Lodestar

In the fall of 2001, my first autumn in most of my conscious life when I wasn't a student, I was "dating" a man who lived in upstate New York. I put dating in quotes because the forty year old version of me, the one with a lot more life experience, wonders why I ever wasted more than a couple of weeks with him, but hey, that's what youth and naivety will do to a girl.

But this story isn't really about him anyway. I'm just setting the scene.

The short version of that story is we dated for a summer when I lived in Lake Placid, New York and continued "dating" once I moved back home to my father's house in New Jersey. The relationship had already run its course but 22-year-old me didn't want to admit that. So I did a few silly things that fall before coming to my senses, like making several six hour drives back and forth to (way) upstate New York on weekends.  It was the era before iPods and streaming music and podcasts, so I relied heavily on my massive black CD carrying case (you know the one) to keep me company on those very long drives. One night, having already exhausted all of the CDs I brought, I stopped at a Starbucks outside of Albany for a bathroom break and a coffee.  Knowing I had several more hours on the road, in the dark, I decided to treat myself to the CD they had for sale at the register.  It was a compilation curated by Starbucks - back when Starbucks still felt sexy and unique and cool and sold things like CDs.  Fortified for my journey I climbed back into my Jeep, popped in my new CD and heard, for the first time, a little song called Basement Apartment by Sarah Harmer.

I was instantly smitten, listening to that song a least twenty times coming and going from Lake Placid that weekend.  Naturally I bought her album, You Were Here, as soon as I got back to New Jersey and set about listening to it on repeat, memorizing every song. I truly believe there are books and art and music that finds us at just the right time in our lives and for me, in my very early 20's, Sarah Harmer's voice and lyrics turned out to be exactly what I needed when I needed it.

Sarah became my go-to through all of my twenties. What started on one late night drive followed me through multiple moves, apartments, jobs, friends, road trips, and boyfriends. Naturally I awaited each new album release with bated breath; I caught her live at every opportunity. In 2010 she released her fifth album, which I bought (of course) and saw her when she passed through town on her tour (naturally).

And then, after that tour, she just disappeared. A signed poster from that last tour hung on the fridge in my beloved Cambridge apartment for ten+ years. I grew so accustomed to it being up there that some days I didn't truly notice it. Other days I did, maybe as I was straightening up after dinner or rearranging something else in the room. And when I did, I'd wonder what had happened to her, to her career. I would check her website to find no news and I'd tell myself maybe she just got tired of the music business hustle; had moved on to some other adventure. From time to time though I would put her old records on, all of the lyrics still at the tip of my tongue, and feel a wave of nostalgia for this woman and her music.

Things change, nothing is permanent, life moves on.  I had plenty of other musicians and singers I adored and lots of favorite songs.  Still, I missed my girl, Sarah. Her music had been such a constant through so much of my early adulthood.

Then, this January, I got an email.

It seemingly came out of nowhere and I was so shocked when I saw her name in my inbox that I had to read it twice to be clear I wasn't hallucinating. She was announcing both a new album - the first in ten years! AND US tour dates!  Without taking a breath I clicked the link to purchase a ticket to see her in New York on the last Saturday in February, afraid that if I did I would realize her return to music was all a dream.

Then, a work trip came up. On a Friday overnight and that Saturday.  The same Saturday of the concert.  Of course.

While I couldn't get out of the function entirely, I did work extremely hard to coordinate my return flight back to New York at a time that I thought would still work to catch the gig too. It was going to be tight timing but it wasn't impossible.  But, well, we all know how these things go. By the time I finally made it downtown I was way later than I'd hoped - even the usher commented on my tardiness (Yes! I KNOW I'm late, believe me! I just came from LaGuardia!) and I had to crawl over several people to get to my seat. Once I was seated, I took a breath and tried to relax. I'd made it after all!  No matter that she was deep into her set and I'd missed most of it, my girl was up on stage.  After a decade, I was seeing her live. She sang three more songs and then she was done, thanking the audience and leaving the stage, a forced end with a hard stop as the venue had to turn the place over for the next musician (and for which a whole new concert ticket was needed).

Three full songs. That's what I had caught.

I was disappointed, but tried to mentally talk myself out of it. I had done the best I could. I told myself to be grateful I had been able to catch her at all given my traveling nonsense.

After the house lights came on I apologized to the group sitting at the table with me, the ones I'd had to barrel over mid-song, just fifteen minutes earlier.  I explained my situation to them, why I'd been late, why I definitely couldn't have skipped the show entirely.  Two of the people at the table started asking me more about my 'history' with Sarah: How many times had I seen her before? (More than I can count.)  Where would I want to see her play in the city? (Anywhere.) Did I prefer seated or standing venues?(I'm 40. Definitely seated.).  Eventually we all started sharing various concert-going adventures.  The whole group was being so kind to me, so thoughtful and inclusive, that that alone felt like a little gift from the universe; something to cheer me up when I'd just missed most of the concert. As I gathered my jacket and started to say my goodbyes, one of the gentlemen with them asked, almost as an afterthought, if I wanted to come back stage.

I just stared at him, my eyes getting wider by the second. DID I WANT TO COME BACK STAGE?

He shrugged, nodding.  "Sure. I'm part of Sarah's PR group. You can meet Sarah, say hello."

And that, my friends, is how I found myself backstage at The Public, standing around with my new besties and talking with the one, the only, beyond gracious and lovely Sarah Harmer.

After the excitement was over and we all parted ways, I hailed a cab outside of the theater, treating myself to a ride uptown. As we wove through the Saturday evening traffic I leaned against the backseat window watching the city pass by. I smiled to myself, so content and happily surprised by how the night had unfolded, knowing the 22-year-old version of me would have been beside herself as well. New York magic, man.