Ghosts at Great Lake Swimmers

Last night, I saw Great Lake Swimmers at Stubb’s. It was my first time to hear the band, my first time at the venue, and also my first time to go to a show without work or friends to keep me company. I wasn’t there to write a review. I was there to witness a unique event; to be inspired; and to be transported from my present life to another world created by the music—a place where storm clouds scuttled over still dark waters.


I had been seeing a man for six months who I had grown to really, really like. The only thing that stopped me from loving him is the fact that he didn’t want me to. He had his reasons for staying away—he was moving, he had just gotten out of a serious relationship, etc. He was being kind by keeping his distance and hopefully, someday soon, I’ll realize that he did me a huge favor.

So I was at the concert to forget. But instead of forgetting, I remembered:

I remembered my first concert experience. It was at Fair Park Music Hall and my boyfriend at the time had gotten us floor tickets to see Incubus (circa Pardon Me) who was opening for Deftones (circa White Pony). The lineup promised a good time for all. It gave me the opportunity to drool over Brandon Boyd and he got to hear Chino’s vodka-fueled screaming first hand.

Before Incubus came on, we managed to get to the barrier that separated the stage from the audience, a feat that required luck, finesse, and a mercenary attitude. While I was quite proud of my accomplishment, my rookie self learned that the mosh pit—with its ricocheting bodies, jabbing elbows, and random shoes flying around—is a rough place, especially for a petite, 16 year-old girl. Luckily, my boyfriend (who really wasn’t much bigger than me) stood guard and pushed off any sweaty bodies that were hurling in our direction. I relished his protective attitude but I liked it best when ballads slowed the moshing down enough to let him put his arms around me and then I would sweetly lean against him.



We went to a lot of concerts during the course of our six-year relationship. Music was our common denominator and our time together fostered my interest in music and also jumpstarted my lead-singer fanaticism. (He was the lead singer of his band). We spent hours in his room—white Christmas lights glowing—listening to Radiohead, Pavement, 311, Roger Miller, Air, Sparta, Wu Tang, Mos Def and A Tribe Called Quest. To this day, I can’t hear “Bonita Applebum” without thinking of him.

The relationship ended before my senior year of college and we didn’t speak for a long time, both of us needing space to grow and discover new bands of our own. But by the end of the substantial grieving period, we somehow managed to rewire our old romance into a new friendship. We check in on each other every few months and during our brief conversations, we always talk about what we’re listening to.




I stood next to a young couple at the Great Lakes Swimmers show. The boy was behind his girlfriend with his arms around her and his chin rested on top of her head. They made a sweet picture and they made me remember how nice it was to lean on someone after standing alone for a long time.