It felt like floating.
Somewhere between Downtown Los Angeles and North Texas, I found my body buzzing with the sounds of electro-pop duo, Refs, at The Moroccan Lounge on a Friday in September. It was their second live show ever, just days after their song “Bones” introduced the new iPhone 11 Pro in their ad. Prior to this moment, they spent the past four years putting out single after single and eventually releasing their first album this past summer. Both were musicians with other band commitments and this was their passion project that grew to something much bigger. It was a monumental moment for producer Zach Lipkins, vocalist Richard Saunders and me, seeing how far we all came to get to this moment to live in the same space
We’re only humans, so we hold on to two completely different stories. You know that I will move on
And I know that you won’t…
“Stories”
I arrived at the venue alone. I had bought the tickets in the middle of the summer after being ghosted (twice) and tragedy struck family. It was a gift to myself.
Inside the bar-turned-performance-space, I waited with the same amount of tension as I did waiting for the tickets to go on sale. Saunders and Lipkins joined the space with a loud cheer following.
Saunders, lead singer of the band, introduced and transitioned in between songs to give context and crack a joke or two. He was witty enough to let politics linger in the conversation. He introduced one of the first songs saying it was about when someone else is low, you get lower to share that pain. I immediately thought of my mother.
In June my mother attempted suicide after a deep tear in the family unit—my father forgot what it meant to be a father, and figured love could be found with other women. I spent the beginning of that month building back a family from halfway across the country: Last minute weekend trip to Texas. Weekly phone calls with crying mother. It was routine.
We held two different stories of what it meant for a father figure to leave. To my mother, it was the end. To me, it was the beginning.
I got so lost in that memory that I lost the name of the song as lyrics melted together. There I was. Standing with them to share that pain. The venue felt silent as that little introduction changed the entire mood of the lyrics. It all had a new meaning.
I keep driving. I wish I knew why but I don’t. I don’t have a home. I just have my bones.
“Bones”
During the show, Saunders introduced “Bones” in two parts. Yes, it was the song of the iPhone commercial, but it was also a song about being alone as a queer man. He said he wrote the song about living with the secret of being queer and being unable to find that role model to look up to. Growing up, he had no one to relate to.
Coincidentally, he was that to me. In high school, when my mind lingered and stalled over self-confliction with my queer identity, I turned to his music. I first heard him sing through YoungArts. The National YoungArts Foundation is a national arts competition that provides scholarship money to rising artists in their respective fields. He won an award for Voice performance, and I was interested in the singer/songwriter category. I followed posts leading up to an alumni spotlight video where he sang his first single. This lead me to his first EP, “I Love You, Richard.”
I remembered holding those songs from his EP close. I listened to “Still Alone” when I thought about escaping conservative Texas and wondered what was out there for me. I wondered if I was truly alone in this. I freestyled to “I Love You, Richard” in my room by myself, harmonizing with his voice.
I was in awe as he played at the piano and exposed his truth across keys. Lipkins bopped to electronic hums and beats complimenting Saunders’ smooth vibrato. It felt like home.
It felt like that time when I wrote my first song and I felt like things made sense. I wasn’t stumbling over words and phrases to tell people what I think. It was there in musical form. The practice of sharing through music followed me to now. From Texas to LA, I brought my music and still hold my first song in my journal.
From New York to LA, Saunders brought all of his vocal prowess and music with him. We were now both in LA holding a piece of our home within us, rebuilding it with the help of strangers.
Saunders flubbed over a couple lines in “Stories” and there were more cheers and laughter than tense gasps. It was like our brother forgetting how to spell a word and us helping remind him how for his homework. We were a family unit there for him as he made his way back into the lyrics, back home.
Don’t talk to me, there’s nothing you can say
I simply won’t let you have it your way
You show me disrespect I’ll show you worse
You’ll wish that you were never put on earth.
“Little Late”
Home was a war-torn battlefield now. The staircase was a road to ripped shirts. The car I learned to drive in was broken glass. My sister’s laugh was safe haven. An open utensil drawer was a cry for help.
An hour before I left for the Moroccan Lounge, I got a call from my mother. She was crying uncontrollably. Another suicide attempt. She found my father’s car parked at another woman’s apartment.
We asked if he was with her and he said no.
We asked what they were together. He said they were just talking. He lied.
We asked if he wanted to spend time with my sister. He said he did. He lied.
We asked if he’d still support us. He said he would. He lied.
We asked if he loved us. He said he did…
Right before I left the house, I got a call from my aunt saying they were taking her to the hospital, hoping they’d refer her to a mental health facility. I agreed it was the best thing to do.
I no longer cared to hear from my father. Neither did my sister. It was a little late to trust him.
Saunders began the song by giving us the job to sing “little late” over and over in unison during the chorus. The song began with a softly sung verse accompanied with a steady beat, soon erupting into a techno frenzy build up, sprinkled with twinkling lights in the form of piano riffs. At the chorus the two combined and our job to sing behind the melody came. Saunders remarked the musicians in the room as each voice harmonized and buzzed angelic notes off the walls. Me and the three other singers next to me harmonized, turning heads and catching the eye of the band on stage.
This was community. The venue became intimate, a safe space where each voice mattered. In this time of turmoil, I found support in a single harmony. My time feeling alone in this battle to maintain whatever sense of family I still had no longer felt so daunting. My family didn’t rely on a bloodline. This is what family feels like.
Oh, you tore my heart last year
Now I’m boarding it up, my baby
“Boarding It Up”
They finished the set with an encore that left my soul filled with warmth. It may have been a breakup song, but the passion and upbeat track turned the song into a banger. In “Boarding It Up” Saunders and Lipkins bop to moving on.
Saunders inches his way up the scale, wrapping the mic in tight harmony after the second chorus. My breath caught in my throat. Hands went up in the crowd, inching their way up with Saunders. People gushed as the notes got higher and higher. It was something I easily overlooked in the past, but hearing it live I felt the tension. There was a rush of adrenaline in the escalation. This orgasmic peak to the night that left me wanting more but satisfied. Everything would be okay.
The song felt like a triumphant tear: After years trying to make a toxic relationship work, you tear it off and forget. After wallowing in pain and frustration of the unknown that my father wouldn’t show, I wanted to board it up and call it the past. He wanted out and I’m not afraid to say a final goodbye. A chapter that was meant to close.
I got off the phone with my mom today. She’s doing better. She said all she had to do was remember that he isn’t there anymore and that it’s something we can’t change. She made her final goodbye as well.
“I’m boarding it up, my baby.”