All songs by A Will Away, mentioned in order of performance on February 23 at Brighton Bar in Long Branch, New Jersey.
"Could there be a better way / for me to say that I’m feeling underwhelmed? / Can you tell? I’m running out of attic space." ("Soft Shell")
I don't know who I am right now or what I'm "doing" or what my purpose is. In 2018 – seven years into my writing career – I dove in harder than I ever had in hopes of avoiding what was happening in the rest of my life. Then something incredible happened: it seemed to pay off. I was forming relationships with publicists at top labels, artists I loved and writers I respected liked my work, and most importantly, I felt something: I was proud. I was grinding, pushing out feature after feature all while working a full-time job and being active in volunteering. Writing became more of who I am than it ever had been. It all felt worth it, until one day, it didn't. I was writing and writing and writing, but I wasn't getting paid, and the stress of deadlines and wanting to progress in a second career on top of the one that paid my bills was getting to me. On the verge of burning out, I left the outlet I'd been contributing to, telling myself I'd pick up where I left off and immediately begin the search for paid freelance work.
Except… I didn't. Not right away, anyway. I doubled down on putting together and releasing I Told You I Hated New York, but now… what's next? I was a writer even before I was a music journalist; I wrote a lot of fiction online and released a print novel in 2012. I started a music blog and then contributed to other, larger outlets, and I even interviewed every band I have a tattoo for. I thought I had it all figured out, that it was just a matter of putting in the work – but now I'm questioning everything I thought I wanted, and trying to determine what it is that will actually bring me happiness, because the last time I was riding that high, I had to come down.
"I'm convinced that my worries / Present in a hurry / I'll try to keep my name off your list." ("Pay Raise")
Am I still a person if I'm not actively being a music writer? Do I want to be a person that's not a music writer? Do I even want to be a music writer or a writer at all? Once my book came out, I didn't know if I would ever write again. Writing was both an escape from my emotions and the way I expressed them, and when I wasn't sure if I'd write again, I wasn't sure how I'd feel again. I've spent the past three and a half months wondering if I could still keep "music journalist who's probably interviewed your favorite band" in my Tinder bio. Do I want to do it anymore, and do I have what it takes to make it? Maybe I should find something else – something else that I'm good at, that I can find value in, that I can perhaps even find some modicum of success in, that would result in less heartbreak were I to fail.
"So why’d you leave your soul wide open? / Does that still seem like a good idea?" ("TOIFMG")
I don't think a day has gone by since where I haven't listened to at least one new artist, whether on purpose or because they came up on a curated or algorithmic playlist. I love the thrill of finding a new artist – maybe it's a song that isn't a genre I typically care for, but that manages to encapsulate something I didn't know I was feeling, or maybe it's an artist on the cusp of blowing up and this is their song-right-before-the-breakout-hit. I've known plenty of people that have left or taken a break from music journalism and they kind of just stop listening to new music. That wasn't me; I think I started looking for even more new stuff because losing the pressure of "okay, oh my god, I need to write about this" left me free to figure out what I enjoyed and what resonated with me and made me feel alive. And subconsciously, I didn't want to be reminded of the feelings I wasn't feeling anymore, the feelings I wasn't sure I'd ever feel again: the excitement of photographing my favorite bands and capturing emotion in an image, the joy of turning a heartfelt interview into a beautifully emotional article, and the reward of knowing that musicians I looked up to felt that I did a good job at telling their story.
But when you get caught up in the excitement of music discovery, it's easy to forget just how magical hearing your favorite records on repeat or seeing your favorite bands again is – how comforting it is to listen to the music that's brought you comfort, to get to experience live the songs you hold close to your heart. What I've needed lately is a band like A Will Away, whose music I've always found soothing, pulling me away from the spirals in my head that I so easily get lost in. I think it's because A Will Away answers life's biggest questions (who are you, and what's the point of all this, anyway?) by asking the smallest ones (how are you feeling, and how are you coping, right here, right now?), and reminding me to breathe slow and find the bliss in this here moment.
"So, take a minute / Are your plans still working? / Would you tell me if it all was worth it?" ("Well-Adjusted")
In early February, A Will Away announced a run of shows with America Part Two and Sunsleeper surrounding their tour with Microwave. I bought my ticket to the Long Branch show as soon as they went on sale because of course I bought my ticket as soon as it went on sale, but I wondered if that fire inside me was still there. Sure, there's been a ton of new artists I've discovered and enjoyed, but will any of them give me that feeling? You know the one. Will A Will Away still give me that feeling, and I am even capable of feeling it anymore?
I started a YouTube channel recently, which is unexpected for several reasons. For one, a year and a half ago, I never went on YouTube, aside from watching music videos or looking up obscure demos and b-sides. A year ago, I was falling in love with "YouTubers" whose content ranged from comedic to educational to inspirational, but I never thought I'd be comfortable on camera. What would I talk about in my videos, anyway? I'm still not entirely comfortable, but I'm having a lot of fun just being myself – I speak my mind, film it, maybe edit a few takes together, and upload it. It's me, unfiltered – a big contrast from how particular I am as a writer, how carefully I choose each written word. It turns out this has actually been quite good for me and is helping my confidence a ton, but I hesitate to call myself "a YouTuber". Am I still "a writer"? If I call myself "a something-else-that' s-not-a-writer," does that mean I've given up for good?
"I don't want to be righteous / But we both want to believe / There's something bigger than this out there." ("Caroline")
For some people, Sunday is for going to church; for me, it extends to any spiritual experience that makes me feel connected to the universe and at home in my skin – which is exactly how I felt walking in the doors of the Brighton Bar. I had so much fun catching up with all my friends at the show, telling them about my book and my interview with Kevin from Walk The Moon and my YouTube channel, and hearing about their adventures in return. Before A Will Away went on I asked Collin if they got the copy of my book, and I was so happy to hear that it was on display in their studio and that he'd read "It Doesn't Matter, It Never Mattered", the story I wrote about them way back in 2017. He shared that he'd had such a different experience that night – his family was visiting – and that my story changed his memory of the night, in a good way. Hearing him say that – knowing that I was able to communicate such an internal experience in a way that the very band I was writing about understood – made me smile big.
And then I remembered why I'm a writer after all. Because when I can choose the words to express my thoughts so carefully, and it reaches someone else, it's… magic. I was writing and writing and writing, but then what I was doing wasn't working for me and so… I stopped. Instead of stopping "what I was doing", for a minute there, I all but stopped writing altogether. Talking to Collin helped me remember that I still am that person who fell in love with music at age 11, who fell in love with writing at age 13, who fell in love with writing about music at age 19, who has never felt this passionate about anything else.
"And you were there when I met you / Tucked in your tales of woe / Without that sense of purpose that left you long ago." ("Cheap Wine")
I've been writing in my journal every day, but aside from the Walk The Moon piece, I haven't written anything meant for sharing this entire year. Okay, it's only February, but when you're pumping out multiple features a week, it's weird to just… not. Sure, I always had other interests and tried my best (I didn't always succeed) to have an active social life – but I'd never taken a break from writing. Could I even call it a "break" if I didn't have a concrete plan of when and how I'd come back or do it professionally? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't caught up in my head about it. Maybe I shouldn't worry so much about this. Maybe I should worry less about my "writing career" and focus on enjoying my life now with more free time. Maybe I should worry less about figuring out who I am now. And, good god, why am I worrying so much?
"Show me passion, some reaction / Give me the reasons that I ought to be scared." ("My Sitter")
How many times have I pulled out my phone at a show, taking notes of everything that's happening, so that I can put my thoughts together the next day? Going to shows "for fun" – not being on assignment to write a review or photograph it – is great, but when I was at the Brighton Bar last weekend, god, I just couldn't help but pull out my phone and start writing. The words were spilling out of me so fast and so profusely that I didn't care how I'd share them, I just needed to write them down. I needed to write about seeing A Will Away for the thousandth time like I needed to breathe after forgetting just how wonderful oxygen is.
I don't think "depressed" is quite the word, but I was lost. Without a page, my thoughts had nowhere to go. I wanted so badly to want something different, something that made sense. I was searching so hard for something ELSE to drown out the noise in my head – baking bread, going to the gym, the aforementioned YouTube channel – that I forgot about what brought me here in the first place, forgot that writing could help me make sense of it all.
"'Breathe slow, this too shall pass.' / And anyone will say the same things / If you’d just ask." ("Long Exposure")
When I walked into the Brighton Bar that night, I felt tension in my chest: would I feel that excitement, that joy – dare I say it, that fire – at any point that night? Would I feel anything?
And then A Will Away is on stage, and Ford's long hair is in his eyes and Collin's glasses fall off while he's playing and they're playing the first notes of "Soft Shell," and everything that's familiar is so new. Every ounce of tension in my chest is erased as they start their set and this isn't me having a breakdown at a show, it's me having a breakthrough. Everything I see and hear and feel right now is so magical and I want nothing more than to capture it all and share it with the world. It's like I'm seeing this band for the first time, and right now, it's like I'm writing about music for the first time.
"For what it's worth, I know what I want to be." ("Here Again")
And then they're playing "Pay Raise", which I've heard live almost as many times as I've seen A Will Away play, and I recognize that fire in my soul – that passion for music, that drive to do something, to write about it – and I realize that the fire never went out, I just needed to see if it could burn on its own for a bit. Then they're playing "Caroline" and as I'm screaming about "something bigger than this" I remember what my "something" is, and relief washes over me. The fire hadn't left me at all, and I was thankful that the fact that it wasn't my "career" didn't mean I wasn't a writer; that my struggles with insomnia didn't mean I couldn't "stress myself out" by writing, but in fact, writing might help me make sense of some of that stress; that I could, once again, be at work and spend the whole day buzzing, thinking about getting to work on a story or post. I spent so much time thinking about the way I was writing and all the what-ifs and all the things in my life that I want to change or fix that I forgot that I could just fucking write.
"Lately I feel like I feel too much / And it’s a goddamn shame / ‘Cause I’ve got a lot to say." ("Settling")
For the record, I still don't know what place in my life writing holds right now. Beyond this blog here, I don't have any writing opportunities lined up or easily within reach, and I'm trying to figure out how I can write in a way and an amount that's fulfilling without burning myself out or doing something that doesn't feel worth it. That's all terrifying. I do have value as a human being outside of writing, and it turns out I can do many things – some of them very well, and some of them I enjoy quite a bit – but nothing gives me that fire inside like sitting down and writing about it. Maybe I'm not "good enough" to make a living at it, maybe I don't have it in me to even try and make a living at it, maybe I'll never even get anything published again – but that doesn't mean I'm not a writer. Writing – about music, about my emotions and experiences – is my calling, and maybe it'll be a career and maybe it won't, but I have a need in my soul to take the words in my head and put them to paper (or, you know, screen) – and those words matter just as much if I write them for myself or if I write them for a paycheck.
"Don’t let the poison that surrounds you / Stifle out the life you want to live / Please know it truly doesn’t matter / And truly never did." ("Something Special")
So, who am I? I'm a writer, photographer, and music industry lifer; I'm a music fan; I'm vegan and an animal rights activist; I'm a hard worker, a good listener, and a caring, thoughtful friend.
What's the point of all this, anyway? I can only answer this for me, but I think the point is finding something that you fucking love and chasing after that with everything in you, taking care of yourself while letting that fire fuel you.
How am I feeling, and how am I coping, right here, right now? I could be nervous, but mostly I'm free, I'm relaxed, I'm content, and I'm singing along at the top of my lungs to "Something Special." I suppose sometimes you really do need to see A Will Away for the thousandth time to help you remember that all that noise in your head is just noise, after all.