On Isaiah Rashad, Leaving Home, And Finding Family In A Crowded Concert

Upper West Side NY

20 October, 2021

1:19 PM

Description

Columbia Daily Spectator BY NOAH BULLWINKLE OCTOBER 17, 2021 The cavernous chandelier-lit venue brimmed from corner to corner with devoted fans, their excitement palpable in the form of loud, energetic chatter. I muttered insincere apologies as I nudged my way past people on my journey to the front. After interacting with more than a few disgruntled attendees, I reached my destination. I was mere feet from the stage and just minutes from the moment I had anticipated for nineteen years. When I tapped the "Buy" button months ago for tickets to a September Isaiah Rashad show, I prayed that the future of music would be more than concerts in cyberspace. Throughout the summer, I watched festival livestreams religiously. In August, I "attended" Lollapalooza through my friends' cameras: speakers projecting the bass reverberating through throngs of revelers swaying back and forth in mosh pits like tsunami waves. All I wanted was to be there with them—but I would have to wait until September to attend my first concert. Over the past year and a half, major moments in my life transpired on a computer screen in my bedroom. The Isaiah Rashad concert gave me hope that I would be able to find a sense of community with music fans and with my Columbia peers I had bought tickets with. I smiled as a notification popped up on my phone screen confirming my purchase. I could not wait until I had my own concert tales to tell with my new Columbia friends. Before I was able to tell these tales, though, I had flights to catch and a dorm room to make my own. At the conclusion of the whirlwind that was move-in day, I hugged my mom goodbye, and suddenly my roommate became the closest person I had to family who was not 900 miles away. I quickly realized that packing my life into two suitcases and a few packages and bringing them to Manhattan was not easy, simple, nor fun. I arrived eager to meet classmates and familiarize myself with Columbia's campus culture. I was unaware, however, that this adjustment would not happen naturally. I was approaching my introduction to a completely unfamiliar atmosphere with a sense of insecurity borne from a year and half of social interdiction. I felt isolated and sad, and I wondered if I was the only one experiencing NSOP in this way. Despite this melancholy, I had something to look forward to one week later. A bright half moon dotted the light blue sky as my friends and I arrived at Warsaw, a brick-exterior building in Brooklyn opposite an austere Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall and a cleared-out construction site. After mistakenly joining the meet and greet line, my friends and I migrated to the general admission line, which snaked haphazardly around the building. I looked around, taking in everything about this new experience. Animated chatter punctuated the sound of Isaiah's music as it played from the speakers, while excited attendees knocked back tall boys and took hits from joints. The people in line exuded a joyful sense of camaraderie, discussing their respective relationships to Isaiah's music. I talked with my friends at first, but after a few minutes, I could not help but interject when I heard someone in front of me mention "Menthol," the song through which I discovered Isaiah. I told him about how my friend had made me a handwritten playlist with the song on it, and I loved it so much that I listened to his entire discography right away. Overjoyed, he told me his own story about finding "Menthol." As he chronicled tales of heartbreak and nostalgia, I related to his stories and felt that this was a profound, beautiful thing. The connection I felt was not necessarily novel—I had built many friendships due to shared musical taste—but at this moment, music allowed me to chat with a stranger as if we were old buddies catching up after years of separation. Hearing our enthusiasm, others waiting in line joined in, and what began as a singular conversation soon became a circle of fervent Isaiah Rashad fans. About half an hour later, I passed through security and scanned my ticket with friends both old and new. We joined the small crowd that had already amassed near the stage, which was flanked by four massive speakers. Ray Vaughn, the newest signee to Isaiah's label, took the stage first. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed the set. After a spate of audio difficulties delayed the show for an hour, Childish Major, the other rapper traveling with Isaiah on tour, performed a few of his own songs and a few of Isaiah's to hype us up for what was to come. He finished his act and uttered the question the increasingly restless crowd had been waiting to hear: "Are y'all ready for Isaiah motherfuckin' Rashad?" Of course we were. But, at that moment, the sound technicians decided to play with our feelings for another 15 minutes. In all the commotion, half of the crowd did not even realize when Isaiah came out on stage. But when it finally hit that I was actually seeing the Isaiah Rashad in the flesh at a concert, I could not believe my eyes. Toward the end of the concert, my friends had left me for the comfort of colder air, so I stood alone in the crowd. Because of the drawn-out audio difficulties and sweltering heat, those who remained were exhausted and drenched in sweat. My legs felt close to giving out. Isaiah had just finished performing "Menthol." All of a sudden, the blue lights illuminating Isaiah turned bright yellow and pivoted, swinging directly onto the crowd's faces. In the refulgent light, our exposed faces glistened with drops of perspiration and toothy smiles. He could see all of us now. "Y'all got a special energy, Brooklyn," Isaiah said, breathing hard but smiling back. Instead of the bass pummeling the crowd for his last hurrah, Isaiah performed another one of my favorite songs and one of his chiller cuts, "4r Da Squaw." After finishing, he graciously thanked the crowd, and I filed out of the building with the rest of the concertgoers. Fatigue had fully taken hold of my body, so I sat down on a stoop to prevent myself from collapsing. I did not think anything of it at the time, but there was a peculiar ambiance in the tranquility of the sudden stillness. My body had ground to a halt, but my brain buzzed with a continual stream of thoughts and emotions. I took a succession of deep breaths and attempted to put together the events of the night, but I quickly became frustrated trying to connect them all into a coherent, conclusive idea. As I ruminated on my thoughts and emotions about the concert in the following weeks, it struck me that being part of a community like the one I found in line was an invaluable experience. Before the concert, I had assumed that the emotions I felt listening to music were strictly personal and confined to my headspace. I could communicate my love for songs, but only through cathartic representations of those feelings, like swinging back and forth or bobbing my head up and down. I realized that the same music had made both me and the stranger I met in line laugh and love and cry. More importantly, behind the most intimate of emotions I had felt while listening to music was the fact that, as members of a musical community, we had all felt those emotions together. After talking to my friends once the commotion of NSOP had died down, I learned that I was far from the only person who felt alone. In fact, my feelings were entirely normal. This University is amazing, but it is also competitive, intimidating, and can make each of us feel—at times—like we do not belong in its spotlight. Nevertheless, our presence in this spotlight makes us more connected to each other than we may realize. As I continue on this journey of deciphering what my relationship with Columbia will be like—whether it is established through friendships, classes, clubs, events, music, or something entirely different—I want to believe that a sense of community similar to the one I felt in the line for my first concert will characterize my time here. Belief begets existence. And I am starting to believe. Staff writer Noah Bullwinkle can be contacted at [email protected]. Follow Spectator on Twitter @ColumbiaSpec. Founded in 1877, the Columbia Daily Spectator is the independent undergraduate newspaper of Columbia University, serving thousands of readers in Morningside Heights, West Harlem, and beyond. Read more at columbiaspectator.com and donate here.