By Sara Lyons
The drums are bouncing off the trees like tiny shockwaves, and the lead singer’s voice curls in the warm, humid air, snaking through the crowd of sun-kissed strangers and half-sipped beers. We’re front row—not that there’s much of a row in someone’s backyard with Christmas lights strung up like they’ve been waiting for this night all year. It’s loud in the way that makes your chest vibrate. Easy Honey is halfway into their set and they’ve just hit Gotta Get Back, and the guitar riff cuts the heat like a knife. My best friend and I—though we weren’t quite that yet—are fully in it. Headbanging, yelling lyrics we only half-know, bouncing like it’s church and we’ve just seen God.
It’s the kind of performance that doesn’t care who you were when you arrived. It only asks what you’re willing to bring and leave behind. And somewhere between the second chorus and the breakdown, we let go of all the awkwardness of not knowing each other well enough. We sweat through it. We scream through it. I bump into her shoulder, she pushes back. We’re grinning like idiots, and for a moment, the music feels like it was written just to give us this—this crack in time where everything is stupid and beautiful and messy in a way that makes perfect sense.
I don’t remember the exact words of the song, but I remember how it felt like every guitar riff had a special language, telling stories plucked from our own half-lived lives. Like the guitar was trying to say something neither of us had the nerve to admit: that being alive is weird and uncomfortable, but it gets easier when you stop trying to be cool about it. The bassist locks eyes with us at one point and smirks. We must look ridiculous. But we don’t care. There’s no room for self-consciousness when the snare hits like it’s been programmed into your bloodstream.
This wasn’t a polished show. No big stage, no dramatic lighting. Just a band, some busted amps, and a group of people who needed to hear something real. Easy Honey wasn’t trying to impress us—they were playing like they couldn’t help it. Like they needed to get this sound out of their bodies or they’d combust. And maybe that’s why it landed the way it did.
By the time the last song hits, my throat is raw and my hair is stuck to the back of my neck. We’re hoarse from yelling and sore from jumping, but we’re different now. Something cracked open between us in the noise. A friendship born out of sweat and noise and perfect imperfection.
That night didn’t change the world. But it changed my world a little. It was a performance of becoming, of stepping into something that felt bigger than the moment. We didn’t know it then, but we were already in too deep—hooked by the chorus, bound by the beat, and made into friends by the wild, messy act of just showing up.
I did not use generative AI to write this essay.
This was a real pleasure to read. I love the last paragraph — and the photos!