Flying Solo with The Motet

It's 8:30 on Friday night. I check my phone for the seventh time in two minutes and sigh, reluctantly accepting that I've been stood up. New Year's resolutions creep in -- something like, "Say yes and enjoy the mother f*cking ride.” (“Kiss more people,” is the other one, but we’ll save that story for another time.) So far they’ve led me on this wild, lustful whim three thousand miles from where I currently call home. There’s a ticket to The Motet waiting for me at the Brooklyn Bowl, but no date. For the next thirty minutes my motivation and confidence excitably wavers. "Can I fly solo?" Rationally, a silly question, but lately I’ve come to find that many of us have been there.

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Flying Solo with American Babies

Tom Hamilton, founder, lead singer and guitarist of American Babies, kicks his left leg up on the dashboard of the band’s van outside the Brooklyn Bowl and says, “People should look at flying solo like an opportunity. Reinvention. You’ll probably never see most of these people again, so be who you want to be that night. Go in and be Travolta in Staying Alive, or go in and be mysterious. Look at it as an opportunity to open new doors, try out new things within yourself. It’s like an open mic night.”

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Flying Solo with Greensky Bluegrass

It's just after sundown and I'm standing on my back patio with one hand held in the air, slowly waving from side to side, as though that's the best way to feel out the weather on a night in Los Angeles. Tonight the pre-show flying solo jitters are disguised as a battle between taking a light Southwestern-print sweater or military jacket (holler at my ladies with similar struggles). In a city that very much thrives on the see and be seen mentality, I take a moment to ask myself, "Does anyone even go to concerts in LA alone?" It's been five years since my cross-country move and I'm still feeling out the playground that is the City of Angels.

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Flying Solo at Bonnaroo

The scent of newsprint overpowered my coconut sunscreen the moment I hopped in the Relix van in Manchester, Tennessee. On June 11th, Relix’s cargo included copies of the first issue of the 2015 Bonnaroo Beacon, the festival’s official daily newspaper, plus me. After pulling into the backstage grounds, I locked in the two clips on my camping backpack to distribute the weight, wobbled a bit to get my bearings, and set off on what felt like the longest dirt road I’ve ever walked to begin my flying solo adventure. I’d later discover that this walk from the parking lot to guest camping is about four times shorter and faster after the sun has set, when you’re not lugging gear, and when you aren’t given three unique sets of directions that steer you off course.

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