I think there’s something beautiful about sweating and going hoarse after a concert. When the ebb and flow of the sea of concert-goers around you becomes rippling waves of swaying bodies as the artist on stage sings the songs that have become constant companions or new friends. Something cathartic in knowing that you gave it everything and there’s nothing left. A tank that’s been full for a while and has been emptied in the most gratifying way. Concerts are this other plane of existence to me. The moment the lights go down and we’re all anonymous as the show starts. The buzz of it—people screaming, the music ramping up, the vibration under your feet as everything comes to life—is so addicting. It’s something unrequited and something I miss the moment it’s over.

I wouldn’t call it post-concert depression. It’s something more enigmatic than that, honestly. It’s the ghost of who we were in that moment. Human expression that became tangible in that split moment when the music starts. I can smell it, see it, taste it. I am it. And then I’m driving down the highway back home and remember that there’s nothing quite like it and nothing that can come close to it.

All this to say that I can see why people become addicted to concerts. I can understand why they put themselves into debt following their favorite artists. I understand it now. Financially reckless? Maybe. Emotionally healing? Absolutely.

“Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.”

― Edward Bulwer Lytton

On July 30th, I saw Noah Kahan’s Great Divide tour in Arlington. It was a semi-last-minute thing and cost a pretty penny that I’ll catastrophize later. It was worth every penny; I’m just a post-graduate with bills higher than my phone number turned into currency.

We sat on the floor for this show—which I have never done for a big artist like this—and enjoyed our semi-obstructed view of Annabelle Dinda and Gigi Perez’s opening performances. Both artists led the audience into their seats and welcomed them with energy and music that fit perfectly into the exact demographic occupying the seats around us. Very worth the scaffolding slight obscuring their faces on the big screens and craning our necks to get a quick glance at the performers and their small forms from the forced perspective. Between sets, there was an energy in the air: the anticipation that tonight was a redemption after a cancelled show on his previous attempt to make it to Texan audiences. We all knew tonight was another for the books, and nothing would be stunted for the sake of brevity when it came to this show.

The show started off with Kahan’s iconography of folksy illustrated ladybugs, ants, and fireflies drifting over the giant LED screen to the tune of Wild World by Cat Stevens, before a giant timer counted down the last minute before the show. A show’s tone is always set by its opening, and that’s exactly what Kahan did: soft, slow, and deeply comforting in a way that evokes the talk you’ve been dying to have with a friend in the darkness of early morning sleepovers. As the time drifted to zero and the show finally began with the house lights going down, the earlier rambles quieted into the collective space holding its breath.

With the darkness, you’re brought into the world of The Great Divide and exactly what it stands for. Gentle ringing of windchimes precedes the medley of Kahan’s show to come as a giant housetop descends onto the prebuilt foundation of a PNW bungalow. On what should be an overly crowded stage, each member of Kahan’s band has their own individual presence, centered in their own spotlight as they play. They add to the set piece and the show rather than being static characters among the flashes of the world Kahan has created with his background visuals.

I could rant on and on about every individual detail of this show, from the downright authentic tone of Kahan’s voice to the camaraderie of his band to the interaction he has with his set. The way Kahan performs turns the show from a man in front of a crowd of people into an actual world that moves and breathes with every note. Not only that, but his band feels like actual people who have either lived in the world he’s created or completely embody the passion for his music. Kahan’s band feels just as alive as the world he builds around them: Nina de Vitry with powerhouse vibrance, Noah Levine with youthful energy, Dylan Jones with show-stealing charisma, Alex Bachari with playful charm, Mike Harris with a grounding presence, and Marcos Valles tying it all together with bright, steady warmth.

There’s always a point in most concerts I see where the music touches something raw within myself. The reaction is always mixed: sometimes it’s a moment of reflection as the music soothes, and other times it’s a euphoric release of something that’s hurt me without my awareness. As the first notes of Dashboard started up, there came the connection—this release of anger at myself for thinking that running away to another city, state, country, wherever would fix it all. Here I was, in this sea of people, being reminded that I’ll be the same person even if my zip code is different. It felt good to take that anger out by belting the lyrics back at a stage that’s screaming back at me—to be a voice lost in the dark but to know I was heard. Thank you for that moment, Noah.

Another moment that sticks out to me is the closeness I felt with my friends as Noah played Dan. The quirky yet sullen vibes of this song match our late-night drives, plane-watching, and blasting music. Knowing that we’re all sharing the experience together—and understanding that there is nowhere else we’d rather be than in that exact moment.

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All in all, this concert was well worth every bit of sleep I lost and the preparation my Noah Kahan-obsessed friend subjected us to. You know who you are—thanks for playing it nonstop, because I was very well prepared. I can’t imagine seeing Noah Kahan in a different setting for the first time, and I’m glad I stopped turning my nose up at it like I had at first. This tour is something special—something worth witnessing and taking the moment to reflect, sing, and jump around during the interspersed energetic moments. I promise it’s okay if the only song you know is Stick Season; you’re still going to have a great time.

This show is just one showcase of my earlier point. Concerts are the release we search for as music enjoyers. They are the relief of an Excedrin dose after a migraine, the soothing crash of a warm shower after a long day, the comfort of a hug after a good cry. Live music maybe be the closest we’ll ever get to ambrosia being real or to waving a magic wand around and actually having it fix the problem with pixie dust.