Night is made by preparation. The quiet ones. The loud ones. The in-betweens. The restless ones. And the recoveries. We may have routines, schedules, and preparations. These days, I might need melatonin to journey with me from night to day, to darkness to sunlight. We carry into the evening the memories of the day and journey into a new one.
We make decisions about what elements might start the evening (tea? melatonin?) and what might end the night (an alarm? your pet?). Very rarely are these the same thing. Except when the journey is with The Beaches. Then, as they say, the last shall be first. And in this case, the first shall also be last: the song “The Last Girls at the Party.” During the No Hard Feelings tour visit to Boston at Roadrunner, Debbii Dawson and The Beaches created a playground of light in a world of dark.
The “Very Best of Girl Rock” spins on Spotify as I build my kit to Muna. I am the first girl at the party. I tested my camera and the lens on a jazz ball to kick off a journey through shine and sparkles (not just what’s powering Carlos Sainz), including Debbii Dawson’s glittering water bottle. And while that surface proved reflective, it was the only thing illuminated outside of Dawson’s keytar. Photographers in the pit looked at each other, bewildered at the darkness, and confirmed through shrugs what they were seeing: nothing at all. Being outside of the light, a great photo does not make. A shifted ISO to make the focus work, and we all crossed our fingers. A blind journey that was indeed rewarded if you got crafty.
A concert may be the one place where darkness signals arrival. The lights dim. The Beaches have arrived. It’s the opposite of morning, with sound effects, vibrating phone sounds, and conversations through effective sound design that continued through the show. It heightened the anticipation. A little intention can go a long way.
The “Last Girl at the Party” is the first girl, er, tune on stage. Vocalist Jordan Miller and her crew employ a specific kind of dance running. It extended into the pit. It invited itself into the viewers. Side dances erupted early and often. Any aisles and empty space were fair game for a dance takeover. People journeyed together, solo, or in groups; with partners, with themselves, and with or without lyrics.
Each song by The Beaches has a unique feel that is distinctly theirs: catchy with a pop beat and a hazy treatment. It is also a treat and a special experience to realize that the songs themselves, the ones you’ve memorized, are elevated exponentially live. They are louder and more potent; every lyric you already know is infused with energy and swagger and a chorus of voices. They have crunch. They have layers. And alongside them are meticulously planned audio storytelling moments told through phone conversations. Everyone loves a planned evening; a set journey.
Leandra Earl, guitarist for The Beaches, prepared the room for her song “Lesbian of the Year,” a song encapsulating their own journey of coming out. It was one of the only pauses of the show. “Let’s get through this journey together,” Earl invited the audience.
The audience played their own role in The Beaches’ performance. As a precursor to “Did I Say Too Much,” The Beaches invited a member of the crowd who believed they, indeed, had said too much. This round, it was Becky, who described her upcoming marriage and the first time she had “ever been with a woman.” Did she say too much? “Yeah, probably, and it was the best thing I ever did.” Chants and echoes of “Becky! Becky!” followed her off the stage.
Eventually, when the energy dipped, I checked the clock: 52 minutes. It had already been 52 minutes before a down-tempo track. Was the show so fun that I forgot to take notes? Was I playing too much, also in the aisles and the empty spaces?
Later, when The Beaches suddenly say good night, I check my watch again with the lyrics of “Last Girl at The Party” playing along in my head:
It’s only seven, right?
It’s only eight, right?
Actually, it’s only 10:12 pm. 10:12 pm! Even with an encore, as “Last Girl at the Party,” again provided the light before leaving in the dark, it was only 10:30 pm when I hopped into a Lyft. The driver inquired about the band listed on the Roadrunner billboard. And then suddenly, there it is again, “Last Girl at the Party” playing out of the sedan’s car speakers. It was immensely quieter than the show. And the Last Girl at the Party was the last thing I heard, a spark of light into the dark and humid night.
I “Blame Brett.”
