Fire

When do we learn what fire smells like? When I think of it, I cannot remember a time where I didn’t know. I hear two little girls, riding their scooters and filling the space with their bodies and their voices, discussing where the fire smell might be coming from — and I wonder at how, even now, during a pandemic, it’s something that can be so animalistic inside of us, to be drawn to that smell. To seek out its origins.

I’m missing him deeply, although it doesn’t feel deep enough. Perhaps it will never feel “enough” to properly capture the weight of my love for him. I try to draw these comparisons — I wonder at whether he’s thought about fire in this way. I wonder if this is even worthy of a book I write about him. Like him, I’m an oddball mix of hoarder and stringent curator. I collect every odd and end, every bit and bob, until I come to that time when I’m ready to cut it all loose, donate and trash and gift, and be left with the memory and space and freedom. The hoarding feels like the optimist in us — the part of dad and me that sees value, worth, potential at every turn. The curator is perhaps the wild coyote aching to roam free, weighed down by the things and thus ready to scrap it all and howl at the moon.

Neither part is better or worse. It’s just parts that make up the whole, each with its own value. 

Perhaps it’s not even an original thought. I wonder how many writers and poets and thinkers and humans have considered the question of fire memory? But maybe that’s where we get it from, after all. From the repetition, the unoriginal thought, the core memory that lives in us all and keeps us all a little bit alive forever.

Til Kingdom Come

How do you talk about something that you're still coming to terms with? This is the question I'm asking myself right now, as I grapple with the most truly unimaginable loss I've ever experienced in my life.

It doesn't come all at once, that's for certain. It's like light through the blinds — the grief peeks in, bursts of the weight of the loss flanked by the mundanity of every day, the joy of the memories, the stress of the tasks ahead.

I'm sitting in my dad's leather chair, with his humorously small television sitting all the way across the room from me, on but silent. Ciara, dad's beautiful young collie, is passed out in front of me, her bottom row of teefs exposed as she grumbles in her sleep. I had planned to visit them both in April to distract dad from what we were starting to assume would be his lost Big Bend trip. He had relapsed, he was tired, the chemotherapy was brutalizing his body. It seemed like Big Bend would have to wait another year. Still, we had nothing but hope. We had no inklings except that this was a rocky patch that we'd see through. So, I planned a trip to introduce him to my Ziggy, to enjoy a few weeks together after more than two years apart.

I went with my mom and Ciara to say goodbye this morning. A few days ago, we had dropped off dad's Big Bend clothes — his heavy walking boots, khakis with big pockets for snacks, brown belt, and white shirt that friends and family will all recognize from his self-portraits. I picked out warm, thick socks because I didn't like the idea of dad's feet being cold, but forgot underwear. And then I had to have the conversation with myself that felt both silly and important: do I make another trip to bring dad some underwear? He doesn't actually need them anymore, technically. It's more symbolic than anything. And yet...

And then, the universe provided. I didn't realize it right away, but Ciara had the answer. After I got home from that initial drop-off, I was sitting on the couch talking with my brother when Ciara appeared with something in her mouth that she was proudly shaking about and playing with. It was only when she tried to stick her own foot through one of the holes while the rest was still in her mouth that I realized she'd stolen a pair of dad's clean underwear from a hamper on the floor of his study. Edward and I laughed and laughed, and took the underwear away from her. That could have been the end of that anecdote, but later that night, after I'd decided it was worth making the trip back to the funeral home, it hit me. Ciara had picked out the underwear. She had decided before I did that I'd be making the trip, delivering the underwear so dad could be properly clothed. It was funny and lovely and weird, all in one breath.

I was worried about the visit today. I didn't know if it would be healing, shocking, painful, or something else entirely. It was all of those things, and none of those things. Walking into the room was the hardest part, that very first glimpse of dad on the stretcher. Then, it was rolling waves of thoughts and feelings. I expected him to sit up and talk to me. I thought I saw him move a few times. He looked good and peaceful, but also somehow not like himself, too. The multifaceted nature of the human experience has been the biggest take-home over the past week.

I left dad his favorite brown hat today, and that will be with him when he is cremated. He will don his full desert attire. We will be taking most of his ashes to Big Bend. My brother and I will be taking the trip this April that dad had planned over a year ago, and dad will come with us. We will all three commune and find the best place for unforgettable sunsets so all of us can go and be with dad anytime we want, along the Rio Grande.

It doesn't make sense to me to see an "end date" for my father, reduced to a timespan. I know I'm still deep in the early stages of processing the loss, but this particular feeling doesn't feel like denial — it's really just that dad is still here. He is still here in my brother and me, in our adventures and our tangential storytelling and our love for people and animals. He is here in the seemingly endless network of friends and loved ones he drew to himself who have stories about his wit, his charm, his intellect, his curiosity. It's here in Ciara and her insistent yelps. 

The mourning I feel is for the things that I wanted to show dad and tell dad that I will not have the opportunity to, for the plans he had that he was not ready to abandon. It was too sudden and too soon and I will never get over the fact that a global pandemic kept us apart at the end. But neither of us left anything important unsaid — we know, in our bones, the love we have for each other.

My dad and I used to sing this song together in the car to each other on our various adventures. It was with each other, but also for each other. I hadn't returned to the song in a long time, but as I was building a playlist for his celebration of life next weekend, I remembered it. I sat in his living room with my brother, my mom, and his dog, and we listened quietly. The words feel right.

I love you, Lance Wittlif. I will never be able to thank you enough. As it should be.

Filling In The Blanks

Last Wednesday, I opened my eyes in the morning and immediately felt nauseous. It was the type of nausea that twists your guts into knots, that makes your heart race — very much in the "flight" column when it comes to animalistic response types. I was devastatingly afraid, and making myself sick over it, all because I was trying out for a band. For the first time in my 34 years of life, I was going to go for something that I'd wanted to do, to be a part of something I had longed to join, since my first-ever fangirl moment over an artist. (I was a toddler and asked the King of Pop to my birthday party. His people sent back an "autographed" cassette tape.)

I tried to throw myself into work that day, and luckily it was busy enough to be a good distraction for a while. However, when the afternoon hit, I was suddenly clear and open, with nothing in between me and a 6PM tryout (that ended up being 6:30PM because it's bands, guys, this is how it goes.) I was so nervous I couldn't get myself to eat lunch, so I took my dog on a walk, which is usually an excellent salve for me. However, I made the mistake of listening to Streetlight Manifesto, as I had been all week to prep for this ska tryout, and instead of feeling pumped up and inspired like the rest of the week, my brain immediately went, "YOU NO SOUND LIKE THIS! YOU NO CAN PLAY SO FAST! YOU NO GOOD ENOUGH BAD BAD EMBARRASS TIME!!!!" So the walk was short, and I tried to get back in bed and sleep off the nerves, but couldn't turn the head meat off and so ultimately got up and just walked around my apartment feeling MORE nauseous. I finally forced myself to make and eat some Kraft Mac ' Cheese, and bless the gods of processed foods, this was just the drug my body needed to get over the nausea, and get to a place of, "Wellp we're doing this either way so yes you're still gonna be nervous but your body is just gonna chill now."

I started driving over to the designated tryout spot, and as I got closer, I realized it was going to be something vaguely familiar after all. Even though I'd never been in or tried out for a band before, I'd rented practice rooms for my kit in Austin, and every time I did, the space was in some industrial tucked-away corner of the city that was a little funky, a little seedy — something musicians could afford. Seattle turned out to be no different. As I followed the winding pathways to try and get to where I needed to be, I had to cross a bunch of train tracks. Not unusual for Seattle because we have a lot of active train tracks around town, but when I got to one particular section there were not bars to close it off from the road so I paused as I looked ahead and saw another driver aiming to drive out of a parking lot. I tried to make eye contact to see if she was gonna let me go first, when all of a sudden I hear a loud and angry, "Haaaarrrrnnnnggghhhhhh!" Turns out the tracks I was parked on were active, after all, and a train with its bright lights on and horn blaring was slowly approaching and trying to get me out of the way. So in that moment I decided I'd go first and luckily the other driver agreed, and I sneaked out of the way and around the bend to the practice area. The "parking lot" was just a bunch of gravel with cars parked up close to the building, and one truck off by itself, and I couldn't figure out where to leave my car because the only spot open by the building was in front of a gate that was locked shut but still seemed like a thing you wouldn't want to block. I paused there for a moment, started texting Bill,* my band contact and the organizer of the tryout to ask if parking in the middle of the gravel was legal, and then he suddenly appeared next to my car window.

I rolled the window down and he said, "Are you Caitlin?" "Yep, that's me!" "OK so I have some bad news, and some good news." Turned out that Bill had rented the room at our current practice studio for the NEXT week. But, his other band had a regular room at a different locale that happened to be free that same night, so we were on, we just had to shift to a different location. Worked for me, so he said, "Cool, so just head to the Orb! See ya there!" I go to my phone, type "The Orb" into Google Maps...and nothing comes back. Ruh roh. I turned my car off and raced over to his as he was backing out of his spot, and as he rolled down the window I said sheepishly, "...what's the Orb? It's not coming up in my phone..." He grinned and went, "Oh, ugh, sorry — the Old Rainier Brewery!" That did the trick, although I'd outed myself as very much a Seattle n00b, but I popped back to my car and ended up basically just following Bill down the road anyhow to another practice space about 5 minutes away.

This spot was a little fancier — seemingly still actually a working brewery that was also a practice space — and it had an actual parking lot, with actual parking spots. I pulled into one and noticed that, similar to the last place, there were lots of dudes hanging around wearing all black probably waiting to get going on their own practice sessions. It was funny in its stereotypical nature, but comforting in that, too.

Bill came over to my car and was shortly joined by Greg*, a dude Bill had known for ages who was trying out for guitar in the band at the same time as I was going for drums. We chatted for a moment about the space mix-up, the luck of having another spot to practice in, and other random stuff, and my boyfriend texted me that he was off work so I was able to reveal that I was about to walk into my first ever band tryout. BF has been in bands forever so it was good to have him in my pocket, literally, for good luck.

The final member for the night, the band's keyboardist, Kane*, joined us, and we grabbed gear and headed up the stairs towards our room. Once we got inside the building, memories of Austin practice spaces flooded me. The hallways were dark and winding and labyrinthian. There were band posters scattered up on the wall, and funny signs on the different doors of the spaces. Someone had put up some vinyl records as decoration, and someone else had made it seem like there were bites taken out of a few (...or possibly just had a really weird night one night and got hungry?) As you entered the belly of the building, the weed smell strengthened, which put a smile on my face for its familiarity. After a few corner turns, we arrived at what was our room.

The room was not much bigger than the size of my own king-sized bed. And yet, a full drum kit was already set up against the back wall, speakers were stacked on speakers, fans were littered throughout the room, and a beer fridge sat in the corner opposite my kit. There were Christmas lights and other weird lamps up all around, because it's a practice space, duh. I snuck back to my corner to start adjusting the height of things, and as I sat there getting comfortable while the guys connected to their amps, I turned to see a familiar sticker on the beer fridge. "Skies Below" was my boyfriend's old band, and I'm pretty sure he was the one that designed the sticker. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed, and the guys asked me what was up, and I giddily shared this finding with them. They were happy for me, perhaps sensing that this little bit of shared history could be a soothing omen for me, and I crawled back out from behind the kit to take a photo and send it to BF.

Once I'd gotten settled again, and everybody was tuned up and ready to go, we picked our starting song. It was one I'd had a little more practice with, so while I was nervous, I felt like maybe I could make it happen — and when Bill counted us in, I just went for it. There sort of couldn't be any overthinking in that moment. I just had to move my wrists, arms, hands and legs the way I knew how. The room was, as any good practice space is, super hot and sweaty with absolutely no ventilation to speak of, and to top that off, all four of us were masked because COVID was still a reality we were living in. But in that first moment of stick to skin, I just focused on doing the best I could, and I started to sit into the rhythm. My kick was a bit slow on the 'and' of the 3, out of nerves and stiffness and always being a little bit slower to connect with my feet, but otherwise we got through the first song alright and I started to feel connected with Greg who would turn to me to hit the rhythm guitar right. I'd keep my eyes on Bill to look for cues of part changes and beginnings and endings, and I could feel Kane lean back towards me at times to make sure we were all in sync (he stood closest to me, but with his back to me, facing Bill). It just started to come together, and while I certainly wasn't adding a lot of flourishes to what I was doing, I kept a steady rhythm and it was SO. MUCH. FUN. 

I feel like that's the part I can't get over. Yes, there were moments where my thinking brain took over, either to overthink the playing and mess me up that way, or to get distracted by some other life shit and make me lose my spot that way. But when I could, like boxing, just really give myself over to the unthinking focus of the muscle memory, it came together in a way that was fun and sounded pretty ok!

I'd prepared the basic parts of a few songs — and by that I mean, transcribed a few of the basic rhythms to paper and practiced those the most. I'm a weird drummer, in that I read sheet music. It's the way I find that is easiest for me to learn. It probably stems from the fact that I started on violin in the 5th grade, and is supported additionally by the fact that it's how I learned drums from the jump four years ago (thanks, Sam!) It really helps me to visually see what I need to be doing instead of THINK about it. It makes me a pretty piss-poor improvisational drummer, at least for now, but it's just how my brain works and I'm embracing that.

The guys noticed and marveled at my transcribing of the songs, and we shared how each one of us had started in school band or orchestra, so we all had a little music theory under our belts. Of course, the dudes proceeded to talk about what key they were in and I thought to myself, "Damn, I'm glad I'm back here because I SHOULD know what to do if someone says 'play it in C' but I don't remember and anyway rhythm is where I'm meant to be."

We played both of my favorite songs I'd prepared — one that was a little jazzier with a fun hi-hat rhythm, and one that's 4/4 but with triplets to give it that kind of sock-hop slow-jam vibe, and they came together really nicely. For the latter, Bill finally gave me some pointers and direction on things I could do to spice up the song, which I really appreciated because ultimately, even if this doesn't work out in the long-run, I want to learn as much as I can from the time I have with these guys and improve. That said, they were all SUPER complimentary, which I also really appreciated. They were really a best-case scenario band for me to try out with, because they balanced praise and confidence-boosting with direction-providing EXPERTLY. I truly will be thankful that this was my first tryout experience for the rest of my life.

Of course, I'm one girl with a band of dudes, so there HAD to be some bro humor sprinkled in throughout the evening. Talks of jerking each other off and some gentle mansplaining about how the first Ramones' drummer didn't know how to drum and still recorded multiple albums with them so I needn't worry (a conversation that lasted far longer than necessary, which is what took it from kind consoling to mansplain territory) were not unexpected, and truly also not the worst thing. There was an amazing sign on the inside of our practice room door that said, in big bold letters, "Big VAGINA Energy" which I used to my advantage later when Bill shared that there was another guy who had wanted to try out for my spot but he wasn't sure if that would happen because he broke his hand. But apparently that guy claimed that once Bill and the band heard him, "You won't want to hear anybody else." We all smirked at that, and I remarked, "Doesn't he know you need Big Vagina Energy in this room?!" 

After we played through five-ish songs, including one I hadn't listened to before that night that I still managed to work my way through, we popped outside to cool off and air out for a bit. We grabbed beers from the beer fridge and went and sat on the steps, and Bill and Greg regaled us with stories of Ska Gatekeepers in Seattle and how it shouldn't be that way. Greg then asked me, "So have you really never played with a band before?" "Nope!" I said, shrugging. The guys told me I was doing really well for it being my first time ever, and only just learning the songs and all that. That's when Bill said, "So here's my thing, if you wanna keep playing with us, I'm good with that. I really just want three things in our band members, and that's, one, be consistent and on time. Like, actually show up every week to practice and stuff like that. Two, be cool. Like don't be a dickhead. And three, improve! And WANT to improve." This was exactly what I wanted to hear, because these were the exact things I wanted to do. So a tentative verbal handshake was provided, we headed back inside, and played a few more tunes till we'd been there about two and a half hours and it was time to pack it in. 

I sweat through my shirt that night and was ultimately super happy I wore shorts even though I wasn't sure if it would be modest enough for the evening. I was told that there might be additional interest from other drummers in this spot, and said that I totally understood and to just let me know, but that otherwise I'd plan on being at practice the following week. We all grabbed the gear and walked out together, sharing a bit more about each other and coming down off the high and focus of a fun practice night.

When I drove away, I blared Streetlight Manifesto because suddenly, I felt like I was in the ranks. I felt like I could finally call myself "a drummer" to people who asked. I'm still early on in my career, and I have a LOT of improvements to make. But this whole experience made me really believe something I had known but didn't fully accept for myself — that you just need to practice, and then you need to go for it. If you put in the time on an instrument (or any hobby), you will improve. That will come. Beyond that, you simply have to jump in the damn deep end, even when you're holding your aching guts and turning green standing on the platform. It's worth the risk, every time.

*Changed the names just for grins.

Brain Dump

I moved to New York three and a half months before a global pandemic arrived there. I'd had a vision of a job downtown for some cool, savvy media company. That became the dream of working for a health-related company aimed at serving the underserved, or a non-profit looking to positively impact the world. And then it was, any job - any job that could pay my next bill. The situation became one of survival rather than reinvention, per se.

And yet here I am, reinventing again, in the middle of the pandemic. I just moved myself to a brand new city, one I've only visited once, one where I know hardly anyone and even those I do, I cannot see because the virus is escalating again. In some ways, it definitely feels better than New York — there is space here. I took a walk to, and then in, a park over the weekend at a safe distance from others and with a mask on. But there were some who did not wear masks. More than I would have expected from a city that considers itself so progressive. This was disappointing. I almost wanted to mentally snapshot the faces so that I'd know, when we were back to normal, who made the selfish decisions, so I could avoid them. It is so disheartening to see people who refuse to do such an easy, important thing to protect others.

I'm listening to a lot of Stevie Nicks these days. I'm trying to channel big witch energy. I'm not entirely sure why. I still want to be an adult, someone put together and in charge of herself, and part of me worries that indulging in this mysterious part of myself will come across as a childish regression. But then the whole point is, I want to live for me, not others. I want to learn to commit to myself, really and truly. I want to be nice to myself. It is hard, and sometimes it is exceptionally lonely.

It feels clear as day to me that the way back to myself is by journaling consistently again. Whether that is here, or somewhere more private, the consistency is what matters now.

What goals do I have? Do I have any that reach beyond, survive this exceptionally difficult time in history? I stared at an open Word document that contained a blog outline for hours today, unable to focus long enough to flesh it out. It's my work, and I need to meet deadlines and make money, but I also just want to curl up in a ball on my bed until things get a little easier.

I am holding the arrival of my POD as a beacon of hope, as a significant hurdle that if I can clear, will bring forth a little more calm from the chaos. I think that's why my stomach has been somewhat sick all day. After such a dehumanizing experience last week that drained every bit of energy from me, I still haven't fully recovered, so that if it were to happen again tomorrow I genuinely don't know how I would recover. It feels so crass to worry about such things when people continue to be killed at the hands of police, of hatred, of selfishness and disease. But maybe if I give space for myself to have my feelings about the difficulties of my life, and don't frame it as any kind of comparison but simply a hardship that exists, maybe then I can process it so that I'll have the energy to put towards other causes, too.

Today I've felt like just kind of yelling a lot. Not screaming, per se. But just hollering. I'm so scared of getting COVID, because I'm so scared of dying, just like I've always been. I just feel there is so much I want to do, and like I'm somehow running out of time. Sitting around worrying about that doesn't solve anything, of course. It really just compounds the problem. But it's where I'm at and I'm trying to be gentle with myself.

Lost & Found

I'm sitting on my bed, which is sitting in my dad's spare room. My dog is cuddled up against me, belly exposed, breathing deep and slow with contented grunts sprinkled in. I'm 32 years old, and I recently jumped off a cliff. It was metaphorical, although the damage — both physical and mental — feels very real. I had a house, a husband, a plan to start a family. And then this anchor appeared in the pit of my stomach, weighing me down, dragging me back out of my life so I could actually look at it. Some inner voice was calling to me, begging me to listen:  I wasn't happy. I wasn't on the path I was supposed to be on, perhaps meant to be on. I kept sacrificing my vision for a vision I thought I was supposed to have. I was a plastic pink figure sitting in a tiny red car, spinning the wheel that really only took me through a limited number of squares in the game of life. I was the right age to be married, to have a house, to try to have babies.

And I walked away.

This decision has caused moments of panic, of terror, of regret. But overwhelmingly, it has also felt right. It has also opened doors to new experiences. It will also force me to reconnect with myself, to ask the question — what do I really want? What is it I'm going to pursue?

In one month, I'll move into an apartment by myself, living alone again for the first time in about eight years. I will decorate lavishly, surround myself in comfort, set up space so I can be creative. I will paint and write and dance and sing in this new place until I know which path I want to travel next.

I will play my favorite music in the apartment, and I will bring a new dog into my life there. I will take work meetings and I will bring friends.

There is no great epiphany here. I'm in the middle of the muck, and while I can see the sun I'm still pretty sticky down here. But one foot in front of the other.

That pre-show feeling

There’s this thing that happens when I’m going to see one of my favorite bands (of which there are a number). Particularly on the day of the show, I get anxious — anxious like you would before a big presentation, or a meaningful exam or something. My chest tightens, my breathing speeds up, and I lose focus on pretty much anything else. It’s the closest feeling I get to “going into battle,” and it’s because I crave connection. I want to share a knowing look, or be seen singing every word, and I know I have the best chance of doing this if I’m close to the stage. So, I start negotiating in my head — I’ll get to the show early, I’ll never go to the bathroom and I’ll somehow grab water very quickly on the way or send someone back to grab some for me. It’s a whole battle plan. I get dry mouth just thinking about it.

I’m going to see Arcade Fire tonight for the 7th time. I didn’t even think I’d be that excited for their current tour. Like many of my peers, I got caught up in the ridiculous fake marketing strategy of the band, not getting the point and not caring to. I felt annoyed that a band who I thought was so earnest in their message and their love seemed to be shirking that for some inside joke. But then I actually listened to Everything Now.

Win Butler feels like my spirit twin at this point. Maybe it’s just because I am a step behind him in our life journey, but he seems to know how to express exactly what I’m thinking and feeling before I know I’m thinking or feeling it, so that when it finally hits me, something blooms inside of me. This sounds so pretentious, but it’s the realest way I can express it:  when I finally took my first (and only) art class in college, I was able to go to museums and look at paintings and actually have them reveal themselves to me — not always, but enough to give me a deeper appreciation. That’s how Arcade Fire’s music feels to me. The layers reveal themselves a bit at a time, and only when they will have the biggest impact on my life, and they change me.

I think I also steered away from Arcade Fire because of how much they seemed to reflect my deepest fears, dreams, regrets and hopes. I’m hard on myself, so when I get annoyed with  myself, anything that feels like me is equally annoying. But just as that feels true, as I’m falling in love with the band all over again, my own self-love is heightened.

There’s no real point I have here. I guess I just hope that everyone gets to feel connected like this makes me feel connected, because especially now it can feel like an awfully lonely and isolated world, and connection can help to pull us out of the mud. I’m going to lean into the pre-show tingles, show up early, and be open to whatever feelings come my way.

Phoenix, Las Vegas

As I was energetically car-dancing on my way to work this morning, I decided I wanted to brag. Not even a humble brag — I wanted to all-out brag about my good fortune, my good taste, and the greatness of the art I was consuming. You see, I discovered Phoenix way back in 2006 — and here, I cannot take all of the credit. I discovered them by creating a music station on Pandora (I couldn’t even tell you which it was. I just logged back into my Pandora account for the first time in over a decade and none of the stations scream “this was the Phoenix one.” Maybe Radiohead?) The first song I ever heard by the French pop gods was off of 2006’s It’s Never Been Like That, and it was called “Sometimes in the Fall.” In truth, I probably heard “If I Ever Feel Better” on the Lost in Translation soundtrack before I realized what I was listening to, but I digress.

I don’t know why “Sometimes in the Fall” hit me the way it did. It’s not the best Phoenix song. Perhaps it was the repetition of the word “fall” and “long” in the lyrics, the way Thomas stutter-steps on the latter that makes it extra fun to sing along to. Perhaps it was the literal repetition of the song on Pandora. It would come up once every hour and a half or so, it seemed, but it was one I NEVER skipped when it was in the rotation. There was just something about it that grabbed me, and so I bought the record from whence it came, which then led to my attendance at Phoenix’s performance at Austin City Limits 2006.

They were on a side stage in the heat of the day, with the sun beating down on us all. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even realize the guys were French when I saw them live. What I do remember is the swagger Thomas Mars seemed to have. Maybe because I was younger, maybe because they were not nearly as popular as they are today (post-Wolfgang) so they had less to lose — but I remember a sort of winking flirtation between the band and the audience that immediately captivated me. I danced around in the hot sun, sweating — I was pretty recently single and still heart-aching for my ex, but also feeling free and excited for the Muse headlining set that Sunday — and thoroughly enjoyed my time. And that was that. I didn’t follow the band too closely until all of a sudden, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was everywhere and led to friendships, band-stalking and all sorts of other excitement.

Which brings us to Las Vegas. After their latest release, Ti Amo, there were no Texas dates to be seen on Phoenix’s tour line-up, so my sweet (and poker-loving) husband suggested we make a vacation of it and head over to the city of lights.

Since the show was scheduled to be held in a place called the “Brooklyn Bowl,” I had to keep double-checking the location to ensure we weren’t headed to the wrong town. As it turns out, Brooklyn is so hip that they had to expand out to Vegas (or something). The venue is an actual bowling alley that’s up some stairs and kinda sideways, so that made entering the place and scouting out a spot on the GA floor trickier. Luckily Zack and I are concert veterans and found a way to stake our space only three rows back from the front gate, Christian Mazzalai-side. It felt a little wrong because my girl Melissa and I always went for Bronco/Thomas side when we saw the band, but it worked out in the end as I got a few winks and nods from Christian.

Phoenix fans in Vegas are absolutely amazing human beings. I was concerned initially that I’d be facing already drunk, entitled a-holes, but instead I was surrounded by fans and superfans who banded together to push out anyone trying to squeeze to the front at the last minute (or almost at the end of the set, as two particularly annoying bishes attempted). We’d lock arms, throw shade, and dance wildly to send these wannabes back to the back where they belonged.

Most importantly, the band sounded as electric as ever. It’s so funny to me that from that set in 2006 to a much smaller (but very respectable) crowd to sold-out shows now, Thomas and his crew have gone from confident and cheeky to child-like and awestruck when they perform. It’s so fun to see their faces, filled with wonder *to this day* about how they are able to pull so many people into a room and inspire them with song.

The new songs from Ti Amo are just as fun live as you might expect, if you’ve listened to the album. The fans around me and I agreed that Phoenix albums are usually growers — rather than immediately hooking you, they stick with you long after the first listen until they charm you, almost hypnotically, and soak into your bloodstream. You have the ready-for-take-off rock of the title track, the fist-pump-worthy rhythm of “Role Model,” the undeniable hook in “J-Boy” (which, if you’re like me and definitely didn’t know, stands for that very hook — “Just Because Of You”). And then there’s “Fior di Latte.”

How does one go about writing a love letter to a song? How can I begin to explain what “Fior di Latte” makes me feel? First of all, it is the sexiest Phoenix song OF ALL TIME don’t @ me. But seriously, there’s no sexier song in all of their catalogue. It’s Thomas, singing lovingly but with severity about needing his lady to get her some pleasure. “Fior di Latte” translates to flower of milk — yes you have just been scandalized and I DON’T CARE I LOVE IT. Then you listen to the rest of the words and it’s flirtatious and intimate, and then you get that grind-worthy rhythm going and — don’t just take my word for it.

So when this perfect tune wasn’t included in the first 14 on the Vegas setlist, I tried to be ok with it. I did an internal shrug and thought, maybe they’ll hit Texas later and work it into their show by then. But of course — of COURSE — Phoenix understands what they have on their hands. They get that this is a panty-dropping triumph, so they worked it into their encore with a stripped down “Countdown,” freakin’ “1901” and an encore of “Ti Amo.” Bless you, Phoenix, for seeing into my heart and giving me what I need every. single. time.

When Thomas took to the crowd with his signature neon-orange mic cord during “Ti Amor Di Piu,” he came straight into the crowd where my newfound posse and I were huddled. All I could do was say, “Thank you, thank you, merci, merci, thank you” again and again as he passed me, and pat his back, and let my eyes well up.

I share all of this because I want for everyone to have something they hold as dear to them, something that — without fail — puts a smile on their face, the way Phoenix does for me. Find something that makes you want to dance in your car, and blast it.