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20 Years of Kid A: a Lifetime With Radiohead

In his new book, This Isn’t Happening: Radiohead’s “Kid A” and the Beginning of the 21st Century, author Steven Hyden celebrates and reminisces on the cultural impact of the legendary album

Radiohead’s groundbreaking album Kid A turned 20 this October, and much has been written about it, from the radical reviews published the week it came out, to the best of the decade lists it topped. It now lives high up on many lists of the greatest albums of all time, and its birthday was an excuse for fans and critics to write hundreds of articles and opinions about its impact and legacy. With This Isn’t Happening though, Stephen Hyden has written the cardinal text for the album that has meant so much to so many. Following a prologue, begins with author Stephen Hyden describing the scene before a Radiohead concert following the success of their album OK Computer. The passage details two breakdowns that lead singer Thom Yorke had before and after the show, and how they went on to inspire the album as a whole, and crucial lyrical moments. While surrounded by fans on a train, we enter Yorke’s head, as he tells himself “I’m not here, this isn’t happening,” lyrics which would become the center of one of the albums most impressive tracks, “How to Disappear Completely.” This combined insight into the meaning behind one of the lyrics of the album and the headspace of Yorke comes early into the book and establishes a running theme: that the story of Kid A is the story of Thom Yorke and the times he was living through. As such, the book works to weave context in with stories about the band and each of its members, and explains how they were connected. Though it sometimes leans too heavily into discussing context that doesn’t add much to the narrative, most of the points raised illuminate important details about Kid A and help the reader understand what makes it so important. For someone who is already a fan, the book contains anecdotes and facts to further deepen their love for the album, and the band.

Split into three sections: “Before Kid A,” “During Kid A,” and “After Kid A,” This Isn’t Happening dives headfirst into every detail surrounding the album, its production, and its impact. It is filled with quotes from interviews and analysis from Hyden on the instruments, studios, personnel, and inspirations that led to the album’s creation, while being equally devoted to recounting the social and political climate of the time. Pop culture and politics are treated with similar importance, because they were both key to understanding what Kid A could be about, and why the album sounds the way it does. The anxieties of the internet age and Y2K are repeatedly compared to the lyrics, and the description of the album as relating to our post-9/11 surveillance state is explored. Hyden also gives a lot of time to his own experiences, telling stories of what Radiohead has meant to him throughout his life and how that meaning has evolved. Amnesiac, a second album of songs recorded during the Kid A sessions that was released the next year, is given shine as well.

The insight given into the process of the creation of Kid A is enlightening, exciting, and often inspirational. The book tracks the years of writer’s block that the band faced, their conflicts and near breakup, and the ultimate inspiration that led to a burst of creativity, resulting in two albums worth of material. It theorizes about the possible meanings of cryptic lyrics, and explains the overarching meanings behind more well known ones (“yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon” is referenced often). Deep dives into the methods used by Yorke and his fellow bandmates to write and record the album are balanced by sweeping analysis of the music scene at the time of the album’s release. Putting Kid A in context against the nu metal and britpop of the time, along with previous releases from the band itself, works to place the reader in the headspace of someone experiencing the release of the album for the first time.

Most of the heavy lifting in this area though, comes from Hyden retelling his experiences growing up a Radiohead superfan. Large sections of the book are as much about the author as they are the band, with Hyden recounting his time listening to early Radiohead albums, downloading bootlegs, and hearing Kid A for the first time, along with many other stories that give the reader a glimpse into how the album was received by someone passionate about music, but not yet writing about it for a living. OK Computer and Kid A came out when Hyden was at the age where music discovery is most impactful on a person. During those teenage to young adult years, the music one discovers feels like it’s the most important art in the world, speaking to feelings and experiences that nobody else understands. Through this lens, the window into Hyden’s experiences is invaluable to someone who wants to understand the true impact of Kid A. Though many can write about sonic followers and disciples of the band, firsthand subjective experience elicits a more emotional response that carries throughout the book.

An interesting element for those interested in music criticism is the large section devoted to recounting the reviews given to the album. Reading the critical reception towards Kid A is not only useful for understanding the impact of the album, it’s also entertaining. From the famed Pitchfork review that declared listening to Kid A akin to “witnessing the stillborn birth of a child while simultaneously having the opportunity to see her play in the afterlife on Imax,” to Mark Beaumont’s description of the album as “tubby, ostentatious, self-congratulatory, look-ma-I-can-suck-my-own-cock whiny old rubbish,” the critical response to the album is deserving of its spotlight. It also plays against the fact that the book itself is a critical response, giving Hyden the advantage of hindsight to be able to explore how Kid A’s influence extended even to birthing a new establishment in music criticism. 

The “Before Kid A” and “During Kid A” sections of the book were the most interesting, but as the book went on it fell into some issues with length and content choice. Context of other popular bands of the time is of course useful, but the pages given to recounting the career of Linkin Park didn’t add enough to the understanding of Radiohead to warrant the space they took up. The deep dives into Radiohead’s career after the album also went on too long, especially once the general conceit became that their work was less interesting than what they were putting out at their creative peaks. By the end, the book becomes much more about Radiohead than about Kid A, which isn’t nearly as interesting given that the amount of time dedicated to understanding or at least touching on every detail of the album takes away from the specificity than can be given to the rest of the discography. 

The main distraction though becomes how much Hyden makes the book about himself. For much of the book, his stories and opinions humanize what could have otherwise been a long research paper. His stories of listening to bootlegs and watching concerts transport the reader back to the year 2000, completely immersing them in the head of a superfan. Moments though, such as the subsection of the book entirely dedicated to Hyden’s opinion on how a combined Kid A and Amnesiac record should be sequenced, with long justifications for every choice, don’t teach the reader anything interesting. It’s a perfect prompt for fans to debate endlessly, but doesn’t work as a one-sided lecture. It would have been much more interesting to hear more about why each album’s songs ended up in their respective places, research that would have fit well next to the rest of the material, rather than a tracklist for the non-existent Kid Amnesiac, which read more like a Reddit post.

These issues, just like the rest of the book, spawn from Hyden’s love of Radiohead, and his desire to share that appreciation with the world. As such, these moments don’t come off as arrogant, but rather as a passionate fan getting a little carried away. Anyone who loves an artist or band this much can relate to that feeling and would gain further appreciation for Radiohead from reading this book. For fans of the band of course, This Isn’t Happening is a must read, even if only to relive the moments where Radiohead operated at their creative peak. Looking back on a classic album is a staple of music journalism, but providing interesting criticism and adding a unique perspective to an album while heaping reverence upon it is difficult. Hyden takes a que from Kid A, and successfully writes from a place of passion, exploring themes he cares about through entertaining stories that draw his readers in like the haunting opening notes to “Everything in its Right Place.” Once I finished the book, I complimented it with my most enjoyable listen yet of the album that inspired it. It remains as deserving of celebration today as it was when it came out twenty years ago. The pages of This Isn’t Happening are the perfect place to go for those who want to celebrate.

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Miley Cyrus Finds Her Voice Through Covers

After years of reinvention, Cyrus is settling on her most fitting persona yet

Credit: Miley Cyrus (YouTube.com)

Miley Cyrus is solidifying what feels like her most honest persona yet. After beginning her career as a tween Disney Channel star, she seemed to evolve with every single release. Following her pop country era, she encountered multiple controversies related to lyrical content, sexuality, and cultural appropriation. Some criticisms of course were fairer than others, but one thing remained consistent: negative critical attention. No matter what genre she performed in (or appropriated) she was faced with low scores and controversy. Every album signified a new era, and every era came with a different reason for critical panning. 

With such a contentious history between her and critics, it comes as a surprise that the reaction to her latest series of ’80s covers has been one of rapturous praise. Although she’s been performing covers for a while, her performance of “Heart of Glass” from the iHeart festival catapulted her into a level of critical adoration she hasn’t seen before. The online response was enough to lead her to drop the song as a single on streaming the next week. She followed it up with a cover of “Zombie” at a Save Our Stages show, which also quickly landed on streaming services. She’s had articles about her covers written in NME and Rolling Stone Magazine, and piqued excitement for her upcoming album.

The “Heart of Glass” performance began with Cyrus walking out in updated Debbie Harry cosplay. Her black bodysuit, short blonde hair, and sparking bracelets running halfway up her forearms clearly signaled the 80s, even to viewers who may have never seen footage of a Blondie show. The attention to detail in her outfit foreshadowed the care with which she would channel the 80s punk spirit. Walking in front of her mask-wearing band as artificial applause began, Cyrus established her power to her virtual audience. She radiated confidence and swagger, and while it’s understandable to see her and think of the Disney channel star who wrote “Party in the U.S.A.”, any doubts in her ability to channel her punk icon inspiration were crushed once she began belting the opening lyrics. 

Her mastery over her low end and vocal growling grabbed attention instantly, and her delight in the performance kept her as that center, dancing and leaning into the mic stand like a captain steering her ship whenever she wasn’t singing. Swinging across the stage in stilettos, she exuded a relaxed confidence, ready to lean back into her belting at any time. While not necessarily making the song her own, she took over the stage and clearly stole the night, confirming her place as a perfect candidate for a modern rock star. By the time the performance ends it’s clear that this headbanging version of Miley is becoming fully realized.

The “Zombie” performance a couple weeks later came with lofty expectations, which Cyrus had no trouble meeting. Draped in a black coat and low lighting, Miley built up the first verse slowly but passionately, reaching a final crescendo and returning to her now trademark belt over a chorus of power chords and drums. By the time she takes off her coat, she’s kicking, jumping, and smiling through a guitar solo, never once losing an ounce of attention. It’s clear that the space is hers and she’s in the perfect place for her skillset. She finishes the performance on her knees, belting riffs that bring the guitars along with her. Praise for this performance on social media was just as rapturous, even if it lacked the surprise felt by many after the iHeart Festival. She seems poised to set up an era of critical acceptance, finally using her voice in the genre it is perfect for. Even with all the skill she possesses and the praise she’s gained so far, it won’t come close to her peak commercial success. 

Cyrus has sold over a million copies of her 2013 album Bangerz, and had top 5 hits with “The Climb”, “Party in the USA”, “We Can’t Stop”, and “Wrecking Ball”. The streaming numbers of her recent original single “Midnight Sky” vastly eclipse those of her covers. The disconnect between the critical and commercial reactions parallels reactions that have been constant throughout pop history, and especially the 2010s. Artists such as Charli XCX and Carly Rae Jepsen translated their initial virality into niche, critically successful careers through projects that worked within the cutting edge of pop production, or harkened back to the synthetic sounds of the 80s. Miley could be venturing on a similar path, finding her lane in the rock sounds of the 80s and 90s, abandoning a sound that was of the moment, which doesn’t seem to be where critics wanted it to lie. 

This newfound respect for Cyrus is part of a long tradition of critical success for pop artist’s least “pop” endeavors. Most massively successful pop acts of the past decade received lukewarm to negative critical reception on release, even though we think of many of them as hugely influential today. Artists like Justin Beiber, Katy Perry, and Lady Gaga dominated the decade with albums critics responded to with a resounding “meh”. Perry’s massively successful album “Teenage Dream” received more articles praising it on its ten year anniversary than it received positive reviews on release. Even an artist like Rihanna who ended up high on many decade-end lists, did it with her least commercially successful album. Artists like Britney Spears, Lorde, and Hayley Williams have spoken about how influential Perry’s work was to their later music, but the influence and success of the album doesn’t change the fact that it was critically panned.

Here is where Cyrus’s issue lies. On the one hand, the praise she has received from critics could be a sign that she has found her genre and is on the road to making the best music of her career, but it could just as well be a response to the fact that a talented artist is singing songs that have been accepted as great for decades. Her performances channeled the original singers without leaving much room for her own identity to break through. They were more reminiscent of a talent show or Voice audition than a career reinvention, an artist proving that she has the talent and just needs the guidance and originality to make it big. The covers were great and fun to watch, and Cyrus is certainly a fantastic performer, but I can’t help but feel like the praise she’s received is a compliment to everything besides her as an artist. People are responding like she’s finally proven herself, as if she didn’t have four top five hits years before any of this. While the performance made me excited to listen to her upcoming album, I hope that her original ideas are approached with optimism by any other new fans she may have garnered from her recent performances. Cyrus also must show that this current era is her authentic voice, and not just another appropriation of artists who have come before her. This shared responsibility between artist and audience of course leans more heavily on Cyrus putting out an impressive album, but her recent performances have proven that she’s capable of making something great.

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The Many Lives of John Prine

(AP Photo: John Humphrey)

Folk icon John Prine died earlier this year, leaving behind decades of influential work and a legion of artists who carry on the style he helped pioneer.

John Prine died on April 7, 2020 from complications caused by COVID-19. He was 73 years old.

Often referred to as one of the greatest songwriters in American history, he reached his peak in popularity near the end of his career, and his legacy will continue to grow. He leaves behind his wife and two children, along with every life he invented through his songs. 

Following a stint in the army that would go on to inform much of his writing, Prine began his career in the late 1960s, performing alone with his guitar at open-mic nights at a small Chicago club called the Fifth Peg. He was immediately offered paid gigs, and gained notoriety in the local area following a chance encounter and glowing review from Roger Ebert. He began to play at more clubs across the city, quickly becoming one of the figures in the folk revival scene. 

Prine released his self-titled debut in 1971, garnering little commercial success but establishing himself as one of the most important musicians in folk. The songs were witty, political, and relatable, demonstrating his ability to seamlessly weave haunting tragedy and biting satire with romance and simple beauty. The album was filled with ruminations on war and patriotism, with songs “Your American Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore” and “Sam Stone” criticising America’s actions in Korea and Vietnam, and the government’s exploitation of soldiers. Lyrics like “But your flag decal won’t get you Into Heaven anymore, they’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war” tapped into a disillusion many Americans felt at the time, and resonate currently with American disgust at the wars fought in the middle east for the past twenty years. 

Prine’s song “Illegal Smile” connected with drug users, a group that overlapped greatly with antiwar protestors at the time. Although he later admitted the song wasn’t written about marijuana smoking, the lyrics “And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile, it don’t cost very much, but it lasts a long while. Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone, no I’m just trying to have me some fun” spoke to smokers who seeked escapism in the way Prine described. Drug use was a theme across many of the songs in the album, but he often discussed them with a darker tone. 

The themes came together in the standout track “Sam Stone,” a song that told the story of a drug addicted disabled veteran who received a Purple Heart for his time in Vietnam. The tragically beautiful lyric “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes, Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose” is just one example of Prine’s ability to boil down the tragedy of a universal American experience to a single line. He could connect with anyone who listened to him though, as his dark lyrics came with beautiful, simple chords, and were often cut with humor. “Illegal Smile,” for example, ends with the simple “Well done, hot dog bun, my sister’s a nun,” bringing back his audience from the bleak story he just laid upon them. 

He continued to release music consistently throughout the 1970s, building his commercial success and maintaining his critical stature. He hit the Billboard Hot 100 for the first time with 1975’s  “Come Back to Us Barbara Lewis Hare Krishna Beauregard,” and went on a tour across the country. By the end of the decade though, he had grown disgusted with the exploitation found across the music industry, leading him to found his own label, Oh Boy Records, in 1981. At that point, many of his most well known songs became popular through covers by acts like The Highwaymen. His talent was plainly recognizable to his contemporaries, and through them he began to build a legacy as a “songwriter’s songwriter.” 

He continued to release original albums until 2005’s Fair &Square, after which he took a pause from full length albums. He spent the next decade working with younger artists and performing for younger crowds, filled with a new generation discovering him for themselves for the first time. In 2018, he released his final solo album, The Tree of Forgiveness. The album sold over 50,000 copies in its first week, debuting at #5 on the Billboard album chart, by far his highest ever. His final song, “I Remember Everything,” was a rumination on his career, recounting all of the places he’d performed, artists he’d worked with, and beautiful times he’d experienced throughout his life.

Though he hadn’t released an album of new material for over thirteen years, his profile had grown immensely, in part due to the success of those he mentored in the industry. The album featured contributions from Jason Isbell, Amanda Shires, Dan Auerbach, and Brandi Carlile, all of whom are successful artists who credit Prine as a major inspiration to their own work. It is in this way that Prine’s legacy will continue to grow, constantly exposing him to a new generation of fans, including myself.

When an artist is so influential, there is often a generational delay before the full scope of their influence can be recognized. Although they are not appreciated by most fans during their creative peak, artists take notice, and find great influence in their work. When the next generation finds success, they will bring their idols along with them, leading to a revival of the original work. For Prine, this cycle materialized through his mentorship and shared live performances with many of the most talented artists in current country and folk music. Following his death, Kacey Musgraves said Prine “impacted [her] songwriting more than anyone else.” Sturgill Simpson, Jason Isbell, and Margo Price all participated in tribute concerts for him as well. I mention these four names because they also occupy spots one through four on Paste Magazine’s top country albums of the decade. John Prine helped to shape the modern sound of country music, and his fingerprints can be found across myriad projects, constantly expanding his reach.  

Following this year’s Country Music Awards, Isbell and fellow singer Amanda Shires announced that they would be returning their lifetime memberships to the Country Music Association due to their failure to mention John Prine during the show. The tension between the singers and establishment is emblematic of the gap between Prine’s adoration among the music community and in the general public. For the CMA’s whose goal is to make money and appeal to as wide a reach of people as possible, avoiding Prine is a decision that sacrifices integrity for commercial success. Whether they wanted to avoid discussing the coronavirus due to its politicization, or didn’t want to bring him up due to his anti war and anti republican messaging, they made it clear that many areas of the industry are still lagging behind the innovation Prine has brought since the 70s. This only makes him connect with those who care about more though. Isbell wrote that they were giving up their memberships because “we cared a lot about our heroes.” Sturgill Simpson didn’t hold back in his response, writing “Don’t get it twisted,.. wouldn’t be caught dead at this tacky ass glitter and botox cake & cock pony show even if my chair had a morphine drip. … I just wanted to see if they would say his name but nope.” 

The omission of Prine reflects more on the CMAs than it does on his career. The Grammy’s gave Prine a lifetime achievement award in 2019, and the DNC used his music to soundtrack a tribute to those lost to the Coronavirus, but the show dedicated to country music didn’t mention him. Already facing backlash for advertising the show as a “no drama” night (during a pandemic, massive civil rights movement, and contested election,) the CMAs showed that they care more about appearing accessible than being honest. In a genre built on storytelling, the artists proved that they have the final say in who lives on. I was able to discover Prine through a tribute by Phoebe Bridgers, and then through cover after cover from a dozen other artists I love, regardless of any omissions by the CMAs (a show I would never watch anyway.) Because of the time he spent working with and influencing other artists, his legacy will continue, and his characters will live on. When his self titled debut turns fifty next year, the story of Sam Stone will as well, and every veteran he represents will have their stories told a little bit more thanks to him. This is the legacy of John Prine: by weaving his own truths into songs everyone can relate to, he will live on through the stories told by those he inspired.

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Stories Told Through Strings

The multimedia performance shines when the music is left to speak alone.

 

Violinist Ariana Kim. Photo: Erica Lyn

How Many Breaths? – In Memory of George Floyd and Countless Others came together when four Minneapolis artists processing their grief in unique ways realized they shared a similar vision. Writers Lou and Sarah Bellamy connected with composer Steve Heitzeg and Cornell professor and violinist Ariana Kim to create a hybrid work of spoken word, video, and solo violin. With each artist examining the feelings of their community, and the stories of black lives lost, the piece became a coherent whole, but struggled to get away from its inception as several different ideas. At times the violin and spoken word fought for the listeners attention rather than working off of each other, but when the music got opportunities to star, Kim revealed a world of emotion, channeling months of anguish into 15 minutes of instrumental mastery.

In the immediate aftermath of the murder of George Floyd, the most visible reactions were visceral, angry, and often violent. The earliest song I heard come out as a direct response to the killing took a week to be released. Compared to the hundreds of thousands of people who were on the streets across the country within days, it’s easy to see how protest art almost always follows physical protests themselves. How Many Breaths? attempts to blend the emotions of the moment with the weight of a lifetime spent being black. The narrators told the story of Floyd, along with those of mothers, widows, and black boys growing up in a country that has told them that they are disposable. The most powerful moments though, were when only the violin spoke. The video would return from protest footage to Kim, and she would deftly perform a solo that dug to the core of the emotions of the story being told and laid bare what it found. Tempo, technique, and volume would vary, as the violin cried for Floyd, but it left enough space for the listener to fill with their own emotions. The solos connected more closely with the audience than any other part of the performance, even through the muffled audio.

Because the performance had to take place virtually, all the visuals and audio went through Zoom, which significantly reduces the quality of both. This didn’t have a significant effect on the visual or spoken word aspects of the piece, but it hindered the violin performance, especially when it played with the spoken word piece. Notes were lost and distorted, which became distracting and eventually led me to miss entire lines that were read. The speakers and instrument began battling, not only to be heard, but to be felt. Whenever the violin would win the former, it would dominate the latter. The solos came through clearly, and established themselves as the most interesting parts of the performance. The playing was raw, but filled with confusion, anger, and beauty, a respite from the stories of hopelessness.

Although there has been a leap in the amount of black art being made in recent years, a disproportionate amount of it has been about black pain. Suffering will obviously be central to most of the art related to Floyd’s death, but in the case of How Many Breaths?, that was all that was offered by the spoken portion. Black families and communities figuring out how to grapple with pain in their communities is a story that has been told repeatedly, especially in the past few months, but the narrators just told other people’s experiences. The violin freed my emotions, putting my stories and experience at the forefront. Painful creaks and whines made up the sonic backdrop for most of the performance, the tension of the strings breaking though to communicate pain more clearly than the words were able to. Pizzicato added dynamism and texture, and the changes in volume signaled the moments that were meant to be the heaviest. While most of the time I was hearing someone else’s stories told to me, when the violin would solo I became a part of the community, experiencing anger and grief in my own way. Nobody was telling me how I should feel, and I could react honestly. The result was a moment of catharsis, before the reality of the current state of America crept back in. At a time like this though, we should be grateful for those moments, wherever we can get them.

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The Best of Pitchfork Fest

A reminder of how great concerts can be, this stream works a little too well.

In a year filled with tragic firsts, the fact that this was the first summer in decades without any major music festivals may seem inconsequential, but the one year gap has been wreaking havoc on the industry. Prominent festivals have failed over a weekend of bad weather, so a pandemic that has rid the country entirely of live music is more than enough to put the festival industry on edge. Livestreamed concerts have seen limited success, but they mainly only work for one off shows for single artists. An entire livestreamed festival would no doubt be underwhelming, and, in a time where selling a festival is about the experience more than it is about the music, there is no way people would spend enough on tickets to cover the cost of talent. Coachella selfies just don’t have the same impact when taken from a bedroom in front of a laptop. In an attempt to please audiences, and likely an attempt to remain relevant, festivals have begun to post archival footage in lieu of a real live concert. The most exciting release for me was Pitchfork’s best of Pitchfork Fest compilation, a collection of performances by beloved artists, sorted by set time. Although the videos succeeded in bringing me back to a time of live music, I was left missing concerts more than before I had begun the show.

It began with a 2012 concert from electronic artist Grimes, a self taught producer who takes pride in doing nearly everything alone. She’s one of my favorite artists of all time, and hearing her perform an albeit amateurish version of “Genesis,” her breakout hit, was a shot of adrenaline to the already energizing nostalgia of seeing live music and a crowd. Knowing how much she’s grown as an artist, the missteps of the performance were more endearing than embarrassing. Other artists including Solange, Danny Brown, and Jamila Woods gave performances before their respective breakout projects. They felt technically complete, though not fully realized stylistically.

Many artists who perform at Pitchfork Fest are on independent labels and have small but passionate fanbases. Although there is variety in the genres being performed, the type of fan who attends the festival often ends up enjoying nearly every act available, as they all fall into a sort of Pitchfork-core. While the performance of Carly Rae Jepsen could be a time capsule of pop in the 2010s, Charli XCX’s performance may still feel modern in 2100. Those who love the classic saxophone line of “Run Away With Me” and raunchy glitchpop of “Lipgloss” did not get to experience both at the real festival, but could watch them back to back on  the livestream. Without the need to walk between stages or adjust one’s energy, there is just continuous excitement as great song after song plays.

After roaring guitar solos on sets from modern indie greats Big Thief and Blood Orange, and a deeply personal performance of the LGBT anthem “Queen,” by Perfume Genius, the concert began to transition to night. Of course this meant playing sets that had occurred that night, as the actual livestream itself began after the sun had already set. A standout performance from FKA Twigs signaled a shift in the caliber of performer. Known for her experimental electronic sound and theatrical performances filled with sword fighting and pole dancing, Twigs was captivating through the screen, gliding across the stage in a flowing dress while the skittering drum beat of “Pendulum” guided her every move.

The stream ended with two performances that were surely special moments to everyone in the crowd, and reminded me of the greatness that live music can display. The first performance was by pop icon Robyn, performing “Dancing on My Own,” a song Pitchfork named #3 on their list of the greatest songs of the decade. Beginning with its instantly recognizable synth bass pattern, Robyn stood at the microphone, passionately singing the first verse, until the chorus hit. At that point, the music cut out entirely, she fell silent, and the crowd sang her chorus as one. Anyone who has ever been part of a crowd in a moment like this knows the incredible feeling of community that overwhelms every member. Suddenly the room full of strangers is connected not only by the shared love of the song, but every experience that has made the song mean so much to every one of them. When the music comes back, and the catharsis of a full chorus hits, Robyn explodes into a performance filled with leaps and twirls, and the audience feels free. The emotion at home though, is a longing to be back in front of a stage. As amazing as the songs are, the joy of watching a performance this great gives way to a yearning for a time when I can experience concerts the way they are meant to be felt.

Ending the stream with LCD Soundsystem’s “All My Friends” is more poetic than just ending a festival set with the song about being alone and missing your friends. Not only is it a song I deeply love, it’s structured around building up to a climax, making it the perfect way to end a night of music. As it crescendos and James Murphy and the rest of the band yells “Where are my friends tonight?”, the new meaning the song takes on is clear. Not only does it center the current experience of a pandemic listener, every performance is put into a more complete context. No footage of a live show can replicate the rush of seeing a great live show, no matter how talented the act or high quality the video.

Even with the longing I’m left with after “Thank you for watching!” flashes on the screen, the most surprising part of my viewing experience is how satisfying it is, compared to the livestreams I’ve been watching multiple times a month since the pandemic began. Seeing artist after artist perform to an empty crowd temporarily made me forget what it looks like when a musician wants to be performing to the crowd in front of them. The energy of thousands of people radiates through a screen, and feeds the artist as well, electrifying their performance and my viewing experience. Seeing a concert is a wonderful high, and when chasing the feeling, I’ll take footage that puts me back into these beautiful moments, no matter how fleeting the memory is.

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A Crowd He Couldn’t See

In the past few years, concerts had become more optimized than ever. Festivals were sold as spectacle and experience, not just live music. Even though prices kept rising, I loved going to shows as often as I could, so when all live events suddenly stopped, I was nervous for how the industry would respond. They had to tear it all up and create a new show, and we would watch it unfold in real time.

A popular model quickly emerged: the Instagram live concert. One of the first shows I saw was by indie folk artist Alex G. He sat on his couch with his guitar, speeding through demo quality versions of songs I loved, looking at the chat to ask what we thought he should play next. He got through at least a dozen songs over his 40 minute show, and garnered around 2,000 listeners. The stream felt intimate, not only because it took place in his home but also the confusion on display as he figured out how to perform to a crowd he couldn’t see. When artists improvise, there’s still a feeling of control. Even if it’s a completely new song, the performance is something they’ve done before. Here the challenge was beyond the performance. It lay in attempting to create a connection.

Later that night, I was introduced to a new type of spectacle through back to back concerts over Minecraft, and Fortnite. The use of video games as venues began before the pandemic, but expanded quickly once it hit. The Minecraft production featured 20 artists who took turns performing with their avatars, while fans came together in virtual lobbies to mosh to an audio stream coming from a separate website. The show had the DIY ethos of a co-op basement, minus the sticky floors. The Fortnite concert gave the highest production value of the night. It looked expensive, with a giant Travis Scott taking form as a hundred foot tall hologram, astronaut, and literal pure energy, something he’s constantly trying to attain on stage. Flying around on screen, I was more impressed by the visual effects than the song he was debuting. Normally when a concert ends, the lights come up and the feeling of having shared an experience with others hits. Online though, you don’t get to see the faces of the millions of people you just watched a concert with, you just log off, and scroll to whatever distraction comes up next.