the show Nashville. I chatted with her and her friend for 10 minutes outside the club and she said, “I never could’ve done what you did and sound that amazing.” I was flattered. We then took selfies and that was a wrap.

The moment was over, but it set me on a new path in my own career. I moved to Nashville a year later and spent the spring and summer of 2018 playing shows and writing as much as I could. One of the writers I connected with was Dave Pahanish – who co-wrote Keith Urban’s “Without You” – and we co-wrote two singles, “Wait On Me” and “Count On You”, for my 2021 album, Where The Wild Hearts Beat.

It’s safe to say that I might never have moved to Nashville if it hadn’t been for that special pop-up concert duet that started it all. Today, when I re-watch the video of me and Keith Urban singing, my mind is still blown. I’m literally throwing my hands in my face thinking, “What is life??!” I really can’t believe it happened, but I’m forever grateful for how much it inspired me and what a treasured memory it will always be - that time I cried when I sang with Keith Urban! 

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I was a late blooming Joni fan. I picked up Blue in the mid-90s to see what all the fuss was about, and was stricken with instant, gut-searing remorse that I had taken so long to come to her music. I bought three more records, and then two more, and now have way too many Joni records, and no regrets about it.

When I think of my first love, I think of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. When I think of my childhood, I think of The Beach Boys. When I think of sadness, I think of James Taylor. We begin to knit together songs that create a beautiful tapestry of our lives.

When music took a shift in my life and opened up the sky, I think of Led Zeppelin. This is where the story truly begins. I was listening to Early Days and Latter Days in the car with my father while waiting for my brother to finish practice. I was 13 years old; he put on Stairway To Heaven – my soul and heart were forever changed. This unexplainable feeling of life, death, love, sadness and joy all wrapped into eight minutes.

The band became the beginning of my rock and roll journey and blew the doors wide open to everything I’ve come to love as an artist and music lover. If you don’t already know, the band was largely famous in the late 60s and early 70s and disbanded after their drummer passed away. Conveniently born in the wrong era of all my most cherished musicians – my idols are either dead or dying.

I missed the height of their touring days but was lucky enough to see their frontman, Robert Plant. This is a man I’ve idolized since that soul awakening moment. (I even had a band in high school called “Robert’s Plant”.) There had been previous years where the band had done brief reunion tours or shows, but I was either too young to travel or it was sold out.

In 2010, I was 15 going on 16 and your typical teenager. I went to school, slept a lot and fell in love with One Direction.

I went to a concert of theirs in Nashville in 2011 and it was normal; I didn't cry. I sang my heart out and then left before Big Time Rush came on stage because let's be honest, everyone left when Big Time Rush came on. Shocking that I didn't cry at that One Direction show, considering this is called The Time I Cried. Nope, not that One Direction concert. It would take me six concerts over five years to cry.

I was in Chicago for a work event during the weekend of August 21, 2015 and I had no intention of going to the show. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home to Indiana. If we're being honest, I completely forgot that they were even going to be in town. But a wave of guilt swept over me, and StubHub came to my rescue. I was there at Soldier Field, ready to watch my favorite band in the world, for what would ultimately be the last time.

Zayn had already left, so it was just Niall, Liam, Harry and Louis on stage. Everyone at that point had known Zayn was gone. I mean, it happened in March. But seeing them, and there being only four guys on stage, I couldn't handle it. I was surrounded by kids, ranging from 4 years old to about 12 or 13. And here I was, 20 years old, sobbing. At that time, I had no idea they would eventually go on a hiatus. (For 18 months but its been 4 years so WHAT'S UP WITH THAT) No one knew what was going to happen. So I was sad. Sad that they were missing one person. Sad that we would never see Zayn perform with them again. I finally ate a hot dog and chilled out. Why cry when you could be having fun? But then, the sad tears turned to happy tears. Harry Styles had long hair and I had a lot to be thankful for.

But then “Don't Forget Where You Belong” started.

I will gladly get into a heated discussion as to why this is the superior One Direction song, but that's for another day. There is no song that can compare to “Don't Forget Where You Belong”, and this is why I cried at a One Direction show. I travel a lot for work, I have traveled for fun to many places and this song grounds me. Hearing it live was life changing. Crying so hard that my shirt was wet from the tears falling was life changing. Now having my son, Beckham, listen to the song is life changing.

Thank you, One Direction, for making me cry.

This song is desperately beautiful, a mosh of painful loss, regret and yearning for forgiveness. It comes at a point late in the show when Eliza and Alexander have just lost their oldest son while also dealing with the inevitable hurts that happen in long relationships. “It’s Quiet Uptown” is brilliantly written, weaving musical themes from throughout the show, reminding us of the unknowing past and scraping at raw emotions of the present, wondering why, against this new backdrop of unimaginable loss, was I ever so hurtful or hateful? How do I go on? How do we go on?

“There are moments that the words don't reach

There is a grace too powerful to name

We push away what we can never understand

We push away the unimaginable”

I had this best friend in college, her name was Meaghan. Meaghan was a gift. I don’t even have words to describe the type of person she was; she was more than amazing. She had so much love and care in her heart. Well, Meaghan didn’t always make the smartest choices. But you could never talk her down from the choices she did make. March 8, 2015, Meaghan had just traveled up to Buffalo, New York by herself from Salem, Massachusetts to go see her boyfriend. I was not fond of the idea. A friend called up my roommate (who was also one of Meaghan’s best friends and mine) and said she saw an accident on the news that occurred on the Mass Pike where an unidentified woman had died on site. Being the person I am, I thought everyone was getting ahead of themselves and we tried to resume our day.

A half an hour passed and this is where I got worried since none of us could get a hold of Meaghan; the whole “she’s driving, that’s why she’s not picking up” came into play. Then I contacted her boyfriend who stated he had spoken to her around 8:45 a.m. and at this point it was well after 10 a.m. Now I started to panic. Cue the phone call that changed my whole entire life. Her brother calls my roommate and I think you all can understand what happened next.

This is where music comes in. Attending a Twenty One Pilots show was never the same. Most activities are never the same after you lose someone. You become a different person. A piece of you tends to die with the person. I remember attending my first show after the incident. June 14, 2016, Boston Massachusetts at Agganis Arena. I went with my sister and three close friends I met through the band/fanbase.

If you are familiar with the duo, you know they always end with a song called “Trees” - well it hit me harder than words could ever express. Tyler Joseph hit one note on his keyboard and I just felt this rush of emotions leave my body. It’s a song I always resonated with Meaghan, but having it live, in front of you, is a more powerful feeling. As Tyler screamed the words “hello” I just felt this overwhelming sensation over me, as if Meaghan was with me. I cried openly in front of a crowd of thousands of people and I didn’t even care. I can’t even listen to the song to this day without crying. I am teary eyed typing this out in the airport. She passed back in 2015 and the song still hits me with so much power. I cry to this day, every time I hear it in concert. Music does that. Music is that power.

Not long after this, I discovered “Minute By Minute” by The Doobie Brothers, which then led me to Michael McDonald’s first solo album “If That’s What It Takes” from 1982 (Robben Ford’s solo on the title track is a favorite of mine). These two albums (along with a slew of albums by Steely Dan, Weather Report, Pat Metheny and Miles Davis) formed a lot of my earliest views on music, and still have a resounding impact upon me today.

It wasn’t until February 10, 2018 that I finally got the chance to see Michael McDonald live in New York. I knew it would be a great show, but it ended up being one of the most inspiring musical experiences of my life. Right from the beginning, the band sounded amazing. Michael launched into “Yah Mo B There”, and for the first time - I heard that distinctive, iconic voice in person. His voice had taken on a maturity that led me to feel that he sounded better than ever.

The night was filled with a combination of hits and newer songs, and sounded fresh and energetic from beginning to end. For me, the most stunning moment of the entire concert was a solo piano rendition of the ballad “I Can Let Go Now” - an unexpectedly emotional moment that (deservedly) received the most resounding applause of the entire evening. It is not often that you get to witness such a masterful and powerful performance. I left feeling inspired, and even wrote a song the following day called “Ocean Grove” (which is on my latest album “ACE”).

As a side note, I walked in wondering if I’d be one of the few people in their 20s in attendance. It was interesting to note that the audience was fairly uniformly made up of a broad range of generations, all the way from teenagers to people in their 60s and 70s - an incredible generational span. All in all, the concert was nothing short of an incredible musical experience.