I still miss live music.

We’re 9 months into this pandemic. 9 months into staying at home, or wearing masks when we don’t. 9 months into needless deaths and collective anxiety and sadness. And, of course, 9 months without live music.

My last post here, called, “I miss live music,” was written in April, not quite a month into this whole thing. One month without concerts seems so premature to be writing a sad blog post about missing live music, but despite how overwhelmingly terrifying April was, back then we were all so naive as to think things would be back to normal by the end of the year. We were young and stupid then.

Overall, I’ve really settled into my Covid routine. It involves never waking up to an alarm (even for work!) and lots of yoga and Netflix. Sometimes a video chat with friends. The closest thing to live music that I have now is occasionally settling in to watch a virtual concert live stream, or maybe YouTube footage of old sets from some of my favorite artists. As much as I love dimming the lights and dancing around my living room in my PJs, watching these old sets from someone’s shaky GoPro always makes me so sad. I see the camera pan the crowds, thousands of people all experiencing something magical together, and in those moments I just miss live music So. Fucking. Much.

I miss the energy of a crowd. When everyone is on the same wavelength and just so happy to be there, boogying to an artist they love or maybe are seeing for the very first time. I miss being with friends, getting excited when the songs you’ve mutually been waiting for come on. I miss those times when you try to push as close as possible to the front (rarer, as I get older), and the times when you hang toward the back so you have the most room to dance.

I miss festivals the most. Waking up at your campsite and everyone checking out the day’s schedule to compare notes on who they want to see that day. I miss daytime sets, when you sit on the grass and enjoy a perfect summer day, saving up your energy for nighttime, and the anticipation that builds for the headliners later on. I miss that moment when it gets dark and everything – from the trees to people’s outfits – begins to illuminate. You gather your posse and maybe you travel together between stages, or maybe you separate for a bit with hopes that you have enough cell phone service to meet up later. Nighttime sets are where people really begin to come alive. There’s shouting and hugging and laughing and so much dancing and somewhere in the crowd there is always someone throwing fistfuls of glowsticks into the air. You talk to the stranger standing next to you and maybe your interaction only lasts 10 minutes but somehow it leaves a mark on you forever. Or maybe that person becomes a friend for life.

The music itself, no matter what it is, it heals you. Even if it makes you feel sad for a time. Dancing is one of the most natural and cathartic things we can do, and seeing a really great show at a festival can sometimes feel like group therapy. Everyone is on their own journey yet everyone is somehow in it together. When you meet people later on and learn you were at the same music festival, you feel a connection with that person even though your experiences may have been completely different.

As each of us goes through life, we should consider ourselves lucky if we feel content most of the time. Content is good. Content means we are settled, we are fine, we may not be overwhelmingly happy but we aren’t overwhelmingly sad or angry or anxious either. To feel joy is, I think, kind of rare. Yet for me and for so many others, live music, and festivals in particular, are a reliable source of joy. Certainly not every time, but absolutely most of the time. What an incredible gift to be able to almost schedule joy into your calendar; to predictably know that there is an evening – or better yet, an entire weekend – when you will be with the best people hearing the best music and not thinking about whatever it may be that’s stressing you out in the rest of your life.

This joy is what’s been missing from 2020. Of course, in the grand scheme of 2020, if the worst thing you experience is a lack of joy then you should consider yourself lucky (and I do, very much so). My family is healthy and I have a job and a roof over my head. I have emerged from the first 9 months of the pandemic relatively unscathed. But while my basic survival needs are very much taken care of at the moment, there’s a definite lack somewhere further up on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Though it starts at Love and Belonging, I truly believe that live music has helped me find fulfillment on the higher levels as well. This is something that, no matter how much I love it, watching eleventy billion episodes of The Great British Bakeoff can never bring me.

While I know things won’t immediately change on January first, 2021 does look to be a promising year. A vaccine is imminent, and there is a light at the end of this Covid tunnel. It seems insane to think that there could be concerts and festivals next year, because after 9 months of avoiding people I can’t wrap my head around willingly going back into being packed shoulder to shoulder with others. But whatever shape it takes, it seems likely that live music will return at some point soon. And even though I’m not quite ready for it yet, I still can’t wait.