The Fox Theater is an incredible venue: what better place could one choose to celebrate women voices in the music industry? Walking in, the intricate pattern of the ceiling and soft blue light welcome you inside, preparing you for the oneiric spectacle about to take place.
Lucy Dacus takes the stage a few minutes late, but no one seems to mind: she apologises by playing a new song, which she asks no one to record. Neon lights behind her form a small human figure blowing a red balloon, the cover of her album Historian (2018), as she begins her set. Dark and mesmerizing, the first song is an unexpected treasure. The whole band then joins her on stage for the second song, “Addictions.” The spotlight is on her, as eclectic drums accompany her voice, she sings: “Now I’m awake at 2AM / without a cause to draw you in.”
With almost shoegaze-like guitars, and the whole band moving lightly, carelessly following the rhythm of the track, “The Shell” is played, in which Dacus confesses her struggles with creative blocks and the struggle to write music that doesn’t rely on negative emotions: “You don’t have to be sad to make something worth hearing,” she preaches, in part to us and in part to herself.
She now finally speaks again before continuing her set, talking about her hometown of Richmond, Virginia. The crowd cheers as she references her birthplace. Puzzled, she exclaims: “you’re all from Richmond, Virginia? Good, then it’s a hometown show.” The crowd claps in affirmation, accepting their new residence. She explains she’s about to play a song about places you hate and also love, which are awesome in a way. It’s a song about how keep your head up, maintaining your hopes so as to focus on what’s good. It’s good for her to sing it live, she says, and thanks the audience for “being in this too.” She then plucks the first few strings for “Yours & Mine,” lead guitar and bass dancing to their own tune.
Dacus ends her set on her famous “Night Shift,” alone with her guitarist on stage to allow for the intimacy the song demands. Angelic and ethereal, she lays her hand on her heart, and waves us goodbye.
A grainy, old picture of a dog appears on the back of the stage: it’s the cover of Phoebe Bridgers’ Stranger in the Alps (2017), signaling her imminent arrival. Fairy lights are set up on the stage, on the drumset, around the speakers and on the mic stand. The lights are lowered to almost total darkness: it’s almost time. Bridgers takes to the stage, dressed fully in black, a long dress down to her ankles and her acoustic guitar. So she starts singing “Smoke Signals,” with her bass player, drummer, and violin slowly walking on stage and adding layers to the song.
A smell of vanilla permeates through the room: Bridgers recounts of when she wrote “Funeral,” after she had been asked to sing at a little boy’s wake. Otherworldly, the violin and the drum begin their chant, and set up the scene. She fingerpicks her acoustic guitar, while singing: “Jesus Christ I’m blue all the time,” and the crowd swings in unison, some cry, some hug their loved ones; and the percussions joins in.
Jokingly, she then exclaims, to introduce “Would You Rather”: “I’m feeling like lightening up the mood a little bit… no. Not at all.” She then continues, “this song is about domestic violence. Shit’s fucked up. […] Everybody’s fine now.” She then picks up her electric guitar, black and glittery. A ghost appears on the background photograph, completing the album cover.
For once, a change in tempo: for “Motion Sickness,” the crowd begins to move, and even on stage a few extra dancing steps are taken. More lively, but still sad, Bridgers utters painfully, the crowd screaming occasional “I love you”-s: “I can hardly feel anything, I hardly feel anything at all.” Impressively, she ends the song holding a seemingly never ending note: everyone roars in amazement.
Talking about “You Missed My Heart,” Bridgers recalls when she sang this song with Mark Kozelek at Bottom of the Hill. Kozelek, upon being requested a Red House Painters’ song, decided to lie on the stage in a fetal position and scream “fuck you.” She finishes her set with “Scott Street,” smiles all around, walking off the stage with her arm up in the air, waving vigorously.
The crowd begins to tighten, the wait for Julien Baker progressively shortening. She comes on stage calmly, timidly, wearing her guitar on her body held by a rainbow strap; the loop pedal set up in front of her, and a wooden piano to her right. Without saying a word, she begins to play “Sour Breath,” the whole ground now vibrating.
She barely speaks to the crowd; her concert is a private experience, every person living it in their minds and hearts. Alternating between guitar and piano, just her and occasionally a violinist, Baker plays a sequence of songs from both her albums, from “Shadowboxing” and its heartbreaking story of unreturned love, to “Everybody does” and its narrative of eventual abandonment.
After the first few songs, accompanied only by her looped chord sequences, she finally declares: “this entire tour has been an incredibly humbling experience. This song is about being thankful even about things that are painful.” “Rejoice” thus takes off.
For the next song, “Televangelist,” she takes over the piano, her eyes closed, singing at the top of her lungs so that a smile inevitably shows up on her face, affecting her every feature. The violinist, who had been standing on the left side of the stage, moving her feet to the sound of the song, halfway begins to play, allowing the song to reach its climax.
There’s no break between her songs: everyone in the audience is enchanted, staring straight at the stage; no talking can be heard, and everyone is immersed in the music. Just like that, she goes on to play some more of her songs, including “Hurt Less,” “Go Home,” and “Something,” before announcing: “Just got a couple more and then I’m gonna come and play some songs with my friends. Thank you for being so gracious, giving me such a great gift by being here.”
She then proceeds to sing the title song of her latest album, “Turn Out The Lights,” as loud as she could, strumming as hard as her arms would allow: introspective and emotional, Baker sings, “I can’t tell the difference when I’m all alone / Is it real or a dream, which is worse?” For her last song, “Appointments,” she loops both guitar and piano, before quietly leaving the stage. No one moves an inch, knowing more was to come. Not long after the holy musical trinity claimed the stage again, wearing matching black blazers with their initials sewed onto the collars, decorated with white and glistening patches. Supergroup Boygenius, the now debut-EP-official trio formed by the three performers, is now on stage, opening with “Souvenir.”
Dacus leads the second song, “Bite the Hand,” which she begins, immediately followed by the drums. Soon everyone joins in, harmonizing. “I can love you how you want me to.” Behind them are small lights on a black sheet, discrete shining stars in the sky (easily reminiscent of the infamous Beach House live staging).
For “Me & My Dog,” they all pick up their respective guitars: two electric and Dacus on the acoustic. This time, Bridgers kicks off: “I had a fever until I met you.” Climatically, “Salt in the Wound” follows, in which they all together sing at the top of their lungs: “you unrelentingly ask for the sea.” Alternating, they all sing a different bridge, all with their unique voices, which so well amalgamate. Baker is in charge of the lead guitar for this one, and it’s a sonic miracle: Bridgers and Dacus, in adoration, kneel on the ground and bow down to her talent.
The last song of the night is “Ketchum, ID,” and no microphones are used for that one, Bridgers on the guitar, all members standing at the very front of the stage. They ask they audience for help: and so we sing with them. “When I’m home I’m never there long enough to know,” and quietly, almost inaudibly, they sing with us. No one is alone anymore: everyone is part of the moment, suddenly aware of their kinship with the world.
Article and Photos by Marta Meazza