Every year, my parents brought us to the local street fair. The event allowed us to spend time together, interact with others in the community, and have fun as a family. We played games and walked up and down the streets looking at the items for sale. I found myself uninterested in most of what I saw. Family time was great, though I was not a very excitable child. Everything changed when I heard a band playing nearby. Drawn in, I stopped and listened.

The memory of that day remains vivid. As I got closer to the band playing, I realized I recognized the song from the radio. It was ‘Run-Around’ by the Blues Travelers, and I sang along with the lead singer as I stood there. I felt mesmerized by how the simple notion of his hand strumming the guitar transformed the mood of the surrounding crowd. The frontman was a neighbor from our street. It was the norm for him to sing, but I didn’t realize the effect his music created until I stopped to listen. For the first time, I understood how music truly changes someone – and how it transforms me. That first experience opened my eyes to the essence of live music.

After that magical day, I attended a concert in a larger arena. It was at the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey, for a Cher concert. Little me was bursting with excitement because, at that age, she was my favorite artist. Her music was a generational gift from my mom, and we spent the entire concert singing along together. I enjoyed the experience because of how good it felt to spend time with my mother, but it didn’t match the intimacy of the fair. I loved being close to music. When I went out with friends as a teenager, they’d have to drag me away from the musicians on the street in Manhattan. I carried the fascination with me for the closeness of performance art, and it deepened as I grew.

The greatest evolution of this passion didn’t come until my twenties. I invited myself to a Motion City Soundtrack concert that my brother and his friend were going to. Even though I intruded, my brother’s company was memorable because we were so close growing up. The venue was bigger than I’d seen before but smaller than the arena where I saw Cher in my younger years. When we walked in, I realized I could see a popular band almost touching the stage. This concept blew my mind! I had never heard of the band before that day, but seeing them up close made me a lifelong fan. I still listen to them.

Few feelings compare to this. I’ve realized it’s not about the songs themselves. I don’t always remember the titles or words. The memory of being part of someone’s passion stands out more. It’s an emotion I wish I could capture forever.

Music in those settings carried more than melody—it carried honesty. It provided me a path to connect with strangers, friends, and even my memories. As an adult, I have deliberately sought those intimate spaces. My musical experiences have fueled my need for community and built my ability to have empathy for others. I’ve concluded that I don’t need a grand stage or a renowned name to feel transformed. Some of the best shows I’ve seen were at bars while I listened to a stage show during a good meal. All I need is a song played right before me, and the intimacy of a voice and guitar resonating in a small room.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero