How Going to a Concert Alone Will Change Your Life

There are a few things that I am obsessed with in this world. One of those is my ginger dog, Huckleberry. Something else is original flavored Slim Jims. And another is Ryan Adams.

The latter, an alt-country singer-songwriter-musician who’s made headlines recently for both divorcing Mandy Moore and recording covers of Taylor Swift’s album 1989 in its entirety, has been speaking straight to my soul since 2001. In the last 15 years, he’s released more albums and EPs than I can actually count, all of which I listen to when I’m happy, sad, cleaning, cooking, in the shower, in the car, on the subway, etc, etc. I’ve seen him play live five times in the past year, alone. I arranged my bedroom to look like the back cover of his album, Gold, and I recently commissioned a local artist to paint his portrait for me to hang on my wall. His music is my oxygen. Or, at the very least… my endless supply of Slim Jims.

I discovered mid-Saturday afternoon, by way of his Instagram posts, that Ryan was in New York to perform at Neil Fest—a two-night celebration of Neil Young’s career at the Bowery Ballroom, also featuring Norah Jones, Jakob Dylan, Kim Gordon, and a bunch more. Obviously, I needed to go—but of the few friends I asked to accompany me, none could. (Despite my ongoing search and attempted persuasions, I haven’t met anyone as equally infatuated with RA since college.) So I weighed my options: I could either stay home and finally watch the Bachelor in Paradise season finale, or, I could go it alone.

Even though I’m a fairly independent person, I’ve always been way too scared to attend a concert by myself. (Last year, I even recruited my dad to drive from Massachusetts to New York to come see Ryan with me.) It’s not like watching a movie solo, where the audience generally keeps quiet and to itself. A concert is a much more a communal situation: You and your friends can sing along together, take pictures, commiserate about the playlist, and save each other’s spot when you go to grab beers. Without those components, would I even enjoy myself?

In the end, it was my friend (who had once gone to see Frank Ocean alone) who convinced me to buy my single ticket to the show. And so, on Sunday night, I pulled on a turtleneck, skinny jeans, and Chelsea boots and left my apartment—without coordinating a meeting time or place or route with anyone else—and went to the show all by myself. It was terrifying, yes—but also exciting, eye-opening, and exhilarating.

And not just because I ran into my patron saint of modern music in the crowd before he went onstage, touched his shoulder, looked him in the eyes, and said “Holy F–K.” It’s hard being a winner.

Here are some things I learned.

In the beginning, you’re going to feel weird and out of place.

When I first got to the Bowery Ballroom, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The place is set up like a bar down below, and a small-ish concert hall up top—and since I don’t like going to bars alone, either, I felt pretty out of place. Since the showspace hadn’t opened yet, I went up to the bar and ordered a beer, all the while trying to scope out whether anyone else around me looked like they were by themselves, too.

At one point, I thought I recognized a guy I’d gone on an OKCupid date with when I first moved to New York four years ago (not him!). So yeah—it was weird. I almost started regretting going in the first place.

Then you’ll cherish your singleness.

Hands down, the best part of going to a show by yourself is having the freedom to stand wherever you want, without anyone else affecting your decision. I’m fairly short (5’ 4”), so in order to see well, I need to get a spot close to the stage. If I go to a concert with a taller person, there’s the issue of him or her blocking someone else’s view.

Height aside, there are some people who just prefer to hang out in the back of the venue, and others who like to lean on the stage, trying to catch a glimpse up their favorite musicians’ nostrils. I fall into the last category, and on Sunday night, I got to do just that—stand right up front throughout the entire show, without having to worry about whether it was what anyone else wanted. It was so freeing!

You’ll probably make some new friends.

Meeting new people as an adult can be hard—but it’s a little easier when you already know you have something in common with another person, like the love of the musician whose concert you’ve both gone to see. Because, even if you’re there alone, a live concert is a very social thing: It’s an experience that can only ever truly be shared with the other people who are there in that same space with you at the exact same time. Intense, but true.

Before the show even began, I started chatting with a girl standing next to me who, as it turned out, had come solo, too. Over the night, I got to know a lot about her: She was a year older than me, in grad school for social work, and our mothers both shared the same profession. Though she was most looking forward to seeing Norah Jones perform, she also understood the godliness that is Mr. Adams.

Through the show, we asked each other who was who onstage, joked around about a few questionable characters in the crowd, and even saved each other’s spaces when we needed bathroom breaks.

On the other side of me was a 25-year-old guy—originally from Georgia, in NYC for four years—who’d also come by himself! I have no idea if this is a typical situation (or if Ryan Adams fans just don’t have friends, myself included? Could be…), but it was pretty rad. Plus, my new pals were also there to comfort me after my life-ruining, expletive-laden encounter with Ryan. #wordvomit.

And you’ll never beg someone to go to a concert with you again. Really.

Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone’s experience—but I wouldn’t dream of taking back my time at Neil Fest (aside from maybe the Ryan run-in. Maybe). I had an amazing night doing what I enjoy, and ended up meeting some really cool folks in the process.

As much as I love hanging out with my friends and playing host (at parties and otherwise), I tend to overthink and get worried that the people in my presence aren’t having the best time that they possibly could. But in going to the concert alone, I entirely cut that anxiety out of my evening. Something else I learned? Getting in some ‘alone-time’ doesn’t have to mean actually being alone. It can just as well be a night out listening to your favorite tunes with about 600 unknowns who are doing the same thing.

So, next time I hear that one of my favs is coming into town—even if it’s a band or musician I’m not sure anyone in my close circle is into—I’m just going to get a ticket and go. Who knows… maybe by then, I’ll have actually made some improvements on my extemporaneous language skills. At least one can hope.

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