Back in 2004, I ran into Maj. Abdul-Rasheed Muhammad, the first person of the Muslim faith to become a chaplain in the United States Army. He was serving in Iraq, in the Al Taji region, at the time, and I wrote a story about him and the path he’d walked since becoming the first in 1994.
Far more importantly, during the writing process I spent a lot of time with him, including an evening during Ramadan when he invited me to witness a service at the area mosque. Immediately upon entering, removing my boots, I realized that nothing up to that point in my life had prepared me for what was in front of me. As it unfolded, I shifted from feeling slightly awkward to letting go of any held beliefs and letting myself be held in wonder at the beauty of it.
This is the only point of reference I have in my extensive mental vocabulary to describe attending the second night of Phoebe Bridgers’ “Lost” Tour at the Chase Center in San Francisco — and it took me nearly 24 hours of sitting with my “what the fuck just happened” discomfort to finally make the connection.
K and the boys were with me on this trip to the Bay Area, though not the show, and we’d found a place for me to park about a half mile from the venue. I parked, changed into a clean shirt, and began walking.
San Francisco is such an alive city — all manner of people, out at all manner of hours, up to all manner of life’s gooey stuff, the type of stuff that makes things interesting. So the cascade of young women out and about didn’t strike me as anything outside the norm at first. As I neared the Chase Center, the sheer number of women — young, old, and everything in between — made me realize I was in unfamiliar territory.
I made my way to the security checkpoint, where they not only ensured I had nothing of concern on my person but deposited my cell into a Yondr bag, to be unlocked only at the show’s conclusion — this becomes important.
It’s a disconcerting feeling, being a 52-year-old man at a show like this. But that’s the power Phoebe Bridgers’ music brings to those willing to deeply hear her songs. A gift for those willing to unwrap the package.
Normally I would make my way to the merch table, check out what’s being offered, typically pick up a concert poster, sometimes a t-shirt, sometimes an album. Instead, so disoriented, I found a darkened corner and ordered an overpriced beer and a slice of pizza — it had been hours since I’d eaten, and my body was protesting. In the distance I could hear the opening band inside the walls of the performance space, adding to my mix of discomfort. Now, not only was the scene in front of me unfamiliar, but the sounds of Alex G were adding to my dissonance — sounds I couldn’t make harmonious in my own brain.
This became another of the night’s unresolved threads. I’ll be completely open here — nothing about the performance appealed to me, but I’m not one to dismiss something on first blush. I went back and listened to a few of his albums, and several I truly enjoyed. So, without further evidence to the contrary, I’m going to chalk this one up to being underwhelmed by the live performance while finding redemption in the recorded music.
The space between sets.
Aaron is a regular with me at concerts. He couldn’t make this one, but one of the things he tracks with near-religious fervor is the time it takes to change sets. I glanced at my watch as Alex G said goodnight from stage B — the venue had two performance spaces — 8:24. And then the rising din began, the noise of concertgoers chittering amongst themselves as they waited for the next performance. Something was different here, something absent. Sitting in my seat, looking out on the growing crowd, I couldn’t place it.
The wave of crowd noise continued to grow, and as I scanned the crowd it hit me — there was no soft glow of cell phones illuminating faces. Everyone had to talk to each other, and in doing so a cacophony of humanity rose up in the venue unlike any I’d previously experienced. Whether that was your intention or not, well played, Phoebe.
At precisely 9, the lights drop and the weird orb thing hanging over stage B begins a light show in time with the disembodied voice of Phoebe as she opens “The Outside.” The crowd is losing its collective mind, and it’s nearly overwhelming as beams of light dance across the open air, reminding me of the laser light shows IMAX theaters used to host, synced to an album. Across the arena, toward the back, the half-shell covering stage A begins to glow, and as the song comes to an end, its light reaches a crescendo and lifts, revealing Phoebe and the band. And I’m in church.
As an atheist, I don’t hold much in the way of god. As a human, I hold much in the way of reverence — for those able to stand in the gap and give others permission to do something: to feel, to grieve, to love. Musicians who elevate themselves from rock star to cultural icon are the ones willing to light every dark corner, to put their raw grief into shared songs, and then light the torch that shows others the way.
For more than an hour and a half I sat in quiet bewilderment, watching Phoebe lead her congregation in catharsis, the crowd at times singing along so loudly as to drown out the band. All around me, women were holding each other, crying, singing, moving their bodies in time with the music. And I sat there in silent wonder.
Toward the later part of the show, Phoebe moved over to stage B, alone with just her guitar, the outpouring of love flowing toward her from the crowd like a force of nature. She spoke about the separation of humanity from the natural world, and thanked everyone for being willing to go phone-free for a few hours. She talked about the strangeness of her most recent album, Lost Weekend — written about her father, who, with his recent passing, would never get to hear it. How thankful she was to be so vulnerable with the people who had shown up, and that she wouldn’t have to see that vulnerability replayed across the internet, one camera-phone clip at a time, spread across thousands of accounts. How have we forgotten that our grief can be both collective yet deeply private at the same time?
I walked out of the Chase Center on the wrong side, adding an extra half-mile walk back to my car. And yet, the universe does nothing by mistake. In my initial exit I had moved with the throngs out of the venue and into the street, part of the crush of humanity. My walk brought me back around to the other side, the initial rush having moved on, and what was left before me were the smaller pockets. Here and there, little groups still processing — one woman bent over, holding her friend, who sat on the ground weeping. I moved past silently, not wanting to disturb anyone’s moment. The walk back was just enough time to reflect, to quietly meditate on what I’d witnessed. My car in sight, I unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s side, and scanned the parking lot. I was alone. A deep sigh, and I laid my head on the steering wheel, and for a few moments, I quietly wept.
So good!