The irony of a place called New England is, of course, that it’s incredibly old.
Boston keeps its history emphatically and enthusiastically alive at the same time as modern business. There are memorials next to clothing stores, duck boat historical tours next to BlueBikes, historical sites mere minutes from new buildings, and 2024 Championship banners steps from honorary statues.
An historical figure like Paul Revere can be read about in historical plaques and be referenced in a 2024 Noah Kahan performance at the same time. And, most of all, New England will not hesitate to remind you of its role in U.S. History. It’s a unique pride with a bit of edge. It can only be described as “Northern Attitude.”
Amidst it all is Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. It’s a legendary facility that, too, both honors the past and produces all-stars at the same time, where new seats are put in on top of the famous (infamous?) Green Monster and the site of the furthest home run is commemorated by a famous (infamous?) lone red chair. The original small wooden seats aren’t necessarily comfortable but rather memorable. It’s a discomfort that New England is willing to put up with in order to accept history and tradition and brotherhood. It’s a Northern Attitude.
It’s a continuous discomfort, too, that layers itself into the fabric and biology of Kahan’s music. A twinge of sadness (or is that reality?) that lingers in the air, like the “snow” during “Northern Attitude” or the fall foliage that fell at Fenway after “Stick Season,” before fireworks lit up the sky. The odd combination of Kahan singing songs about “decomposing bodies” while cheers for surprise guest Gracie Abrams exploded at the same time.
Quips about beating people up were made in parallel with statements of gratitude. Massive yells and cheers punctuated the night immediately following a song that shares “I hope this pain’s just passin’ through, but I doubt it.” A self deprecating joke and giggles among the nerves and doubt and songs about Zoloft. Even when the musicians made an energetic lick on an ever impressive array of stringed instruments, the notes seemed to only contribute to the feeling I’ve now dubbed energetic melancholy. An ever present (green) monster on our shoulder.
Noah Kahan’s tour, which included a sold-out pair of shows at famous Fenway Park on July 18th and 19th, is called “We’ll All Be Here Forever.” But like the lingering twinge, there’s a semi-constant reminder that maybe, curiously, in physical reality, we are not. Even Kahan even reminded of this in “If We Were Vampires,” a tune delivered on the top of the Green Monster (surprise!) with guests The Lumineers (surprise!). ”One day I’ll be gone,” he sang, his declaration bellowing out from the green terrace and echoing across Fenway.
Will we be here forever? While we are here, what choices do we make? And what do we choose to do with our time?
We could, with that in mind, apply our newfound curiosity and confused beliefs in our impermanence to the limited time at a show. When we realize time is short, we make decisions. We make decisions about when to go to the bathroom. We make decisions about when to visit the merchandise stands, though, that element started much, much earlier than the door time. Fans came in from outside of New England just to partake in the merch stands, which opened at 12:00. By 12:30 on Friday, the Boston-specific Kahan gear was sold out. We make decisions about what to wear to a concert in Boston, and apparently I had missed the memo: I saw more cowboy boots here than in Idaho, a place I had just moved from. Boston-specific Kahan shirts dotted many in the crowd. Not a sequin or feather in site. Nor plaid, surprisingly, for that matter.
Time even got the best of Fenway Concerts: just days prior to the show, they took to Instagram to share that Noah Kahan would take the stage half an hour earlier than originally scheduled. “Spread the word!” they pleaded.
We make decisions about whether to see the opener. In most other instances, James Bay would hardly be considered an opener. But there is no comparison to the hometown kid, and James Bay, wearing an infectious smile along his trademark hat, allowed the crunch of his guitar, or the vibrations of his 12-string, and a brand new song released just 24-hours after the performance, to all be celebrated to a half empty stadium. “We came for this pretty cool guy named Noah Kahan,” he reminded me. “You’re all in for a treat.” And yet still, when “Hold Back The River” and other favorites played, the excitement and giddy feelings for the present spread down to our cowboy boot-covered toes.
For die-hard Noah Kahan fans, the ones that flew in just for this show, or waited in lines for hours or drove in for hours, the feeling of Fiddlehead-infused euphoria enhanced by a pink sunset and cooled by a summer evening could likley only compare to the psychedelic video displayed during Mt. Joy set. During their cover of “Praise You,” I couldn’t help but wonder whether this audience came of age during the Fatboy Slim version or the recent “Praising You” by Rita Ora. The screams that split our ears for Noah Kahan seemed to come from all ages.
As the sun continued to set behind the Fenway Coca Cola sign, and while our wristband lights pulsed in beat to the tunes, Kahan demonstrated one of his key storytelling assets, one that can only be experienced in-person, or I guess, in the livestream: he tells stories with his face. It came through sly looks to the crowd, an acknowledgement of “I know YOU know what’s next” to his fans, a secret look before a song shifted tempos. It came through his eyes, somehow scared and bright and informative and pleading all at the same time.
The “Fever Pitch” (pun intended) of the Fenway crowd culminated in mobile phone captures, but often not for the viewers themselves. There were daughters capturing songs for moms, moms taking photos for daughters, dads and sons debating their favorite songs, partners singing to each other. After all, what are relationships if not the opportunity to experience moments together? Is there anything more beautiful than a layered set of string instruments that play off of one another, illuminated by floating candle lights, made even more beautiful with our own lights and colors? Lights and colors that continued into Noah Kahan’s final song. “Let’s get sticky!” he yelled, before ending with “Stick Season.”
And even among this beauty, that aforementioned reality lingered. The lyrics. The mentions of medication. And isn’t that the point of current mental health conversations anyway; that we are forced to pay attention to it. We can’t look away. It is not hidden. It is not covered. It is here in the air. Like that foliage confetti, impossible to miss; sometimes beautiful, and other times in our way.
I tucked an orange paper leaf into my bag on the way out of Fenway. As Sweet Caroline rang out and fireworks illuminated the air and Vermont-based Cabot offered grilled cheese, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was starting to believe, through one sad song at a time, of my own simultaneous permanence and impermanence. “I want you to feel worse when you leave,” Kahan had told us. But I didn’t.
I finally understood what “We’ll Be Here Forever” really means. It is what we carry and give away. It is the duality, it is both weight and freedom. The creative curiosity and ambition to look backwards and forwards and inwards at the same time. The ability to carry both past and present. To consider your prior impacts alongside your future possibility. That’s what it means to all “be here forever.”
Like Boston.
And really, for some of these fans, that’s Kahan too.
