Finding Beauty at a Rock Concert
My first "real" rock concert was an eye-opening experience.
I love music and I always have. My maternal grandfather played multiple instruments (including, but not limited to, violin, piano, and oboe). All his children play at least one instrument a piece and they’re ridiculously talented; there is an often repeated story of my Uncle John mixing Old MacDonald Had a Farm with a hymn while playing the organ one Sunday morning at his church. My husband’s family (on his mother’s side) also plays music, mostly brass. Most of my college friends were in orchestra, my childhood best friend is a violinist, and my brother has a doctorate in cello performance.
Music is a huge part of my life. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I took three-ish years of piano, but it never went anywhere. Sorry, Grandpa.)
Weirdly, I’ve only been to three concerts my entire life (symphonies do not count).
The first was in early high school, I spent a few hours at Ichthus and “saw” a shoddy performance of RelientK. All I remember was the drummer wore Khaki shorts (and no shirt) so it sort of looked like he was drumming naked. Not a great memory, but hey—it was the 90s.
My second concert was in my mid 20s. My husband drove me to Louisville to see a small Americana band called the Oh Hellos. It was a fabulous experience, but not really a “concert.” More like a open mic at a club and I remember it was so loud my ears hurt. I ended up standing in the back left-hand corner behind the speaker.
Yeah. I know I’m lame.
On November 7, 2024, I had my first “real” rock concert experience.
The musician was a small indie artist from California called Livingston. He played at Bogart’s in Cincinnati, Ohio on a Thursday night. How I ended up there is a story on its own (which may or may not get told here in the future). Armed with earplugs, the company one of my dearest friends, and an adult beverage, I had no idea what to expect that night.
The first thing I noticed was the varying ages throughout the crowd.
There were families, teens, boomers, millennials; this audience was an eclectic conglomeration of the oddest people. I did not expect it to be so diverse and so united. They were all excited to be there, and they were all fully invested in this tiny concert.
And it was tiny—barely 200 people, if that.
The second thing I noticed was the heart and creativity Livingston puts into his music.
He writes all his songs and is intimately involved with the production and final result. Each song is truly his. He doesn’t have a giant music label to push his art onto the masses. And he doesn’t need one.
My favorite part of the night was when he introduced a song he wrote at 14. He said it was the first time he felt he was able to capture exactly what he wanted to say in a piece of music.
This struck me because I know exactly what he meant. I’m not a songwriter, but I’m an artist. I know what it is to spend hundreds of hours creating something that maybe no one will ever see or love. You don’t do it to be paid— you do it because that’s who you are. And I also know the singular joy of when something you have made is seen and loved, for its own sake. It’s a surreal experience.
When the night ended, I knew I had been apart of something special.
Livingston not “well-known” in the commercial sense, but he is a prime example of what is happening in the culture right now.
Independent artists are making their mark, albeit small, in a very real and meaningful way.
You don’t have to “make it big” to be a writer, a musician, or a poet. There is a place and a platform for the independent artist. It’s just smaller than what the world defines as “making it.”
Beauty (capital B) knows no bounds, no audience, no genre. Beauty will be found and loved for its own sake, with or without advertising and marketing. (Although they are useful).
You don’t have to “make it big” as an artist to make the world more beautiful.
Human souls need art—they need to make it and they need to share it.
Every single person in that audience at Bogart’s knew those songs and sang them at the top of their lungs (I did too). That’s the whole point of a rock concert. That is what I found in Cincinnati, Ohio on a Thursday night at an indie band rock concert.
We need art galleries, and poetry slams, and book readings, and rock concerts. These artists (whether they make music, or take pictures, or paint, or write) hammer out portions of their soul into what they make. And we, the audience, get to participate in the reality of who they are in their art.
When we do that, we come to know ourselves, and the human condition, a little bit better. I joined a very real community of connection that surrounds Livingston’s music, and I left with a better understanding of Beauty and of myself.
An artist participates in something more than just the creation of the song or the poem or the painting. We participate in Beauty itself.
I think this is most true at two specific moments. First, when you create something beautiful, and second, when that beauty is shared and experienced by others.
The making is enough. The community is enough.
And if Livingston ever comes back this way, I’ll be there (with earplugs).
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Now I want to hear how you ended up there! Meredith said she saw you and Holly. Kenzie is a big fan! She struggles with behaviors and she was an angel for months so she could go to that concert. The good behavior has continued so, “Thank you, Livingston!” (And Jesus!)