Written by Kelsey Vickers. Image by Kelsey Vickers.
When Audrey Hobert announced her “Staircase to Stardom” tour in January, dread quickly
followed after excitement. I was ecstatic that an artist I love would play in my city, but I knew
that if I went, I would go alone. I double-checked with my friends and sister to ensure I wasn’t
unaware of their adoration for Hobert, but no one even knew her name. I knew her tickets would
never be this cheap again, so I bought a ticket and hoped someone might change their mind.
I used to do everything alone, but after spending my teenage years experiencing friendship
through a TV screen, I fear solitude will never end. Back then, I imagined everything would be
better if I had a friend to do things with. The list grew in my mind: picnics, car rides, beach trips,
craft nights, and concerts. This problem didn’t stop my favorite artists from touring, so I dragged
my family to Clairo and Phoebe Bridgers concerts when they knew two of their songs at best.
I eventually made friends, but not one to attend concerts with. Friendship was neither how I
remembered it nor how I imagined it. Most of my friends don’t like the beach or even have their
driver’s license. We don’t have the same taste in music either. So, as June approached, I began to
accept that I would go alone and romanticized the idea of my first solo concert experience. I
remembered the joy I used to find in my alone time before it became a coping mechanism. Besides, it
was fitting to go solo to a concert where the artist often sings about social awkwardness.
The reasons it would be better solo formed another mental list: I didn’t have to worry if anyone else
was having fun, I could dance as badly as I wanted, and I could sneak my way through the crowd to
the front and get the best view. But nothing seems to pan out the way I imagine. The General
Admission seating turned out to be seated, and the closest I came to securing a spot near the stage was
by the closest seat open, many of which were saved. The worries I usually have about others shifted to
myself. Am I having enough fun? Will this be a story worth telling?
Those concerns melted away when the opening notes of my favorite song, “Silver Jubilee,”
started to play. As the purple lights flashed and I jumped up and down, I knew that no one I knew
loved that song the way I do, and no one else could make that moment better than it already was.
