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I matched with the frontman of a band I used to sing my heart out to. A brief romance, filled with long messages began and then ended without a word. Here’s what I learned about the duality of musicians and the heartbreak of mistaking a songwriter’s lyrics for who he really is.  PREFACE: If you’re familiar with my work, then you know my podcast isn’t about my dating life. It’s about Concert Culture. I’m a narrative, live music journalist and critic and I record on location, not from a couch in a studio. I take you on the road with me to venues across the country, talking with owners, bands, and fans to document their stories and perspectives within their concert communities. When I reference myself, it’s in service of the story, to provide context, not attention. I’ve always maintained a boundary between my personal life and the work, and between myself and the people I interview. The goal is to underscore the thesis and reveal the interconnectedness between travel and live music. But this time, the road led somewhere new for me, into a place where love and live music intersect. I had a brief romance with the frontman of one of my favorite bands and it ended without a word. I’ve been ghosted before, but this was different. I was starting to really like him, and after years of supporting and interviewing musicians, it affected me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It fucking wrecked me. This is one of the most vulnerable pieces I’ve recorded. But in the spirit of bringing you on the ride with me, I pushed through the fear because writing it helped me to see how love and loss are part of concert culture too. What you’re about to read/hear is like reading pages from my journal. And if you’re wondering who it’s about, I’m not saying. That’s not the point. Producing this helped me process the experience and recognize that after years of documenting live music, I’d lost sight of something fundamental. This is Ghosted by a Rockstar. Haunted by his Music. THE MATCH: He was a thumb-stopper. Not for his magazine cover good looks, but because he was the lead singer of a band whose music had played a formative role in my life. It had to be a catfish. I swiped right anyway, then rolled off my air mattress and got dressed for brunch. Startup stories in LA often begin with a mattress on the floor and a suitcase full of dreams. But reality hits harder than the cold tile in a Koreatown walk-up. I had just moved into my apartment after a solo car-camping trip from my home in Downeast Maine. The freedom carried its own momentum but the bare walls and borrowed light made it impossible to forget how much I’d left behind. Professionally, I’m a music journalist and multimedia producer creating a streaming series about concert culture. Personally, I was nursing a broken heart. My ex used to call me his “Tinder-ella”—ironic, in hindsight, since the ending was anything but a fairytale. Craving connection, I downloaded another app. In a sea of selfies and vague bios, even a potential catfish felt worth the thrill. Over waffles, I told a friend from Maine, someone I’d recently reconnected with, about seeing the frontman on a dating app. I pulled out my phone, and we scanned his profile together, looking for signs it was fake. To my surprise, we matched. Even better? He messaged. I was speechless, not entirely convinced it was really him but also because I was flooded with nostalgia. Suddenly I was back in my early twenties, living in Amsterdam at a former church turned music venue in the heart of the city called Paradiso. Pressed against the stage, shoulder to shoulder with friends, mushrooms in our systems, passing spliffs like communion, watching his band play for the first time. The intensity of his performance overwhelmed me. The music, heightened by psychedelics, brought me to my knees. I was cracked open. It would be easy to call it a groupie moment, but it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with sex appeal; this wasn’t Usher feeding cherries to fans. The connection felt spiritual. When music turns you inward, especially at that age, it changes how you relate to the world. I saw, for the first time, how a musician could channel the muse, how performance could transform a person into something momentarily larger than themselves. That awareness became a curiosity that’s never left me. On my podcast, I try to get as close as possible to understanding what draws the muse in and what it feels like to channel it. I’m not looking for fixed answers. I’m learning to ask better questions, to listen for the range of logic and emotion that follows. Matching with the lead singer on a dating app decades later, after many more albums and concerts of his later, definitely wasn’t on my LA bingo card. But I went with it. My username was Wave1, from the license plate on the first car I ever drove cross-country after graduating from college. In Missouri, farmers always waved to me, and it took me a minute to realize they were reading it as a request. It also nods to another crossing: when I swam the English Channel, pushing through cold waves for hours. Now, maybe, it marks a new kind of passage: my crashing into LA. THE MESSAGES: His first message, sprinkled with star emojis, read: “Hi Wave! Soundwave, ocean wave, hand wave?” After some playful brainstorming with my friend, I replied, “Light, seismic, electromagnetic, so many waves. Which ones do you like to ride best?” He responded, “All of them. Where would we be without them?” That match sparked one of the most memorable text exchanges of my dating life. We wrote to each other for weeks before meeting. Long, Civil War-style letters lit by neon instead of candlelight. Knowing that one of our generation’s most respected songwriters was reading my words, I obsessed over tone, subtext, word choice. It felt like being back in English class. I even drafted replies in a google doc before hitting send. It was the holidays, and he was back home. We talked about everything from family traditions and books to music and even our favorite Ralph Wiggum lines from The Simpsons. Mine: “Me fail English? That’s unpossible.” His: “I eated the purple berries. They tasted like burning.” I was still a little skeptical but when he mentioned unique details about making records, my doubt began to fade. Dating app dialogue usually consists of one-liners, emojis, and quick descents into sexting, void of courtesy. But this felt different. It had rhythm and care. At one point, I mentioned how rare it was to have this kind of exchange, and he agreed. He always replied with intention, and with impressive turnaround time. The app became a container for our digital courtship. Every time his name lit up on my phone, I felt a hit of dopamine. I knew he was probably talking to others, most people are, but somewhere in all that back-and-forth, a new side of him emerged: thoughtful and interested in me. In her article “Warning! Don’t Date Musicians” published in The Times, Gillian Orr writes,“Of all the appalling men I’ve dated, I don’t think I’ve ever been mistreated as badly as I have by musicians… they will happily stomp on your heart and leave you for dust at the first opportunity.” Spike Lee’s Mo’ Better Blues carries a similar message about the emotional chaos that often trails behind men in bands. I’ve heard firsthand stories of love strained by relentless touring. And then there’s the old adage: never meet your idols. Curiosity has a way of muting caution. With everything I knew, I agreed to the date. DATE ONE: Knee-high socks. Mini skirt. Black blazer with a silver half-moon belt. Heart pounding. Dewy forehead. My hands shook as I locked my apartment door. To be fair, I always get nervous before first dates and also before my interviews with musicians. This was the confluence of both. And after such a slow build-up, my nerves were cranked to eleven. I remember approaching the museum and spotting him from a distance. His look was unmistakable. Even from fifty feet away, I felt relieved: this wasn’t a catfish. At least not in the traditional sense. He was standing beneath a massive tree, gazing up into the branches. I ducked into a nearby parking garage to collect myself. It’s always awkward walking toward someone from so far away, that long approach, like prey crossing a clearing. I caught my reflection in the convex backup mirror, took a breath, and walked toward him, away from myself. We hugged, and what struck me first wasn’t a scent, but the absence of one. Up close, he was handsome. Our eyes locked. The chemistry was immediate, even if his clothes told a different story. His jacket strained at the buttons. Neon tennis shoes with aggressive foam soles screamed orthopedic flair. But then his gentle brown eyes drank me in. “You’re so pretty,” he said. His familiar voice wrapped around me like my favorite blanket. “I love your belt.” If I had to guess, he was nervous too, rambling on about the leaves. The moment felt unreal, or maybe just too real. I was alone with a rock star who, without his guitar, the spotlight, or thousands of adoring fans, was just a guy I met online. In between small talk an arborist would probably roll their eyes at, I felt completely outside myself. One part of me was nodding along about trees; the other was in full-blown overthinking mode, trying to figure out how to be the kind of woman a man like him might want. But the fact that he had asked me out felt like its own kind of confirmation. I didn’t need to shapeshift. I just needed to be present. We were simply two people, showing up, hoping to be seen, maybe even loved, the way we want to be. Contemporary art gave us the opportunity to flirt, flex our wit, and stay shoulder-close. The chemistry kept building. He cupped the small of my back as we passed through a heavy door. Our humor clicked, easy, electric. We teased each other about overwrought installations and whispered too loud in quiet rooms. He leaned in, head tilted. “What do you like most about this crumpled soda can glued to the canvas?” “That it probably has its own PR team” I said. And we cracked up. There was a certain mystique in the tension between musician and journalist. Neither of us wanted to give too much away. We had only touched upon our professionals briefly in our correspondence. It felt like mutual withholding, its own kind of sex appeal. A test of whether we could show up as our real selves. Turns out, my real self was kind of swooning. Take away his profession and my front-to-back knowledge of his discography, if a guy can make me laugh, that’s my Achilles’ heel. He made me belly laugh, and I gave it right back. The banter was unmatched. We volleyed observations and shared side glances at the most absurd art pieces, finding the same things funny for the same reasons. It felt easy. And I could tell he was into it too, because the date kept going. From the museum to iced matcha lattes in Little Tokyo, through a tunnel of books downtown, we wandered the city, swapping stories at every turn. Time felt elastic, like it was stretching just for us. As we passed a graffiti-covered alley, he turned to me and said, “Whoa, déjà vu.” Some say déjà vu means you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, that your soul’s been here before. I lit up, leaping to conclusions. To me, it meant this moment, this date, maybe even me, was meant to be part of his story. The déjà vu sealed it. At that point, the falling-in-love fantasies were fully activated. Eventually, we ducked into one of his favorite spots: the Whole Foods hot bar. “Dependable when on tour,” he said. Not the most romantic setting, but we were starving. We settled into barstools overlooking the street, slurping minestrone and sipping sparkling water. He opened up about his childhood, his struggles with addiction, and his commitment to deep therapy work. It was raw and vulnerable, what the internet might label as floodlighting, but in the moment, it felt like real honesty. We talked about the kinds of things potential partners should talk about. We discovered shared moral ground, how we both valued introspection, and the power of forgiveness. We laughed the entire walk back to my car which was parked outside a fried chicken place blaring radio static, offering some white noise to our makeout session. Our lips were like magnets that had finally found each other. The chemistry swirling like a genie let out of a bottle, he said he wished it were a more romantic setting. But to me, it already was. Driving home afterward felt almost impossible, like leaving a scene that hadn’t finished playing out. THE DELUSION: Back at my bare apartment, his goodnight text felt like the warmest hug—a digital affirmation that he was into me. I wish I could say I played it cool, but I’d be lying. For days, I was lost in my imagination, concocting romantic scenarios like they were fact. His déjà vu moment felt like spiritual permission to believe in it. But it all blurred the truth: I had only met him once. A few days later, I was soaking in the bathtub, listening to his music with new ears, when he texted saying he wanted to see me again. I was already deeper than I realized, building a full-blown fantasy of being in a relationship with him. Alone in a new city, still nursing heartbreak, and then suddenly being swept into one of the most magical dates of my life with the frontman of a favorite band felt like the universe was scripting my LA love story. I suggested another museum. An easy button for two people in sobriety. I knew second dates are typically when the connection gets tested, the “critical choice” stage in screenwriting terms. But I wasn’t following that writing formula. In my mind, I had already cast him, scored the montage, and staged the ending, all without fully developing the character. DATE TWO: We met in front of LA’s famous dinosaur bones, and to my relief, the chemistry was still there. We wandered past dusty dioramas, trading giggles and quick kisses. When he casually mentioned he'd had diarrhea that morning, I chalked it up to tour bus humor and let it slide though the overshare definitely caught me off guard. He asked if I wanted to grab dinner near his neighborhood. “Sure, why not?” Then I got into his brand new soccer mom car, which was a small disappointment considering that his music screams vintage Land Rover. We merged onto the 110 at rush hour. The horror. But how a man handles traffic is an early tell. He passed. Until we got to the restaurant. We didn’t have reservations. He was hangry. Watching a frontman unravel over a wait time was an abrupt shift from artistry to humanity. And even more so, having to coddle him felt like I was back with my hot-head ex. But once we were seated, hand rolls and hot tea in front of us, the conversation transitioned into a subject I was eager to talk about. Relationships. We met on Feeld, the app for alternative dating, kink-forward, ENM-friendly, and unapologetically exploratory people. Not your average Hinge match. He spoke openly about no longer believing in traditional monogamy. Given his life, split between cities and always on tour, it made sense. As a music journalist and realist, I got it. Believing a frontman isn’t making a unique number of connections on the road is naive. Over sushi, we unpacked emotional intelligence and sexual ethics. But under the sterile glow of overhead lights, it started to feel more like a philosophy seminar than a date. There was mutual understanding, but no flirtation. No heat. The genie of chemistry had left the room. Maybe I was too eager to please, too focused on meeting his criteria, and lost sight of my own. Or maybe he was testing how much I wanted him. Some men crave being the object of desire, which alone can create something like attraction in them. But instead of holding my ground, I conformed. And for someone who might be drawn to the thrill of pursuit, maybe I made it too easy. THE FORCED FUMBLE: Dinner ended. We could have, and likely should have, called it a night. But we went back to his place instead. Which, to his credit, was a vibe. A tastefully designed space that made up for his mom-style car. Records spun. Seltzer was poured. We curled up on a buttery brown couch that seemed to say, “stay a while.” I wanted to recapture the spark we lit outside my car on our first date. To build on that momentum; to start a new scene in my LA dating story. I flirted, teased, tried to create heat. After all, we met on a sex-forward dating app. But something was off. Every time I leaned in, he leaned out. Literally, to the bathroom. In hindsight, I probably should have backed off. But he didn’t ask me to leave, and didn’t set any boundaries, and I mistook that as a green light. So I kept trying. I straddled him, whispered sexy, sweet nothings of consent. He responded with lines like, “That’s interesting,” or, “I’m not into lingerie.” Not exactly the language of arousal. Not even the language of presence. Still, I kept going. I became a court jester of seduction. The harder I tried, the more limp he got. His energy was far away, but I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to feel wanted. But he’d already checked out, physically, emotionally, gastrointestinally. He said, “I have to get up early.” A subtle cue that really meant, “please leave.” He kissed me at the door. And I left. When I got back to my apartment, there was no text like before. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was super sick. I went to bed without spiraling, still feeling grounded in the connection we had built in person and weeks worth of messages. But by the next day, when nothing came through, the tide started to turn. Anyone who’s been ghosted knows the feeling. And because it wasn’t my first, I recognized the signs the moment they crept in. The dry mouth for no reason. The racing thoughts that scattered before they could land. No appetite until suddenly I was inhaling an entire bag of chips. The slow unraveling of certainty. The desperate texts to friends, fishing for reassurance. He had been consistent, I told myself. He liked me enough to at least tell me he didn’t... right? At this point, the ocean had completely receded, exposing a shoreline littered with things I didn’t want to see: shells of shame, rejection, regret, and doubt. As night fell and city lights filtered through my blinds, the silence turned suffocating. No new messages. Then it hit, the internal tsunami I’d been bracing for. A wave of panic crashed through me, confirming what I didn’t want to admit. I’d been ghosted. LOST AT SEA: Adrift on my mattress, a life raft with no land in sight. I had already been mending a broken heart from my ex, and this blatant disregard tore it wide open. The only thing keeping me tethered was ambient music, layered, winding, freeing. The music moved like slow currents, carrying me somewhere unexpected. As if to say: I’m going to cradle you. Relax. Stop resisting the pain. Let it wash over you. So I listened. I lay pinned in place as my mind drifted. With each track, a new emotion surfaced. Shame circled. Embarrassment swelled. I replayed every moment of our last date like a quarterback reviewing game tape, fumble after fumble, every misstep in slow motion. My eagerness, my desperate attempt to be chosen, reeked of need. Red flags to him, I’m sure. And all the while, the music held me. Not to fix it, but to keep me afloat. A buoy in the dark, sludgy waters of regret. And the saddest part? The romantic songwriter, the magnetic performer whose lyrics are laced with tenderness and courage, was gone. I was hurt by his silence, but also by the realization that I had mistaken his lyrics for the man himself. I wanted to believe that someone who could write that beautifully must live by the same depth. I knew the sea would eventually settle. It always does. But for now, I had to ride it out because somewhere in the churn, I would find compassion for myself. So I let go and let the wave carry me home. When I woke up, my pillow was soaked with tears but clear thoughts lapped gently at the edge of a new day. THE RECOVERY EFFORTS: This wasn’t a stranger disappearing after a forgettable date. This was a man who once replied with care and speed, a man who writes albums about heartbreak, human struggle, and redemption. Someone whose career revolves around language and meaning. And yet, he couldn’t find three words for me. The absurdity was humiliating. Yes, it was brief. And yes, dating musicians in LA isn't rare. But that doesn’t make it less baffling. Our exchanges showed he was capable of communication. He simply chose not to. Our conversations about morality, forgiveness, and love felt sincere. I believed that if it ended, it would end with words. Dr. Émile P. Torres, in a 2024 Truthdig article titled What Ghosting Says About Society (And Why It Hurts So Much), outlines several common causes: communication overload, personal crises, and most often, disinterest. Ouch Torres writes. “The ghoster is concerned only about him/herself, without considering the partner.” He continues, “Many ghosters act out of fear, insecurity, or emotional avoidance, retreating into silence rather than facing discomfort, even if they later regret denying someone basic dignity.” And worse: “Ghosting is more than an event, it’s a message: You, the ghostee, don’t deserve closure. You aren’t worthy of understanding why or receiving an explanation of how. You are something to be discarded when I, the ghoster, no longer need you.” I also had to consider a harder truth: because I was frictionless and made things easy, maybe I was convenient to disappear from. Ghosters often assume people like me “won’t make a big deal about it.”Maybe that was true here too. None of these explanations changed how it felt though: let down. I’ve dedicated my life to music, to storytelling, to uplifting artists. And instead of being met with respect, I was dismissed. The absurdity of contradictions didn’t end with the research. It only compounded when I came across video interviews of him repeating, almost word for word, the same stories he told me on our first date. Lines I’d taken as intimate were part of a well-worn script, one that had circulated through town but never quite sold. Who was he, really? At first, I felt sick. Then confused. Then, empathetic. I hadn’t fully considered how hard it must be to step out of the limelight without shedding the role. When your identity is built around performance, it must be hard not to keep performing even offstage, while eating soup at Whole Foods on a first date. The double life artists of his caliber have to navigate suddenly came into focus. The glory, the attention, the adoration, it all comes at a cost. After a week of tortuous rumination, I tried to rationalize. Maybe something happened. Maybe I had to reach out. Eventually, I did. A gentle, open-ended message, just seeking closure. I was on a trail in Malibu, the sun slipping into the Pacific. As the sky dimmed, so did the hope for a reply. None came. And in its place, a haunting. THE HAUNTING: Back to the old saying: never meet your idols. They say it because the person behind the art might disappoint you. But I’d take it further: don’t match with your favorite musician. If the man doesn’t measure up, the music becomes an eerie reminder of what you hoped for and what used to be. As Gillian Orr writes, “the music follows you into the mundane. One minute you’re shopping for groceries; the next, you hear it, and you’re right back in it.” That’s the haunting part. But she got something I didn’t: an ending. “He made a feeble apology before returning to join a bevy of girls,” she writes. I’m envious even of that. For me, when he disappeared, the songs took on a new form like a poltergeist. What once felt like an anthem, the kind of music that made me scream lyrics out the window while flying down dirt roads, suddenly felt cold and hollow.. If he could be careless with words, or with the lack of them, how could I not hear that in his music? Now, pressing play comes with resistance. Seeing him promote new work on late night shows or hearing friends celebrate a performance of his stirs up an unexplainable ache. And because music is a mirror, his songs now reflect parts of me I’d rather not see: The woman who clung to the man and let go of the music, even though the music had never let me down. PROCESSING & CONCLUSION: Psychiatrist and author Dr. Mark Epstein, in his book Advice Not Given: A Guide to Getting Over Yourself, writes, “Things change when the way you explain things to yourself changes.” To move through this, I had to consciously think different thoughts. Three ideas helped. First: Roland Barthes’ the Death of the Author. Once art is released, it no longer belongs to its creator, meaning lives with the listener. I hold onto that, especially with his music. I choose to let the songs carry me back to the joy of screaming lyrics on back roads. Second: acousmatic listening. Pythagoras taught behind a curtain so his students would focus on the message, not the man. I started wondering, what if concerts worked that way? Lately, I’ve been going to shows with this in mind, closing my eyes and letting the music stand on its own. Because in an era where performance is so tied to spectacle, effort, and charisma, it’s easy to confuse showmanship for substance. Third: Perspective is personal. I laughed during a rerun of Seinfeld, Season 6, Episode 19, “The Jimmy,” when Jerry says to Elaine, “I can’t watch a man sing a song. They get all emotional, they sway. It’s embarrassing.” Once you see a male performer through that lens, it’s hard to unsee. Because really, what’s manly about crooning into a microphone, eyes closed, pouring out emotion? It’s not masculine energy, it’s vulnerable, expressive, feminine. And yet we project power onto it. Maybe that’s the illusion. In the wreckage, gratitude. The first time I saw him perform, decades ago in Amsterdam the synergy in that room charted a new course for my life: from venue to venue, city to city, capturing the stories that unfold onstage and in the crowd. That calling eventually led me to LA. So when my first date here was with the frontman of that same band, it didn’t feel like a coincidence. It felt like a continuation. Or maybe a reminder that even when you think you’ve hardened, music can still bring you to your knees. It can still make you feel something new. Love and loss remain life’s best instructors because They reveal more of who you actually are. This isn’t how I imagined my journalism skills would evolve when I moved to LA, but I’m also not too surprised. The heart of my work has always come from lived experience, from empathy. As an emotional investigator of concert culture, I tell stories from standing alongside the fans. Not to chase celebrity, but to meet the music where it lives, in real time, in real space, with the people who feel it. Music lives differently in all of us, yet connects us in ways we can’t fully explain. That mystery is the pursuit. Do I love being backstage, soaking up the energy of a set, and interviewing artists about their work? Absolutely. But the most vital part of the job now is discernment, the ability to see the frontman and the man as two different people. I’ve had to face my own duality too: the journalist and the woman. The one who documents. The one who dates. Because when the concert ends, the fans disappear, and the text message is sent, it’s not the music that replies. It’s the person. Kyle Lamont is an award-winning producer, founder and host of Concert Cast, an indie travel series exploring concert culture. Her new, always-on video chat show about live music premieres soon. Listen at ConcertCast.live or contact her at [email protected].
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 AN INSTANT CONNECTION "People said, 'You're crazy.' But the culture of Flagstaff is such that I kind of knew we’d be able to pull this off because people here really appreciate music, appreciate culture, appreciate community." —Chris Scully, Former Co-Owner, Orpheum Theatre Flagstaff has a magnetic pull—something about this place draws you in and makes it hard to leave. Historic hotels and music venues, amazing food, sound baths, listening rooms, and the scent of ponderosa pines in the air: this town is pure magic. What started as a quick stop to catch a show at the Orpheum and spend the night at the Hotel Monte Vista turned into a month-long adventure. Before I knew it, I was negotiating with hotel management to extend my stay. Listening back to this episode, I realize I only skimmed the surface of what Flagstaff has to offer. It’s a place that pulls you into its orbit and makes you feel like you’ve been part of the community all along. ROCK HARD & SLEEP WELL "I needed to bring extra pillows to their room, and I remember walking in and seeing gorgeous instruments just leaning against the walls." —Lindsay, Front Desk Clerk, Hotel Monte Vista The Hotel Monte Vista, located just off Route 66 on San Francisco Street, is no ordinary hotel. Each room has its own personality, which is part of the charm, along with the hotel’s rich history and the parade of famous guests who’ve stayed there. I recorded this episode from two of their most iconic rooms: Michael Stipe’s and Bing Crosby’s. It didn’t take long to realize that this hotel is the heart of Flagstaff. The lounge and adjoining cocktail bar buzz with energy, filled with travelers and locals alike. One of the hotel’s most memorable stories comes from Lindsay, a front desk clerk. She told me about delivering extra pillows to Elephant 6, a band staying at the Monte Vista after performing at the Orpheum Theatre. Moments like that highlight the unique energy of this place, where musicians and guests mingle in the most unexpected ways. RAGED SO HARD THEY BLEW A FUSE "Everything else in the building shut down, including the lighting rig. The emergency lights came on. We went to a cash bar, but the sound kept going and the show went on. It's a legendary night at the Orpheum. I still hear about it to this day." —Chris Scully, Co-Owner, Orpheum Theatre The Orpheum Theatre stands as Flagstaff's crown jewel for live music, hosting acts from JJ Cale and Lucinda Williams to Tyler, the Creator. During my tour with Chris Scully, we explored every corner—from the parking lot to the green rooms—uncovering the venue's architectural quirks and legendary stories. One of the most iconic? The night Umphrey’s McGee rocked so hard they blew a fuse. The entire building went dark except for the emergency lights, but the music didn’t stop. The band kept playing, the crowd stayed, and the night became part of Orpheum folklore. There was even the time a fan crawled through the attic and made it all the way to the green room—just another wild chapter in the venue’s history. THE INFAMOUS MEAT MAN ROOM With nearly a century of stories—spanning speakeasy nights, music legends, and celebrity guests—the Hotel Monte Vista feels alive with history. And with that history comes a few ghosts. Lindsay, the front desk clerk, shared the hotel's eerie tales, which are anything but tame. "They’re not exactly PG. Sometimes kids ask me about the stories, and I’m like, 'How do I tell you that someone robbed a bank, got shot, and then had his last glass of whiskey here in our lounge?’" But the creepiest stories revolve around the “Meat Man” room, haunted by a ghost that leaves even the staff unsettled. While I never encountered any ghosts firsthand, the stories lingered with me long after our conversation ended, giving me chills just thinking about them. IN CONCLUSION: What started as a quick stop along Route 66 became a transformative experience. Between the concerts, cozy rooms, and ghost stories, Flagstaff left its mark on me. It’s a place where music and history intertwine, pulling you into a community that feels both familiar and new. This connection is what I love most about live music venues—the way they connect us to the spirits of those who stood in the same spot, under the same roof, witnessing unforgettable performances. And that’s the magic of Flagstaff: it leaves you feeling connected, not just to the place, but to everyone who came before. LISTEN TO THE FULL ROCKUMENTARY PODCAST HERE FROM A BACKSTAGE TOUR TO PUGS AT THE FRONT DOOR: When I signed up for a backstage, daytime guided tour of the Moody Theatre, the home of Austin City Limits, I wasn’t planning to meet the photographer whose work of countless musicians adorns the venue walls. But after the tour, my curiosity to know more about his life and process was on auto-pilot, I felt drawn to him for some reason, coaxed. Within hours of my tour, I was in a taxi on my way to meet Scott Newton. As I walked through his misty garden, I was very nervous but was instantly put at ease when his pug Slugger greeted me at the door. As a lifelong pug person, my heart skipped a beat and I felt kindred. TRAVEL THROUGH TERABYTES: Flipping through his coffee table book of photography and later through his digital archive, Scott shares stories about some of the artists who sing from the glossy pages. You’ll hear about Willie Nelson, his best friend who he has been photographing since the 60’s and you’ll never believe who called him up to ask to use one of his photographs as an album cover! Scott talks about his technical approach to photography (he’s a Nikon guy) but it was his philosophy on the art of photography itself that brought me to tears. His concepts and viewpoints on the muse, the creative process and on spirituality will take you deep inside and outside yourself. MEDIA TIME CAPSULE OF MUSIC MAGIC: “Ostensibly, we're bringing through the very best musicians of the world really these days, and it's the place where everybody goes to show their A-game. And so we're laying down an anthology of the very best the culture has to offer.” Scott Newtown With humble roots, Austin City Limits is the longest running music series in American TV history. The concert experience is a unique one, because the show is being taped for tv. This affords artists the luxury of re-doing songs; sometimes more than once. Scott talks about an artist who might have taken the luxury a bit too far and shares spiritual viewpoints on what a venue means to our society. IN CLOSING: Anne Geddes says that, “The best images are the ones that retain their strength and impact over the years, regardless of the number of times they are viewed.” And I now believe the same can be said about podcasts. Thank you for reading, for listening and for being here - I sincerely hope this podcast episodes brings you joy and newfound appreciation and perspective for the work you practice. I can’t help but wonder, was this pop concert the culmination of my healing journey through heartbreak, or rather, the start of a new love cycle?   The heartbreak journey that takes you down many emotional paths. Depression, displacement—for me, denial that I would ever want to be in love again. And during each stage of my process, the perfect breakup song would seem to serendipitously appear and like a lyrical blanket, insulate my cold heart. Starting with Carol King lamenting, "It's too Late," transitioning into Little Dragon’s, “No Love.” Then it was Peter Tosh bellowing, “Why Must I Cry,” and as of late, “Last Goodbye” by Jeff Buckley. And many, many, other songwriters were there for me too. Yet, these songs are a double-edged sword inadvertently reinforcing despair. The truth is, they made me kind of calloused towards love too. But when I ventured into the Maine Savings Amphitheater at the waterfront in Bangor, Maine to photograph contemporary pop stars JAX, MAX, and Big Time Rush, I feel giddy and carefree, and dare I say, start to see love through a sparkling lens of optimism again. And I can’t help but wonder, was this pop concert the culmination of my healing journey, or rather, the start of a new love cycle? ----- When I arrived at the newly renovated amphitheater to grab my photo pass, chunky clouds were crawling across the sky, the glowing summer sun was dipping behind the galvanized fence, and a cool breeze was coming off the nearby Penobscot River. Hundreds of young people, adorning handmade shirts and clutching bedazzled signs requesting songs or kisses, were patiently sitting, while countless others, wearing perma-grins, continued to stream in. I pulled out my Canon 5D, double checked my batteries, and slid into the photo pit in time for Jax, a 27 year old singer/songwriter from New Jersey who cut her teeth in the pop industry on “American Idol” and as of late, has blown up on TikTok. She bounced onto the stage wearing a ‘90s-inspired tracksuit, giant black platform boots from Hot Topic, and a blonde ponytail with a life of its own. Her songs range from the joys of babysitting and mentorship, slaying ex-boyfriends, and to finding new love. One of my favorite photos that I captured was of Jax and her guitarist, singing back to back, the Forrest Gump and Bubba of power pop. Even her stage banter was wicked fun. But the highlight came when she brought her performance down into the audience. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to Michael, a 24-year-old from Boston with a sign that read "I want to sing Victoria's Secret with You!" She sauntered off the stage towards him and together, her and Michael, who had retro Happy Day’s glasses, sang into the mic her hit song, “Victoria’s Secret.” A 21c pop anthem that criticizes the company and its concept of beauty. When I caught up with Michael afterwards he was shaking with joy. Elated. When I asked him why he loved Jax he said, “Because she is so body positive and I just love her genre." Modern pop isn’t typically my go to style of music or genre, but having this new experience lifted my spirits in a way I didn’t expect and I was only one band in, needless to say, I was excited to see MAX perform next. Named a “top popstar to watch” by Billboard magazine, MAX models, acts, and collaborates with K-pop stars like BTS's Suga. He's been on hit Nickelodeon TV shows and movies and recently headlined Seoul Jazz Festival in South Korea. As the roadies plugged in the final XLR chords, the giant screen at the back of the stage lit up in yellow with black MAX lettering. Like a magnet, the barricade attracted so many wiggling fans, including myself. Through the eye of my lens, I could see that every step he took across the stage was deliberate, as if he was savoring the energy of the moment. His outfit was incredibly stylish and his smile was the epitome of charming. He was decked out in bright orange pants, an abstract Rothko-esque tricolored nylon top that hugged at his biceps, white kicks, and black crescent moon shaped glasses. Within seconds of arriving at the center of the stage, he leapt into his first pop song. I knew that he was going to be an energetic performer, but wow, my shutter speed could not keep up with him! He was high kicking, spinning, jumping, dancing, all while maintaining a focused vocal range, pitch and tone. Many of the songs on his forthcoming studio album, spread a message of being true to who you are, wearing what you want, loving who you want, and creating a safe space where everyone can feel accepted. The heartfelt anthem, "Lights Down Low," was his breakout hit, garnering millions of streams and, according to Yahoo News, has become a universal expression of love. MAX says that he wrote ‘Lights Down Low’ soon after he began dating a woman named Emily. “And I knew I was just gonna write a song that I wanted for her,” he confesses. “I just wanted to dedicate something to her. I just knew she was it, and I knew I was gonna marry her. It was wild. I just literally knew.” In fact, he proposed to her by singing it. Love takes center stage in every aspect of his artistry. From his heartfelt lyrics to his electrifying performance and genuine dedication to connecting with his fans. At the end of his set, he announced that he would be at the merch booth signing autographs. In my experience, when a band makes this promise, it is met with a laissez faire audience response, but not here. Within seconds, young people were flying towards the merch booth. The line formed screaming fast, extending almost back to the stage and I was floored by how quickly Max appeared. Within seconds of announcing the autograph session, he magically jumped onto the merch table, waving to his adoring fans. After a quick towel off, (he was dripping with sweat), he began signing autographs one by one. I stood in line with his fans, giddy as hell. The excitement to see a pop star up close is adrenalizing. Being amongst the hoards of happy fans made me feel so young, carefree, and alive. It’s wild how cute boys, energetic music, and new friends can have this effect. As I made my way back towards the stage to prepare for the headline performance, MAX and two bodyguards zoomed past me with a trail of excited girls in hot pursuit. It was a sight to behold. I had no idea what to expect when getting ready for Big Time Rush (BTR). When the venue went dark and spotlights beamed down onto an LED paneled platform, silhouettes of the singers wearing matching outfits gradually ascended from beneath the stage. That’s when I knew I was in for a boy band ride. In a “Star Trek”-like formation, they stood together, beaming with gratitude, the crowd’s anticipation mounting like the Second Coming. I zoomed in to get a closer look at the guy and was sucked in by Logan Henderson's celestial dimples. Swoon. A hot boy serenade is enough to send you to the moon! With the drop of the booming beat, the band exploded into a choreographed dance, and when the smoke machine blew off, I climaxed. The combination of documenting such an fun performance with my camera, the unbridled energy of the fans, and my proximity to the band, made me positively euphoric. I let go and screamed full-throated my M***&^% face off. Who cares if I broke professional photographer protocol? It was absolutely cathartic to break into a new phase of love with such abandon.I was a teenager again screaming in support of love and possibilities. And, let’s be real, for hot guys singing to me! From dance rock hits to ballads, BTR covered the spectrum of love songs. I’m no expert on boy band culture, but in my opinion the band lived up to tradition and expectations. I mean, everyone was simply sublime. After a few songs in the pit, I made my way to the back of the amphitheater where lasers painted the night sky. I watched from afar a group of young people twirling to the show. It was as if the music had unlocked a hidden door for me, one that I haven’t walked through in years; where inside, innocence and open hearts dance freely. I fully acknowledge that I experienced this show through bubblegum-colored glasses, but we all know that the dark night of the soul through heartbreak is intense. So to have this new feeling felt dizzying. And The energy exchange between bands and fans was a rejuvenating reminder that love is meant to be playful, naive, and downright fun. With renewed enthusiasm, a newly thawed heart, and a reaffirmed belief in the power of music, I took a sizable, if trepidatious step forward to join the dancers, eager to embrace the potential of falling in love again, just like the kids these days. Special thanks to Danny Schneider, Nicole Rosiak and Jessica Peterson and to all the musicians in this episode for making music that lifts us up to where we belong. For more rockumentary podcasts exploring concert culture, listen and subscribe to Concert Cast on Itunes or wherever you listen to podcasts.
 At 4 pm sharp electronic doors opened, (think haunted house at the Magic Kingdom), and we were ushered into a very lavish living room. Much like the haunted house ride at Disney World, we're surrounded by picture frames on a digital carousel, swapping out photos of music legends every 10 seconds or so. I took a seat and within minutes, a 3D version of Garth Brooks and his wife, Trisha Yearwood appeared. This was not a video, not a hologram, but the in between version of hologram and standard video projection. They dove into history of the Opry with carefully edited clips assembled to pull at the heartstrings. The music, the choreographed lights and the script were so emotional, I was both moved by the history of live music and also the production value. But in the same moment it felt like I was being force fed the importance of the venue. I had already bitten the lure and was on the line. I could see the value of a sparkly marketing piece to attract me, but they already had me onboard. Over done or was I already overthinking? After the emotional lubricant was applied, came the tour. Another set of animatronic doors swung open and we were now in the lobby of the theater watching... more videos. If the first video didn’t impress the importance of what we were about to do, this video made sure to do that for us. Then we were ushered by a very perky guide with perfected punchlines and an even perkier rhinestone belt. And you know, that is one reason why I enjoy these kinds of tours. They are bottled up and packaged just right. Homogenized and safe. Embracing experiences designed for tourists allows me to not think too hard, rather just go with the flow. However, I indulged in considering my own podcast paradox. Concert Cast was created to evoke deeper feelings of concert culture by talking to people at the heart of the industry, or, like the backstage tour does, to lift the veil on magic. The inquisitive nature of Concert Cast and heartfelt curiosity, like this backstage tour, is what keeps me producing. But now I have something new to consider: where should the curtain fall? We walked through another set of doors and were officially backstage. The lighting was more sterile, and the ceilings so high you could barely see the top. Some stagehands were pacing, waiting for musicians and I wonder if they feel like animals in a cage when tourists come through. We turn a corner and are ushered into a TV studio where Hee Haw, a country-themed television variety show was filmed and where new TV specials are now too. There was a huge drop screen and a balcony for a TV audience along with lighting rigs and tresses. And then, you guessed it, another video explaining the importance of the room. From there we were ushered into the dressing room area which felt like the lobby at an office complex, complete with a guard behind a desk checking IDs. What caught my eye was a little post office where members of the Opry receive fan mail. There were the plaques of all the country stars and so many great pictures. We walked down a long hallway as the guide explained to us how each dressing room is designed differently, and mentioned musicians who prefer which room and why. (By the way, Dolly Parton loves the purple themed room with crystals.) Each room had its own vibe and decor with a multitude of colors and patterns. And they were super clean and appeared barely used. Honestly, they felt more like a hotel room and I was a little disappointed they didn’t have more marks of the musicians who used them as sanctuary before a show. There was no sign of grit, no sign of a story. From years of interviewing bands backstage at venues, there really is a sense of magic in the walls, but the backstage area here felt superimposed. I was fascinated by the mystery of what they were covering up. What party stains did a cleaner spend hours removing? What is the real narrative of the venue? If country music is known for antics, these backstage areas felt a bit too polished. When I asked the perky guide with a rhinestone belt about any shenanigans, she had a bottled answer that I am sure is partly true; the artists are on their best behavior because they want to be invited back. Now the backstage area held a narrative of privilege and success – and reverence like a place of worship. She then showed us the main lounge area where The Archie Campbell Mural was the centerpiece. The painting was drawn in 1966 for the cover of a souvenir book and then installed as a mural in 1981. The image depicts a night at the Opry where a bunch of cartoon characters, similar to a Where’s Waldo setup, are dancing all over the stage and having their own little life. This mural was the only relic that truly showed character of the backstage area because there was no sheen, and the guide explained how it was water stained from the 2010 flood. That detail, more than anything else she shared, grabbed my attention. The waterline was about 4 feet off the ground indicating that the stage upon which we were about to walk was once underwater. Bouncing back from that disaster is a true testament to the power of this place and its people. And that it is memorialized in a mural depicting joyful cartoon characters is unexpected. This was the realness that I was looking for and aim to tell in Concert Cast episodes. The challenges that a venue or artist endures is where the story starts and that shared, human condition is what I love about podcasting. The magic is in the story - the real story. As we walk towards the stage and turn a small corner, we are met with a massive auditorium filled with rows of cushioned church pews. And while we are not performers, I think we all understood the wow factor musicians feel as they step onto the stage and take in the majestic scene. Now I get what Garth and Trisha shared in their moving welcome video. Blocked off sections of instrumentation on stage hinted of a museum, less the do not touch signs, and then we were, at long last, steps away from the infamous “circle” that was explained to us ad nauseam in the videos. This 4X4 circle is where so many artists stood at the Ryman, the former home of the Opry, and then they moved this patch of wood to the current location in the 70’s. There is a stark difference between the circle and the stage. This and the cartoon mural were the only elements in the house that showed its age. The wood grain in the circle was light and weathered, like a high school gym beaten down by years of basketball playing, the history of the piece of wood dazzled in the lights. It’s funny how we make regular objects into metaphors, projecting our own wishes, hopes and dreams onto something that has no heartbeat. But it is this that makes the live music experience so fascinating to me, imagining all the people that once stood in our shoes and will stand there once again. Venues are mythological, and we personify the building to better connect. But again, this is a contradiction of live music venues, because to many people, venues are considered just a building, there is no mystery or magic about it. While on stage, I did feel like an imposter, there is a sense of getting too close to the magic, and, like the static electricity of being shocked back into reality. Do these tours take away the magic, or enhance it? As a podcaster who is inspired by moments like these - I do penetrate the 4th wall by taking listeners behind the scenes and sharing the realness of being backstage before a performer goes on. Because to me, the magic is in the mundane but it is also in the mystery of what goes on backstage. But on a tour like this where we feel like we are at a zoo or museum, it can feel like sacrilege or something, cheapening the experience. However, for many, it will be what they tell their friends about when sharing travel stories about Nashville. I am not a musician, so I did not feel worthy to stand in the circle. But I stepped inside to absorb the creativity; the collective feeling of humans longing for a moment to be seen and heard, and to share their passion. After a stop at the gift shop and dinner in Opryland, I'm back in my pew for the show. More videos played on the monstrous big screens, driving home the history of this place but this time, it was out of context and unnecessary. The videos hijacked our imagination, replacing it with their own narrative. Concerts are subjective and showing too many videos that curate a feeling aren’t fair to people who want to experience things on their own terms. A bit deflated and with no real choice, I sunk into the videos and waited for the music. The Opry is a long-standing radio performance, so the host comes out to introduce each band and then in between their acts, which are only 3 songs or so each, stagehands come out to reconfigure the set up for the next band. That was super cool to watch. And I love how the entire night was like scanning the radio, where different genres of country were heard, and before you know it, you were onto the next band. It was definitely a great experience in this day and age of short attention spans. But the real magical part of the night for me was knowing that my parents once sat in the audience, back in the 90’s when both Clint Black and Garth Brooks performed on the same night. Sitting on the pews, transported me through time. I love that venues are a connective thread across generations and l got lost thinking of my mom and dad, being here together at my age enjoying music. Like an apparition going back in time, my mind's eye watched as they walked through the door, found their row and then watched the musicians step onto the stage for their moment in the circle. This unexplainable feeling is enchanting. The feeling of unity and togetherness is hypnotic, it moves, it breathes, it is invisible. When I left the venue, my system felt shocked, not by the bitter Tennessee winter air, but by a mini revelation of how cynical I can be. People enjoy the backstage tour and, truly, so did I. There is a reason that 20 of them run daily. The joy of being a tourist, letting go and being swept up in the lore is to be open and curious, and that is also what I aim to offer through Concert Cast. To talk with people who live and breathe live music. Sharing stories and reflections doesn’t demystify, rather it makes a connection and brings the listener inside the magic. I think that works when the story revealed is real and not pasteurized for preservation. Moonshine, mushrooms and a mythical night of music. |
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