Concert Galleries

Olivia Dean Soundtracked My Heart When It Needed It Most

In 2024, my favorite album was Charli XCX's Brat. In 2025, it was Olivia Dean's The Art of Loving.

At first, those albums might seem like complete opposites. Brat is loud, chaotic, sexual, confident, confrontational, and vulnerable all at once. The Art of Loving is slower, warmer, softer, more soulful, and emotionally grounded. But both albums connected with me because they reflected two different periods of the same life.

Charli XCX is bold and vulnerable at the same time, and that is exactly what made Brat feel so honest. In 2024, however, I leaned more heavily into its chaos because chaos was the dominant force in my life. I was constantly moving, constantly working, constantly trying to make something happen. The vulnerability was always underneath everything, but the energy on the surface was louder.

By the time The Art of Loving entered my life, that balance had shifted. The vulnerability was no longer hiding beneath the chaos. It had become the loudest part.

There was a period when I was broke, living alone, working ten-hour days at one of the most emotionally demanding schools I had ever experienced, and barely seeing any of my friends. I was not seeing much of my family either. Most days, it felt as though I was moving between work and an empty home without much of a life existing between them.

I was trying to establish myself in photography and video without knowing whether any of it would become the career I was working toward. I was exhausted, isolated, and surrounded by uncertainty.

Honestly, life just really sucked.

The thought that kept me moving was the possibility that someone I had developed strong feelings for might feel the same way about me. I imagined that there could eventually be a future between us. Even when everything else in my life felt difficult, uncertain, or empty, the possibility of that connection gave me something to look forward to.

I have been in long-term relationships before. I have loved other people, built histories with other people, and experienced what it means to be committed to somebody. But I had never felt about anyone the way I felt about this person.

That was part of what made the experience so confusing.

There have only been two moments in my life when I have looked directly into someone's eyes and felt what I can only describe as a jolt of electricity move through my body. Both moments happened with her.

I do not know how else to explain it. It was not simply that I found her attractive or enjoyed talking to her. I felt something physical, immediate, and almost involuntary. It was as though my body recognized something before my mind could fully understand it.

Those moments stayed with me.

When everything around me felt bleak, the way I felt about her gave the bleakness somewhere to lead. The hope of seeing her again, talking to her again, or discovering that what I felt might be mutual became one of the few things that made that period feel survivable.

Sometimes the possibility of love can become a form of survival.

You hold onto the idea that everything you are enduring might eventually lead toward a life where you are no longer carrying everything alone. That someday there might be somebody beside you who understands you, supports you, and makes all of the struggle feel as though it was leading somewhere.

Even though we barely saw each other, the moments when I did see her became some of the best parts of my day. A conversation with her could change the entire emotional direction of my night. I would leave those interactions feeling euphoric, replaying what we had talked about and looking forward to whenever I might see her again.

I yearned for her.

That is not a word men are always comfortable using, but it is the most honest one. I wanted to be around her. I could not wait to talk to her. I imagined what it might feel like for the distance between us to eventually close.

The feelings were intense precisely because so little had actually happened. There was so much room for possibility, and I filled that room with hope.

One of my clearest memories from that period is lying in the back of the school van after a ten-hour shift. We had finished dropping all of the kids off, and I was physically and emotionally drained. I would lie there listening to "Nice to Each Other" and thinking about the person I had feelings for.

For some reason, the feelings I experienced while listening to that song and the feelings I experienced when talking to her became connected inside me.

They seemed to exist on the same frequency.

The playfulness, the uncertainty, the affection, the yearning, the desire to be close to somebody without completely knowing what the relationship could become—it all felt connected. The song carried the same euphoric feeling I associated with her.

Olivia Dean sang about yearning and loving without making either emotion seem embarrassing. She did not treat emotional openness as a weakness or something that needed to be hidden beneath irony. She allowed desire, tenderness, independence, and uncertainty to exist beside one another.

That was how I felt about this person.

I was yearning for her, and for once, I did not want to pretend that I was not.

When I eventually learned that the future I had imagined was not going to happen—that the person I had feelings for was already in a relationship—I experienced genuine heartbreak.

I cried for two straight days.

There was no dramatic breakup because there had never been an official relationship to end. But that did not make the loss imaginary. I was grieving the possibility I had carried with me through one of the hardest periods of my life.

I was not only losing the person I had feelings for. I was losing the future I had imagined whenever my present felt unbearable.

The hope had been real, even if the relationship had existed primarily as a possibility. That hope had helped me survive the isolation, the ten-hour shifts, the empty town home, the financial stress, and the uncertainty surrounding my future.

When the possibility disappeared, all of the pain that hope had been helping me hold back seemed to arrive at once.

That was the emotional space in which Olivia Dean's music found me.

The first song that truly stopped me in my tracks was "Nice to Each Other."

There are certain songs that immediately separate themselves from everything else the first time I hear them. Foster the People's "Pumped Up Kicks" did that. Kanye West's "Power" did that. Logic's "I Am the Greatest" did that. They did not slowly grow on me. The first time I heard them, I knew they were different.

"Nice to Each Other" became one of those songs.

It felt playful and mature, independent and affectionate, emotionally open without becoming naïve. It understood the complicated space between wanting someone and still trying to protect your own independence.

More importantly, it introduced me to the quality that makes Olivia Dean so special.

Olivia Dean does not simply have a name.

She has a voice.

There are artists who become household names because of celebrity, visibility, or cultural relevance. Then there are voices that become unmistakable. You hear a few seconds and immediately know who is singing.

Olivia Dean belongs in that second category.

Her voice carries the soulfulness of another era. There is something in it that recalls the emotional weight and richness of singers such as Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, and Diana Ross. I am not saying she sounds exactly like any of them. I mean that her voice possesses that same kind of identity.

It sounds lived-in. It sounds warm. It sounds connected to something deeper than simply performing the correct notes.

She has that 1960s and 1970s soulfulness, but it does not feel like an imitation of the past. It feels natural to her. She brings that warmth into contemporary music without losing the class, restraint, and emotional depth that made those earlier voices so powerful.

There are many things I appreciate about Olivia Dean: her hair, her dresses, her bubbly and bouncy energy, her sense of humor, the way she speaks about her family, and the way she carries herself. But the first and most important thing will always be her voice.

Her voice is what reaches me.

It has a frequency that calms my soul and nervous system. I do not mean that metaphorically. There were nights when I felt overwhelmed, lonely, or heartbroken, and hearing her sing genuinely changed how my body felt.

The tension would soften. My thoughts would slow down. I felt less alone because someone else appeared to understand the emotional depth of yearning, disappointment, tenderness, and love.

There is a difference between liking someone's music and understanding it.

I understood Olivia Dean's music because it reflected the way I experience love. I care deeply. I become emotionally invested. I imagine futures. When I love somebody, or believe I could eventually love somebody, it is not casual inside me.

Her music gave language to emotions that I had been carrying without knowing where to place them.

That is why The Art of Loving became more than an album I enjoyed. It became an emotional companion during heartbreak.

Her music also helped me choose love instead of anger.

Finding out that someone you care about has moved in another direction can create resentment if you allow the pain to control how you see that person. But when you genuinely care about somebody, you eventually have to respect their happiness, even when their happiness does not include you in the way you hoped it would.

That does not make the heartbreak disappear. It simply prevents the heartbreak from turning somebody you cared about into the villain of your story.

For me, that was part of the art of loving.

It meant accepting that my feelings were real while also accepting that another person did not owe me the future I had imagined. It meant allowing myself to hurt without becoming cruel. It meant understanding that sometimes loving someone means wanting them to be happy, even when accepting their happiness breaks your own heart.

Olivia Dean's softness helped me remain soft inside that experience.

That softness is another reason I am drawn to her. I love Charli XCX, and nothing about this is meant as criticism of her. Charli is bold, provocative, sexual, revealing, and completely unapologetic. That energy is part of what makes her powerful.

Olivia Dean represents a different form of femininity that I also deeply appreciate.

She has a sense of class and warmth. She is often wearing a beautiful dress. She carries herself with a polite, girl-next-door energy—the kind of woman you would feel proud and excited to bring home to meet your mother.

She appears soft without seeming weak, elegant without seeming distant, and emotionally mature without losing her humor or playfulness.

That energy is present in her music because it appears to be present within her.

Her femininity does not make me feel smaller as a man. It makes me feel more grounded in my masculinity. Her voice makes me think about the kind of man I want to become: a protector, a provider, a present partner, and eventually a father.

But her music also reminds me that masculinity cannot only be about what I provide or accomplish.

Men are often taught that their value depends on whether they can earn, build, protect, and remain strong under every circumstance. Olivia Dean gives me the feeling of a woman who would still recognize your value when those things temporarily fall apart.

The kind of partner who would be there if you lost your job, if your business failed, if you lost your home, or if life simply stopped looking the way you had planned.

A woman who would not only celebrate you when you were winning.

A woman who could still love you at your lowest.

That is the warmth I hear in her voice. It represents the kind of love and partnership I want to believe exists. During a period when I felt alone, her music reminded me that there are women who want the same emotional depth, tenderness, and commitment that I want.

That reminder mattered.

My connection to Olivia Dean also grew through watching her interviews, concert clips, Instagram reels, and moments where she spoke about her family or simply allowed her personality to show. She is funny, bubbly, warm, and naturally charismatic.

Nothing about her appears forced.

By the time I finally saw her in person on The Art of Loving Tour, I had already spent so much time hearing her voice and watching pieces of her personality that the moment did not feel traditionally starstruck.

It was not, "Oh my God, there she is."

It was more like, "Yeah. There she is."

There is a major difference between those feelings.

The first is disbelief that a celebrity is physically standing in front of you. The second is relief. It is the feeling of seeing someone whose presence already feels familiar and realizing that the person in front of you carries the same energy you had experienced through headphones, car speakers, interviews, and videos.

Seeing Olivia Dean felt like a continuation rather than a revelation.

She sounded exactly the way she sounds when I listen to her alone. The warmth was still there. The calmness was still there. The soul was still there.

Her live voice did not expose an illusion created by production. It confirmed that the voice was real.

It was simply: "Oh, there she is."

The woman whose music had been there during heartbreak was now standing in front of me, carrying the same softness, humor, elegance, and soul that had reached me when I needed it.

Looking back, Brat and The Art of Loving did not represent two unrelated versions of my life.

They documented a change in which part of me needed to be heard.

Brat captured a period when chaos was louder than vulnerability. I was working constantly, struggling financially, living alone, trying to build a career, and using movement as a way to survive uncertainty. I connected with Charli XCX because she could be fearless and wounded at the same time.

But as my life slowed down enough for me to feel everything I had been carrying, the vulnerability became louder than the chaos.

That was when Olivia Dean found me.

She reached the person underneath all of the ambition and movement. The person who could pursue bold things while still feeling lonely. The person who could keep working while privately holding onto the possibility of love.

The person lying exhausted in the back of a van after a ten-hour shift, listening to "Nice to Each Other" and thinking about a woman who had made him feel something he could not explain.

The person who had felt electricity twice simply by looking into her eyes.

The person who eventually had to grieve not only somebody he cared about, but the future he had imagined with her.

Olivia Dean did not teach me how to stop feeling.

She reminded me that feeling deeply was not something I needed to be ashamed of.

Her voice helped me understand that vulnerability does not cancel out strength. Softness does not diminish masculinity. Heartbreak does not have to become resentment. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is accept that another person's future is different from the one you imagined.

Charli XCX gave a soundtrack to the chaos surrounding my vulnerability.

Olivia Dean gave the vulnerability itself a voice.

June 26, 2026, was already going to matter before 5 Seconds of Summer ever stepped onstage at Desert Diamond Arena.

This was the first show I requested under Cavale Live — not The State Press, not Blaze Radio, not another outlet, but my own publication. Anyone trying to build something in music media knows how difficult that step can feel. Submitting a request under your own name, your own platform, and your own work is different. It is exciting, but it is also vulnerable.

For days, I kept checking the media portal. Pending. Pending. Pending.

Then, the day of the show, I received the email no photographer wants to see: Live Nation could not accommodate my request for a review ticket or photo credential. I was disappointed, but not heartbroken. It was my first attempt through Cavale Live, and I told myself there would be more chances.

So I accepted it. I figured my Friday night would turn into cleaning my room, resetting my space, and moving on.

Then, by pure chance, I checked the portal again.

The tab was still open from earlier. I looked at the same status box I had been staring at for days, only this time it no longer said pending.

It said approved.

I immediately checked my email and saw that just minutes earlier, the request had changed. Cavale Live had officially been approved for a photo credential and review ticket.

It was one of those moments that felt meant to happen. After photographing major artists and events through other outlets, this one hit differently. This was the first approval for Cavale Live. My own publication. My own platform. My own name.

That professional milestone was the backdrop. But once the show started, the night quickly became about something else: realizing that 5 Seconds of Summer are not just a band with a massive fanbase. They are a band that knows exactly who they are.

I will be honest — walking into the show, I was not a lifelong 5 Seconds of Summer fan. I knew of them more than I knew them. Their reputation reached me before their catalog did. They were one of those bands whose name was big enough that even if you could not immediately list the songs, you knew they mattered.

While getting ready, I pulled them up on Apple Music and started playing through their top songs. The first one that really hit was "Youngblood."

That was the moment where it clicked.

I knew that song. Everyone knew that song. It was one of those radio-era songs that felt impossible to skip. If it came on in the car, you turned it up. If it appeared on shuffle, you let it play. Suddenly, the night felt less unfamiliar.

Then I got to the arena and saw the crowd.

The fanbase was loud, loyal, and overwhelmingly locked in. There was a strong nostalgia to it — almost like stepping into the grown-up version of the Disney Channel and Nickelodeon pop-rock era — but with a much rowdier, funnier, more self-aware energy. The audience had grown up, and so had the band.

That was one of the most interesting parts of the night. 5 Seconds of Summer have now been together for well over a decade, which is rare for any pop-centered group, especially one that came up during the teenage fan-culture wave. Most groups like that burn hot, split apart, or eventually become defined by one breakout star. 5SOS never felt like that onstage. They felt like a unit.

They also looked like rock stars in the most classic sense. Not in a manufactured way, but in the way a band looks when they have lived through different eras of themselves and come out sharper. Throughout the show, they leaned into that history. The visuals showed old footage of the band as teenage boys, and seeing those early images next to who they are now made the whole night feel like a timeline.

They started as kids with messy hair, awkward confidence, and the kind of energy every teenage friend group thinks it has. Now they are arena performers with stage presence, timing, humor, and control.

What made the show work was how self-aware they were. The band repeatedly made fun of themselves through video segments and skits shown on the screens, including fake celebrity-news-style bits and tongue-in-cheek moments that played with public perception. They understood the jokes, the fan culture, the image, and the mythology around them — and instead of running from it, they turned it into part of the show.

That self-awareness gave the concert a personality beyond the songs.

From the photo pit, the energy was immediate. Even without knowing every lyric, it was easy to understand why people connect with them. You do not need to know every song to know when a band can perform. The energy was there in the guitars, the movement, the crowd response, and the way each member seemed completely comfortable inside the chaos.

They did not perform like a group trying to prove they still belonged. They performed like a band that knew they had already survived the hardest part: growing up in public.

The crowd matched them the entire night. There were moments where the fans screamed every word, moments where they barked and chanted like a student section, and moments where the whole arena felt like one giant inside joke between the band and the people who had grown up with them.

It was funny, chaotic, and weirdly wholesome at the same time.

After shooting from the pit, I made my way back to my seat to watch and review the rest of the show. That was when the night gave me another moment I did not expect.

During the encore, the band left the main stage and re-entered the arena from the back of the floor. They happened to come down the side I was on, so I moved toward the rail with my camera.

Ashton Irwin, the drummer, looked right at me and playfully posed toward the lens, almost pretending to punch the camera in a fun, animated way.

Then Luke Hemmings walked past, noticed my camera, dropped his glasses slightly, looked directly into the lens, and sang toward me for a brief moment while the arena was still locked on him.

It was one of those surreal photographer moments where the job suddenly turns into something personal. For a second, I felt exactly like the fans around me — shocked, excited, and wondering if that had really just happened.

The band closed the night with "Youngblood," and confetti rained down over the arena.

It was the perfect ending because it brought the whole night full circle for me. I walked in only loosely familiar with their music, then ended the night understanding exactly why that song had stayed with people and why this band has lasted.

5 Seconds of Summer do not give off the arrogant, detached rock-star energy that can sometimes come with bands this far into their careers. Instead, they felt funny, aware, grateful, and genuinely connected to the fans in front of them.

That is what made the show land.

The Everyone's a Star World Tour was fast, funny, polished, and surprisingly sincere. It never dragged. It never felt like a band going through the motions. It felt like four people who still understand the joy of performing together and the responsibility of carrying a fanbase that has grown up alongside them.

For Cavale Live, this night will always matter because it was the first approval under my own publication.

But for 5 Seconds of Summer, it was a reminder of something bigger: lasting this long is not an accident.

They are not just one of the biggest pop-rock bands of their generation because they had the songs. They are still here because they have the chemistry, the humor, the self-awareness, and the live presence to keep making those songs feel alive.

There are concerts you attend, concerts you photograph, and concerts you survive.

A$AP Rocky's Don't Be Dumb Tour in Phoenix was the third one.

I did not walk into Mortgage Matchup Arena expecting a casual night. For some reason, this show had been sitting in my body differently for weeks. Not excitement exactly. Anxiety. Real anxiety. The kind that tingles through your chest and arms before anything has even happened.

That was strange to me because concerts are part of my routine now. I go to them all the time. I photograph them. I review them. I study them. I have been in photo pits, crowds, arenas, stadiums, EDM festivals, and shows where the energy feels like it could swallow the whole building.

But A$AP Rocky felt different.

Rocky has always been one of those artists on my bucket list. Not necessarily someone in my everyday rotation the way Kanye, Charli XCX, or The Beatles are for me, but someone who has always lived in the background of my music taste. I liked Rocky. I respected Rocky. I knew the songs. I knew the style. But I do not think I realized how much of him had been built into my memory until I saw him live.

That is what concerts do sometimes. They remind you of what an artist meant before you even had language for it.

For me, Rocky goes back to middle school and early high school. Those years when music starts becoming more than just something playing in the background. It becomes identity. It becomes the soundtrack to bus rides, locker rooms, walks home, late-night YouTube rabbit holes, and the first time you realize certain artists are teaching you how to be cool.

I remember discovering Long. Live. A$AP. around eighth grade or freshman year. The black-and-white American flag cover. The attitude. The fashion. The sound. Hearing "F**kin' Problems" for the first time felt like one of those cultural moments that just sticks to you. It was everywhere, but it still felt sharp. Rocky had a presence that felt different from everybody else.

He was not just rapping. He had swagger.

And I use that word intentionally. Not arrogance. Not trying too hard. Just presence. A way of moving through the world.

That is what I have always seen in Rocky. He is from Harlem, but he never felt boxed in by one idea of what a rapper had to be. He had the hard New York energy, but also this psychedelic, fashion-forward, almost hippie quality to him. He could make songs that make you want to mosh, then turn around and make something like "L$D," "Sundress," or "Kids Turned Out Fine." There is aggression there, but also softness. Confidence, but not insecurity pretending to be confidence.

That range is what separates him.

So when the Don't Be Dumb Tour was announced, I knew I had to be there. I joined the Ticketmaster waiting room for the presale and waited through the virtual queue so I could get my ticket before resale prices got stupid. This was not one of those shows where I wanted to figure it out later. Rocky was on the list of artists I needed to see at least once.

But I also made a choice.

I did not request the photo pit.

That might sound insane, especially as a concert photographer, but I knew this show was not meant to be captured from a clean, safe, three-song media area. I wanted the real thing. I wanted the crowd. I wanted the chaos. I wanted the mosh pit.

I wanted to shoot it from inside the world Rocky was creating.

Before the show, I studied everything. I watched videos from other cities, especially Charlotte and Boston, trying to understand how the show moved, where Rocky entered, where the chaos started, and where I should position myself if I actually wanted to get the photos I had in my head.

This was not casual research. I was studying the show like an assignment.

I even went on eBay to look up what the merch shirts looked like because that is always one of the hardest parts for me at concerts. I will sit in line going back and forth in my head like, bro, what shirt do I get? I get so indecisive with merch because once I buy it, that shirt becomes connected to the memory forever.

At first, I thought I was going to get this white shirt that looked like it had a black SWAT vest over it. I am pretty sure it said Don't Be Dumb, and it looked hard. But then I saw the graffiti-style shirt, and that one felt right. I also love when the back of a tour shirt is simple. That is all I want: the name of the tour, the cities, and the dates. No extra nonsense. Just proof that you were there.

There were a lot of cool options though. If I bought another one, it would probably be the white SWAT vest shirt or the smiley face one with the black eye and the pink hair rollers. Those were hard.

But the sleeveless dark gray one felt like the shirt for that night.

It felt like something you wear when you already know you are about to get destroyed in a mosh pit.

And that is exactly what happened.

I got to the arena early, right around 8 a.m., when they started handing out floor wristbands. Mine was number 322, and at first I thought, bro, there is no way I am the 322nd person already. But then I realized the numbers started around 300, so I was actually in the first group. Everything was smooth. I got my point-and-shoot camera in with no problem. Nobody gave me a hard time. I was early, prepared, and somehow everything was going exactly the way it needed to go.

That only made the anxiety stranger.

Because even though everything was working out, I could still feel something coming.

The openers came out, and usually with rap shows, the openers have a tough job. No disrespect to them, but most of the crowd does not know who they are. They can tell people to put their hands up or open the pit, but if the crowd does not know the songs, it is hard to force that energy.

This crowd did not care.

Phoenix was already moshing before Rocky even came out.

That is when I realized this night was not normal. People were going crazy for the openers, for the DJ, for the idea of what was about to happen. I was in the pit for nearly an hour before Rocky even stepped on stage, and I already had to leave multiple times to get water. I had to tell myself, bro, chill out. The actual show has not even started yet.

That should have been the warning.

The crowd felt young, hungry, and rowdy in a way that reminded me of high school locker rooms, football fields, and that specific kind of chaos where everyone is laughing, yelling, shoving, and somehow bonding at the same time. It was sweaty, aggressive, and wild, but there was also this weird sense of unity in it.

A lot of people were dressed like they were part of the show. White shirts tied over their heads. Masks. SWAT-inspired looks. Don't Be Dumb shirts. Kids who looked like they had studied the same videos I had studied.

I remember asking a few of them if they were part of the show.

They looked at me like I was crazy.

"No bro, we're just big fans."

Then they asked me if I was going to mosh.

Of course I was.

I had my black SWAT hat on, my sport visor sunglasses from Dick's Sporting Goods, my Apple headphones around my neck, and my camera ready. Those sunglasses were not cheap gas-station sunglasses either. I spent about fifty dollars on them. By the end of the night, they would be gone forever.

And honestly, I am not even mad about it.

Because what I got instead was worth more.

At one point before Rocky came out, the crowd shifted so hard that I stopped having control over where I was going. The pit did not feel like normal crowd movement. It felt like being inside a wave pool. You were just getting smacked by waves of people over and over again. One second you were standing. The next second your whole body was being carried somewhere else.

It was like riding the gravity of a whirlpool made out of bodies.

There was no real control.

You moved because everyone moved.

You stopped because everyone stopped.

You survived because the crowd allowed you to survive.

Then, after all the pushing and shifting, the pit settled for a second. Not fully calm, but calm enough where people were no longer flying in every direction. For the first time in what felt like forever, we could actually stand in one place.

That is when I looked around and realized where we were.

We were directly under the helicopter.

Right under the spotlight.

I made eye contact with some stranger next to me, and we both had the same look on our faces. We did not even have to explain it. It was like, bro… you know where we are, right?

We are under the helicopter.

We are under the light.

A$AP Rocky is about to come right here.

We started jumping up and down because we knew. Any minute now, this concert was going to start, and Rocky was going to enter exactly where we were standing.

And the craziest part was, we could not leave even if we wanted to.

It was shoulder to shoulder. Body to body. No space. No exit. Once you were there, you were there.

That is what made it feel unreal. I did not force my way into that spot. I did not finesse some perfect angle. I just got swallowed by the crowd, carried by the chaos, and somehow ended up exactly where I needed to be.

It felt like God's plan.

Divine intervention.

Like the universe knew I was there for an assignment.

Then the show started.

Rocky did not enter like a normal artist. He came out with this whole SWAT-team-style presence around him, moving through the floor like something between a performance, a riot drill, and a movie scene. If you did not know it was part of the show, you might genuinely think something had gone wrong. That is how real it felt.

Security. Cameras. Dancers. Bodies. Masks. People screaming. People shoving. People trying to get closer. People trying not to fall.

And somehow, I ended up in the inner circle.

I still do not fully understand how it happened. One second I was in the crowd, and the next second I was right there. Inches away from Rocky. Camera in hand. Surrounded by security, dancers, and bodies crashing from every direction.

That first stretch of photographing the show was a nightmare.

A beautiful nightmare, but still a nightmare.

My phone got knocked out of my hand. My hat got knocked off. My sunglasses flew off my face and disappeared into the sea of people. Even my headphones became a problem.

That is what made the night feel different from Travis Scott.

When I saw Travis Scott's Circus Maximus Tour in the same arena, I had my Apple headphones around my neck too. Some guy looked at me then like I was crazy and basically warned me they were going to fly off. But at Travis, they were fine. I never really worried about them. They stayed around my neck, and I made it through the pit with no issue.

Fast-forward to A$AP Rocky, and it was a completely different situation.

This time, those headphones were flying around my neck like they were about to disappear into the crowd at any second. So in the middle of all this chaos, I had to tuck them between my waist and my belt, basically tying them around my belt loop so they would not get ripped off into the pit.

That detail says everything about the difference between the two shows. At Travis, I could keep my headphones around my neck. At Rocky, I had to tie them down like survival gear.

The glasses were gone.

There were more important things to protect.

As long as the camera did not fly out of my hand, I was good.

That was the mission.

Then it got so rowdy that Rocky had to stop the music.

This did not feel scripted. He came out while the music was already playing, then grabbed the microphone and literally told the DJ to cut it.

"Stop the music. Cut the music."

It felt like an emergency.

Then he looked at the crowd and yelled, "Yo, everybody back the fuck up."

That was not a hype line. That was not part of the performance. That was a real command. You could hear it in his voice and see it on the security team's faces. It was not panic, but it was concern. It was that look of, okay, this crowd might actually be a problem tonight.

And standing there, inches away from him, camera in his face while he was telling everyone to back up, was surreal.

That is the kind of moment you cannot recreate from the photo pit.

That is why I chose the mosh pit.

The risk was the point.

After that, the show became a blur of sweat, smoke, fire, screaming, lights, and bodies slamming into each other. I saw Travis Scott's Circus Maximus Tour in the same arena about two and a half years earlier, and at the time, I thought that was one of the craziest pit experiences I would ever have.

Rocky was crazier.

At least for my personal experience, Don't Be Dumb went harder. I moshed harder at this show than I did at Travis. Five times harder, honestly. And I loved the Travis show, so that is not a small statement.

But this was different.

The energy was less polished and more dangerous. Less spectacle from a distance and more chaos happening around your body. Rocky did not just perform to the crowd. He activated it.

The whole building felt like it had been turned into a pressure cooker.

And then there was Spider-Man.

There was this 16-year-old kid who came all the way from Utah with his older brother because he said the venue near him was not good, and Phoenix was the closest place where he could really experience the show. He showed up in a Spider-Man costume, and somehow this kid became everyone's little brother.

That was one of my favorite parts of the night.

Earlier that week, I had been showing one of my students concert footage from Rocky's tour. He is around ten years old, and I was explaining what a mosh pit was. He looked at me like I had just introduced him to a whole new universe.

He was like, wait, guys just run into each other in a circle and it is okay?

And I was like, yeah bro. That is kind of the point.

He thought it was the coolest thing ever.

So seeing this younger kid at the Rocky show, dressed as Spider-Man, starting pits, clearing space, dancing in the center, and getting protected by everyone around him felt full circle in the weirdest way. It was proof that I was not lying to my student. Kids really do come to these shows. They really do find confidence in spaces like this.

The best part was how everyone treated him. Grown men from different backgrounds, different races, and different ages were looking out for him. For that night, everyone understood the assignment.

Protect Spider-Man.

Let him have his moment.

At one point, people were putting him on their shoulders because he kept saying Rocky was his favorite artist. He had been his top artist on Spotify for years. The whole group wanted him to get noticed.

Eventually, Rocky shouted him out.

"I see you, Spider-Man."

The whole crowd around us cheered.

That was one of those moments that sounds small if you explain it plainly, but if you were there, you felt it. It was positive masculinity in real time. A bunch of guys moshing, yelling, sweating, slamming into each other, but also protecting a kid and making sure he got his moment.

That is what people who do not understand mosh pits miss.

Yes, they are dangerous. Yes, they are aggressive. Yes, you can lose your glasses, your hat, your phone, and maybe your mind for a second.

But there is also community in it.

There is a code.

If someone falls, you pick them up.

If a kid is in the pit, you protect him.

If the crowd gets too rowdy, even Rocky himself stops the show and tells people to back up.

That balance is what made the night feel so intense. It was chaos, but it was not empty chaos. It had culture behind it.

That is also why Rocky works as a performer. He understands his audience. He knows the culture around his music, and he has the confidence to physically enter that world. That takes guts.

A lot of artists can command a crowd from the stage. Rocky entered the crowd like he trusted the storm he created.

And musically, the show reminded me why he matters.

Rocky can go from hard, in-your-face tracks that make the floor explode to slower, more psychedelic records that make the whole arena feel like it is floating. That is his gift. He can create a mosh pit and then drift into something softer without it feeling fake.

That is why I think he has always stood apart.

He has the confidence of a rapper, the eye of a fashion designer, the mind of an artist, and the energy of someone who has been through enough to know that coolness is not about trying to look cool. It is about perspective.

He is not just loud.

He is layered.

There is also something about where Rocky is now that I respect. He has grown into fatherhood in a way that feels intentional. He is still Rocky. Still stylish. Still charismatic. Still influential. But there is also a sense that growth did not make him less interesting. It made him more complete.

A lot of the kids who look up to artists like Rocky need examples of confidence that are not empty, masculinity that is not cruel, and edge that can still grow into something deeper. Rocky is not perfect, and no artist is, but there is something refreshing about seeing someone with that much cultural influence embrace growth, family, and perspective without losing his identity.

That is part of why the show hit me harder than I expected.

It was not just the chaos.

It was the reminder.

Rocky had been there during those golden years of discovering music. The years when I was listening to Eminem's Recovery, early Childish Gambino, Kanye, and A$AP Rocky on bus rides, in school, after practice, and during the years when music was shaping who I was becoming.

Seeing him live brought that back.

It reminded me that some artists influence you quietly. They may not be your number one artist. They may not be in your daily rotation forever. But they still leave fingerprints on your taste, your confidence, your style, and your memories.

A$AP Rocky is one of those artists for me.

By the end of the night, my body was destroyed.

The next two days, I had to call out of work because I was so sore. I have not felt that beaten up since high school sports. It felt like I had played a full rugby match. My body was wrecked, my sunglasses were gone, my hat had been knocked off, my phone had been smacked out of my hand, my headphones had been tied down like survival gear, and I had spent the night getting carried by a crowd I could not control.

But I had the photos.

The helicopter. The red light. The SWAT-inspired visuals. The megaphone. The crowd. The Spider-Man kid. The mosh pit. The fire. The chaos. Rocky smiling. Rocky shouting. Rocky standing above everyone like he knew exactly what kind of madness he had brought into the room.

That is the trade.

That is why you choose the mosh pit over the photo pit.

Because sometimes the cleanest angle is not the truest angle.

Sometimes the story is not in front of you.

Sometimes it is crushing into you from every side.

And when I look back at this show, I do not think of it as a concert I simply attended. I think of it as one of the most physically intense, unpredictable, and unforgettable live music experiences I have ever had.

A$AP Rocky did not just perform in Phoenix.

He turned the arena into a controlled riot.

And somehow, by preparation, instinct, chaos, and maybe a little bit of divine intervention, I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

I did not see A$AP Rocky.

I survived A$AP Rocky.

The first time Kid Cudi really stopped me in my tracks was "Pursuit of Happiness."

I did not discover him the second Man on the Moon dropped. I was not there on day one acting like I knew everything immediately. But once I heard "Pursuit of Happiness," that was it.

After that, I knew exactly who Kid Cudi was.

I think the first version I heard was after seeing Project X. I remember hearing the remix and being like, bro, what is this?

Then I went back and listened to the original version, and that was when it really hit me.

There is that distinct sound at the beginning of the song. That fuzzy, distorted, dreamlike sound before everything fully opens up. I remember hearing that and immediately knowing this was different.

It was one of those songs where you just stop for a second.

Like, who is this?

What is this?

Why does this feel like this?

And that is the thing about Kid Cudi. When you discover him at the right age, his music does not just sound cool. It feels like someone found a way to turn your mood into a song.

By the time I found him, Cudi was already engulfed in the culture. Man on the Moon: The End of Day and Man on the Moon II: The Legend of Mr. Rager were already becoming those albums people held onto. His music had this timeless nostalgia to it. It could be lonely. It could be emotional. It could be moody. But somehow it could also become party music.

That is what was so crazy about "Pursuit of Happiness."

The original version is already amazing. It has this soft, sad, floating feeling to it. Then the remix from Project X turned it into this completely different thing. Same emotional core, but now it became this massive party anthem.

I remember seeing Project X as a teenager with my friends and thinking, holy shit.

How do you take a song that already works perfectly in one lane and turn it into another amazing version that works in a completely different way?

That is rare.

And Cudi had songs like that.

"Pursuit of Happiness."

"Memories" with David Guetta.

Songs that were emotional, nostalgic, and also somehow fit perfectly with being young, out with friends, partying, staying up late, and feeling like life was bigger than it actually was.

That is why Cudi hit so hard at that age.

When you are in middle school or high school, everything feels bigger. Your emotions feel bigger. Your loneliness feels bigger. Your crushes feel bigger. Your sadness feels bigger. Your imagination feels bigger.

And Kid Cudi's music perfectly captured that feeling.

That moody teenager feeling.

That walking-alone-with-headphones-on feeling.

That partying-with-your-friends-but-still-feeling-kind-of-alone feeling.

That staring-out-the-window-and-thinking-too-much feeling.

For me, Cudi came into my life during that exact era.

Those first two Man on the Moon albums are classics to me. Not just good albums. Classics. They helped define a certain emotional lane in hip-hop where rappers did not have to act like they were invincible all the time. They could be lonely. They could be depressed. They could be weird. They could be emotional. They could hum. They could sing. They could sound like they were floating somewhere between rap, rock, alternative, and their own thoughts.

And yes, a lot of that lane connects back to YE and 808s & Heartbreak.

Cudi, Drake, and so many artists who came after them were part of this shift where hip-hop became more emotional, more melodic, more vulnerable, and more open about feeling things. Cudi was one of the main artists who helped make that normal.

His success is obviously connected to YE in a major way. Cudi crossed paths with him in New York and eventually ended up becoming part of that G.O.O.D. Music world. But what matters is that Cudi did not stay in anyone's shadow.

He became his own thing.

He stood on his own.

He built his own world.

And he influenced a whole generation after him.

You can hear Cudi's influence everywhere now. You can hear it in the emotional rappers. You can hear it in the rage artists. You can hear it in Travis Scott. You can hear it in the way so many artists are willing to be weird, vulnerable, melodic, and dark all at the same time.

That is Cudi's legacy.

He helped open that door.

I remember when Indicud came out in 2013, and it was one of the first albums I ever pre-ordered. I was a freshman in high school, sitting in class, literally counting down the days. I would look at all the pre-downloaded tracks just waiting for the full album to unlock.

Me and my friend were specifically hyped for "Solo Dolo Pt. II" with Kendrick Lamar.

That was the era.

Cudi was a really big influence on me during that time. I had so many memories connected to his music. "Pursuit of Happiness." "Memories" with David Guetta. The Man on the Moon albums. Indicud. All those songs that captured being young, emotional, restless, and trying to figure out who you were.

So it is actually crazy to me that it took this long for me to finally see him live.

I have seen so many of my favorite artists over the years, but Cudi was one of the last major ones from my childhood and adolescence that I still had not seen.

That made this show feel important.

It was not just, "Oh cool, I am going to see Kid Cudi."

It was more like, holy shit, I finally get to see Kid Cudi.

And that is why it hurt so much when his last tour got canceled.

I had tickets for the INSANO: Engage the Rage World Tour, and I was so excited. He was supposed to come to Phoenix in August, right around my birthday week, and I remember thinking the timing was perfect.

Then he broke his foot after jumping off the stage at Coachella, and the tour got canceled.

And bro, that one hurt.

That was a real bummer.

So when The Rebel Ragers Tour was announced and Phoenix was the first stop, it felt like everything came back around.

After years and years of waiting to see this guy, I finally got to be there.

Front row.

Opening night.

In my hometown.

That could not have worked out any better.

Before Cudi came out, Big Boi opened, which was already insane. Big Boi is one half of Outkast, one of the most iconic rap groups ever, so just having him on the bill gave the night a different kind of weight. He killed it. He brought that veteran energy, and it was cool seeing someone with that kind of legacy warm up the crowd.

M.I.A. also performed before she eventually got kicked off the tour later.

And I will be honest.

I love "Paper Planes." That song is one of my favorite songs of all time. It is just a banger. You can argue that M.I.A. is kind of a one-hit wonder depending on how deep you are into her music, because personally, I only really know two or three of her songs. But I do like her, and I respect what she has done.

That being said, her set felt unprepared to me.

It was the first night of the tour, so I give some grace for that. First nights can be rough. But for that level of artist, opening for Kid Cudi on a tour like this, I expected it to feel a little more polished. The dancers seemed uncoordinated at times, the performance felt a little loose, and it just did not hit the way I thought it would.

I am not saying that to hate.

That is just how it felt in the moment.

Then Cudi came out.

And immediately, the energy changed.

The stage design was one of the first things that stood out to me. It was this giant rectangular LED box, and what was interesting was how simple but effective it was. We are at a point now where these massive LED setups are becoming the norm, and it is wild to see how far that technology has come.

I remember seeing smaller studio LED wall setups years ago and thinking they looked futuristic. Now you go to a major concert, and artists are building entire emotional worlds out of these screens.

That is what Cudi did.

The screen was not just background decoration. It amplified the emotion of each song.

One second, it felt like we were in the solar system. Then it felt like we were in a pit of fire. Then it shifted into something blue and lonely. Then it felt like the sky, or the ocean, or some dreamlike space between darkness and light.

That was the strength of the show visually.

The stage did not have to be overly complicated because the visuals were doing exactly what they needed to do. They changed the feeling of the room. They matched the songs. They made Cudi look small at times, like one person standing inside something much bigger than himself.

And that fits his music.

Because Cudi's music has always felt like one person standing inside his own mind.

The rainbow-colored bursts behind him made it feel almost spiritual. The orange and fire visuals brought out the rage. The deep blue silhouettes brought out the loneliness. The giant text on the screen gave the show this heavy emotional and spiritual weight.

At one point, the screen said:

"The devil is all around you. Be vigilant. There is a dark, and there is a light. Just like there is hell, there is heaven. There is a God, there is a devil too. Fuck what people think about you. Overcame my inner darkness. Made peace with my father's death."

That felt like the whole show in one visual.

Darkness and light.

Pain and healing.

Rage and peace.

That is Cudi.

That has always been Cudi.

He has never just been about making songs that sound cool. He is one of those artists where you can feel the inner battle in the music. You can feel the depression. You can feel the isolation. You can feel the healing. You can feel the survival.

And seeing that live made it even more powerful.

The thing that stood out to me most, though, was his smile.

Cudi has this sincerity in his face when he performs. You can tell he truly cares about his fans. He is not just going through the motions. He is not acting too cool for the moment. He really seemed happy to be there.

And because this was the first night of the tour, that made it even more meaningful.

He took a moment to talk about breaking his foot and how there was a point where he was not sure if he would be able to perform again the same way. You could see it in his eyes. That feeling of looking out at all these people and realizing they still showed up for him.

Like, holy shit, all these people came here for me.

That was real.

That is what I respect about Cudi. He is a deep emotional person, and that comes out in the music, but it also comes out in the way he carries himself on stage. He seemed grateful. He seemed present. He seemed like someone who understood what the night meant.

And then the songs started stacking up.

Hit after hit after hit.

Much like the YE and Drake shows I went to, Cudi is one of those artists where you realize how deep the catalog is once you hear it live. He has been in the game for almost 20 years now, and he has stood the test of time. He passed that decade mark and kept going. He is still relevant. He is still making music. He is still inspiring people.

And he has so many songs that he could not even perform everything.

There just was not enough time.

That is how you know the catalog is real.

The crowd knew these songs because these songs meant something to people. Cudi is one of those artists whose fans do not just like the music. They feel connected to it. His music has helped people through things. It has been there for lonely nights, dark thoughts, breakups, anxiety, depression, growing pains, and the weird emotional mess of being young.

That is why the energy felt different.

It was not just hype.

It was appreciation.

It was love.

It was a room full of people who had their own relationship with this man's music.

And then he ended with "Reborn."

That moment was special.

Before he played it, he said something about screaming loud so YE could hear us.

And bro, I loved that.

Because I had been wondering where Cudi and YE stood as friends.

Those two have been tied together for so much of their careers. They have been collaborators, brothers, partners in crime, and at times, they have also had distance and tension. They have had each other's backs. They have gone through public ups and downs. And for a while, it felt like maybe that friendship was gone for good.

Cudi had even said in past interviews that he did not see himself and Kanye being friends again.

So hearing him dedicate "Reborn" to YE felt important.

It felt like a sign that they had reconnected.

And as a fan of both of them, that meant something to me.

Because anytime Cudi and YE make something together, it feels special. Kids See Ghosts is a perfect example of that. That album is short, focused, emotional, weird, healing, and powerful. It showed how well their worlds can still connect when they are locked in together.

And "Reborn" is the perfect song for that moment.

That song is about moving forward.

Healing.

Surviving.

Being okay.

So for Cudi to end the show with that song, while telling the crowd to scream loud enough for YE to hear, felt like the emotional punctuation mark on the whole night.

It was not just a concert ending.

It felt like a release.

Kid Cudi has played a significant part in my childhood and adolescence. His music will always have a special place in my heart and in my nostalgia. He was there during those teenage years when everything felt dramatic and confusing and heavy. He was there when I was discovering music that actually made me feel seen.

So to finally see him live, front row, on the first night of his new tour, in my hometown, after missing the chance before because of the canceled tour, felt perfect.

I got to see the giant smile.

I got to hear the songs.

I got to feel the crowd.

I got to see the stage turn from fire to stars to darkness to light.

And I got to watch an artist who helped soundtrack my youth stand there healed, grateful, and still moving forward.

That is what made the night special.

Kid Cudi's Rebel Ragers Tour was not just about rage.

It was about survival.

It was about healing.

It was about making peace with the darkness and still finding a way to smile.

And for Cudi, that smile said everything.

I first heard of PinkPantheress through "Boy's a Liar Pt. 2" with Ice Spice.

At the time, Ice Spice felt like the obvious star of that moment. She was bigger, she had more mainstream attention, and PinkPantheress felt more like the lesser-known artist on the song. But now, a few years later, it feels like their careers have gone in two totally different directions.

Back then, it seemed like Ice Spice was going to be the one to blow up the most from that moment. No offense to Ice Spice, but it feels like she already had her moment. PinkPantheress, on the other hand, feels like she is becoming her own star.

That is what is amazing about it. Everyone probably assumed Ice Spice was going to be the next one to fully take off, but PinkPantheress has built her own lane.

Honestly, I think I became a fan of PinkPantheress' personality and sense of humor before I fully got into her music.

At this point, if you have ever doomscrolled on Instagram, TikTok, or anywhere online, you have probably encountered PinkPantheress at least once. Maybe it was one of her funny voices. Maybe it was a game show clip. Maybe it was the "DAHHH" moment after someone complimented her on a red carpet. Maybe it was that live performance clip where she shakes someone's hand and says, "It's really nice to meet you" in that funny voice.

She is very meme-worthy, but not in a forced way. That is what I love and appreciate about her. She is just funny. She has a weird, specific personality that makes her feel familiar before you even fully know her music.

My best friend KJ loves you and wants to marry you.

That is all I need to say about that.

But KJ was also part of how PinkPantheress became more real to me. One day he hopped in my car, and my phone automatically connected to Bluetooth. Whatever PinkPantheress song I had been listening to before I got out of the car started playing again.

He heard it and was like, "Oh bro, you fuck with PinkPantheress too?"

And I was like, "Yeah."

So we cranked the song all the way up and just started vibing to PinkPantheress.

After I bought tickets to see her, I found out she actually produces a lot of her own music too. That made me respect her even more.

Going back and listening to her music after learning that, it made me feel like she is just getting started. Anytime someone can make it to that level as both a musician and a producer, I feel like that usually says a lot about their career. Artists like Kanye, Charli XCX, Tame Impala, Tyler, The Creator, and others have long careers because they know how to record, produce, and build their own sound.

PinkPantheress feels like she has that ability too.

She has already created her own style. It is interesting hearing her talk about her past self too, because she has said she used to be more emo and punk rock, dressed in all black, and now she has this pretty, girly, stylish image. She also has this unique British look and personality to her. The checkered patterns, the stripes, the way she talks, the way she carries herself — she takes pride in being British, and there is a British swag to her that I really like.

Honestly, that might be my favorite thing about her.

I love the way she talks. I love her sense of humor. I love that she feels like herself.

When she came out onstage, I was not starstruck in the normal way. I do not mean that in a cocky way. It is just that now that I cover concerts frequently, I do not really get starstruck the same way anymore.

But with PinkPantheress, it was different.

It was not like, "Oh my God, I cannot believe I am seeing this celebrity."

It was more like, "Oh hey, there she actually is."

That person I have seen online. That person whose humor I probably knew before I knew her full discography. That person whose clips and personality already felt familiar. Seeing her in real life felt like when you start talking to a stranger and somehow feel like you have known them your whole life.

That was the feeling.

She felt familiar.

The show was also right after her birthday, which made it feel more personal. The crowd sang happy birthday to her, she put on a birthday girl sash, and she interacted with fans throughout the night. She took time to sign vinyls, laugh onstage, joke around, and just be present with the crowd.

You could tell she cared about her fans.

She felt like a people person. An artist of the people.

She was laughing onstage and genuinely seemed like she was having a great time. She was not being performative, even though she was literally performing. She was just being herself: funny, goofy, kind, and comfortable in her own world.

That is my favorite thing about her beyond the music.

It is not just that I like her because I like her music.

It is almost the other way around.

I like the music because I like the person.

PinkPantheress feels like someone who is becoming her own star, not because she is trying to be like everyone else, but because she is completely herself. She is funny, talented, awkward, stylish, British, and different in a way that feels real.

Seeing her live confirmed that for me.

She is not just the voice from "Boy's a Liar Pt. 2."

She is not just a viral moment.

She is not just a meme.

PinkPantheress is becoming her own star.

YE, the artist formerly known as Kanye West, standing on top of the world at SoFi Stadium felt less like a concert and more like a statement.

And I mean that literally.

There was a massive dome shaped like Earth sitting in the middle of the stadium floor, surrounded by fog, fire, lasers, smoke, shadows, and tens of thousands of phones lifted into the air. Above him hung this giant circular screen that looked like a spaceship, a halo, a surveillance tower, and a movie screen all at the same time. The entire stage felt like sci-fi, religion, theater, ego, loneliness, and legacy all smashed into one massive visual experience.

And there he was.

Alone.

On top of the world.

April 3, 2026.

SoFi Stadium.

Los Angeles.

One of the biggest, most premier stadiums in the world, packed with people waiting to see if YE could really pull this off.

It is no secret that YE is my favorite artist of all time. Not just my favorite artist, but probably my biggest creative inspiration ever. The way I think about music, film, visuals, fashion, confidence, storytelling, ambition, and refusing to be boxed in has been deeply shaped by his work.

That is also what makes everything surrounding him so difficult.

I can sit here and say YE changed my life creatively. I can also sit here and say the antisemitic things he has said were wrong, harmful, and impossible to ignore. Both things can be true at the same time.

That is the hard part.

Being a YE fan in 2026 is not simple. It is not clean. It is not something you can explain in one sentence without sounding like you are defending something you are not trying to defend. I am not here to excuse what he said. I am not here to pretend it did not happen. I am not here to tell anyone else how they should feel about him.

All I can speak from is my own experience.

I have worked with people going through crisis. I have worked in schools and environments where students came from trauma, severe behavioral challenges, autism, learning disabilities, emotional disorders, and situations most people will never see up close. At ACES, I worked ten-hour shifts in a school where we had to be CPI certified, trained in crisis prevention, de-escalation, and physical restraint because students could become violent toward staff or each other.

That job changed how I see people.

It taught me that someone can be difficult, hurtful, volatile, or completely out of control and still be a human being. It taught me that empathy does not mean excusing behavior. It means understanding that people are complicated, especially when mental illness, neurodivergence, trauma, ego, pain, and fame all collide.

So when I look at YE, I see the harm. I see the ego. I see the pain he has caused.

But I also see the artist who shaped the way I think about creativity.

That is why this is hard.

And honestly, I do not want this whole article to become me defending why I went to a YE show.

Because I am not here to defend myself.

I am here to talk about what it felt like to see YE live at SoFi Stadium on April 3, 2026.

And what it felt like was massive.

This was not just another concert. This was YE coming back to a major U.S. stage after years of controversy, backlash, canceled deals, canceled shows, bans, protests, and headlines. It felt like everyone was waiting to see what would happen. Could he still command a stadium? Would people still show up? Would the music still hit? Would the spectacle still feel larger than life?

The answer was yes.

Not just yes.

Absolutely yes.

The scale of the show was insane. SoFi Stadium already feels futuristic on its own, but with YE's stage sitting in the middle of it, the whole place transformed into something else. It did not feel like a normal stadium setup where an artist is on one end of the field with a big screen behind them. It felt like the entire building had been turned into one giant world, and we were all standing inside of it.

That is what makes YE different as a live artist.

Love him or hate him, he does not think about stage design like most people. He does not just build a stage so he can perform on it. He builds a world around the feeling of the music.

And this world was lonely.

That is what stood out to me the most.

Yes, it was huge. Yes, it was loud. Yes, it was packed. Yes, the lights were crazy. Yes, the crowd was going insane. But visually, YE was still alone. Alone on a planet. Alone under a giant floating screen. Alone in fog. Alone in smoke. Alone in beams of light. Alone while tens of thousands of people watched him.

It looked like the metaphor of his life.

Him against the world.

And somehow, he was literally standing on it.

The show opened with "KING" from BULLY, and that felt intentional. It came in swinging. It had that brash, defiant, ego-driven YE energy. That old energy of, "Yeah, I am still here. You did not kill me. You did not erase me. I am still the king."

And whether you agree with that or not, that is exactly what that moment felt like.

The first few tracks from BULLY gave the show this immediate edge. It was not like he slowly eased into the night. He started with the new album and made the crowd sit inside the current version of him before giving everyone the classics.

Then the hits started.

And that is when it became ridiculous.

There are artists who have hits.

Then there is YE.

This man can play song after song after song, and it is not just "the fans know this." No. These are songs that changed culture. These are songs you heard in middle school, high school, college, at parties, in cars, in movies, in commercials, in stadiums, in memes, in fashion videos, in workout playlists, in heartbreak, in confidence, in chaos, in everything.

That is the level of discography he has.

It felt like every era showed up.

The College Dropout. Late Registration. Graduation. 808s & Heartbreak. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Yeezus. The Life of Pablo. Watch the Throne. Donda. VULTURES. BULLY.

It was era after era, banger after banger, memory after memory.

One second you are screaming "Father Stretch My Hands," the next second you are getting thrown into "Blood on the Leaves." One moment it feels spiritual, the next moment it feels aggressive. One moment it feels like church, the next moment it feels like a riot. That is the thing with YE's music. His catalog does not live in one emotional lane.

It is ego. It is pain. It is faith. It is anger. It is heartbreak. It is fashion. It is God. It is chaos. It is confidence. It is loneliness. It is everything.

And when you hear all of that inside a stadium like SoFi, with YE standing on top of a glowing Earth, it hits differently.

One of the songs that really captured the whole night for me was "ALL THE LOVE" featuring Andre Troutman.

I remember being in Los Angeles with my friend Jordan and his girlfriend Shady, driving around the city and playing them BULLY for the first time. When "ALL THE LOVE" came on and that beat dropped, Jordan gripped the steering wheel and just shouted, "Yes."

That is when you know a song has something.

It was not even just the beat. It was the feeling. The song feels like healing. It feels like forgiveness. It feels like leaving pain behind. It feels like looking at everything that happened, everything that hurt, everything that broke you, and deciding you are not going to live inside that anger forever.

Andre Troutman's voice on it cuts through everything. It has that soulful, piercing quality where it feels like it is coming from somewhere deeper than just a feature. It feels like the emotional center of the album.

And in the context of the show, that song felt even bigger.

Because so much of the night was about return.

Return from exile. Return from controversy. Return from being counted out. Return from isolation. Return from everything people thought would end him.

Again, I am not saying that to excuse anything. I am talking about what the show felt like emotionally. The visuals were literally spelling it out. YE on a planet. YE surrounded by darkness. YE standing in front of smoke and fire. YE alone while the whole world watches.

That is not subtle.

That is YE.

The photography side of this show was also a huge part of the experience for me.

I flew out from Phoenix to Los Angeles for this. This was not just a random night out. This was a mission. I could not get a credential, but I was not going to let that stop me. I brought my camera setup that I could get into the venue with, studied the show, studied the angles, studied the stage, and told myself I was going to make something happen.

I told Jordan my whole trip was going to be determined by the quality of photos I got.

That sounds dramatic, but that is just how my brain works.

When I go to these shows, especially for an artist like YE, I am not just there to chill. I am there to create. I am there to document. I am there to prove to myself that I can get the shot, credential or not.

And I truly believe I got the shot of the night.

The photo of YE standing on top of the glowing Earth with the giant circular screen hanging above him, SoFi lit up in this orange-gold haze, and the crowd below him holding their phones up — that image is going to stick with me for the rest of my career.

That is one of those photos where you know it the second you take it.

You feel it.

You look at the back of the camera and you just know.

That is the one.

And I had to work for it. I was moving around the floor, scouting angles, weaving through the crowd, watching the lights, watching the smoke, waiting for the screen to shift, waiting for the Earth to glow the right way, waiting for YE to line up with the scale of the stage.

Then I was running all the way up the ramps of SoFi Stadium, six stories up, just to get different perspectives. I wanted the wide shots. I wanted the atmosphere. I wanted the stadium. I wanted the crowd. I wanted the scale. I wanted the image that showed people what it felt like to be there.

Because that is the thing about photographing a show like this.

A tight photo of the artist is cool.

But sometimes the real shot is the world around them.

And this was definitely one of those nights where the world around him was the story.

There were moments where YE looked like a silhouette against fire. Moments where the dome looked like a moon. Moments where the Earth was glowing below him and lasers shot out like the whole stadium was turning into space. Moments where the giant screen above him showed him in black and white like some distorted broadcast from another planet. Moments where the smoke and clouds made it feel like he was performing from inside a dream.

It was visually insane.

And I do not say that lightly.

I have seen a lot of shows. I have covered a lot of events. I have been around enough production to know when something is just expensive versus when something is genuinely creative.

This was genuinely creative.

The second night also felt special because of the guest appearances.

I feel bad for anyone who only went to the April 1 show because April 3 felt like the night where everything really happened. We had Travis Scott. We had CeeLo Green. We had North West. We had YG Marley. We had surprise after surprise.

But the biggest moment was Lauryn Hill.

When Lauryn Hill came out, it was one of those moments where the entire stadium collectively lost its mind.

At first, from where we were, people were trying to figure out who it was. She had on this bigger, bulkier outfit, and everyone around me was kind of looking at each other like, "Wait, who is that?"

Then YE introduced her as Ms. Lauryn Hill.

And the place exploded.

That was not just a cool guest appearance. That felt historic. That felt cultural. That felt like one of those moments where you immediately understand you are watching something people are going to talk about after the show is over.

There are concerts where the guest comes out and it is fun.

Then there are moments where the guest changes the weight of the night.

Lauryn Hill changed the weight of the night.

Travis Scott coming out was crazy too. The energy shifted instantly. Travis has that ability to turn any stadium into a pressure cooker. When he joined YE, especially on "FATHER," the crowd went insane. It was one of those moments where you remember just how connected YE's influence is to so many artists who came after him.

And that is another thing this show reminded me of.

YE's influence is everywhere.

It is in the music. It is in the fashion. It is in the visuals. It is in the way artists perform. It is in the way stages are designed. It is in the way albums are rolled out. It is in the way fans think about eras, aesthetics, identity, and creative reinvention.

You can hate him and still see the influence.

You can criticize him and still understand the impact.

That is why this whole thing is complicated.

Because YE is not just a rapper. He is not just a producer. He is not just a designer. He is not just a celebrity. He is one of the most influential artists of our lifetime, and at SoFi, you could feel that in real time.

The crowd knew every word. Every era had people screaming. Every song felt like it unlocked a different memory. People were jumping in and out of mosh pits. People were crying. People were filming. People were yelling. People were standing still just taking in the visuals. It was chaos, but it was controlled chaos. It had that rare feeling where everyone understood they were part of something bigger than a normal concert.

That is what YE shows have always been when they work.

They feel like events.

Not just performances.

Events.

And this one felt like a comeback event.

Even outside of SoFi, you can see how much demand is still there. YE reportedly performed for 118,000 people in Istanbul, and even with bans, cancellations, protests, and security concerns around the world, people are still showing up in massive numbers. He is still one of those artists who creates a reaction everywhere he goes.

Love him. Hate him. Protest him. Support him. Ignore him. Criticize him. Defend him.

People are still watching.

That is the reality.

And his music is still standing the test of time.

That might be the biggest takeaway I had from SoFi.

Not that YE is perfect. Not that everything is forgiven. Not that the controversy does not matter.

It does.

But the music is still there.

The songs still hit. The visuals still feel ahead of everybody else. The stage design still feels like something only he would think to do.

And when you put all of that inside SoFi Stadium, with YE standing alone on top of a glowing planet, it becomes hard to deny the scale of what you are witnessing.

For me personally, it was one of the most visually stunning concerts I have ever seen.

Maybe the most unique stage design I have ever experienced.

It was lonely. It was massive. It was beautiful. It was dark. It was arrogant. It was emotional. It was messy. It was cinematic. It was everything I expected from YE and somehow still more than I expected.

That is what makes him such a difficult artist to talk about.

He can frustrate you. He can disappoint you. He can make you question why you still care. Then he gets on stage, stands on top of the world, and reminds you exactly why he became YE in the first place.

And I know some people will not like that.

I understand.

But I am not writing this as a defense.

I am writing this as someone who was there.

Someone who flew from Phoenix to Los Angeles for the show.

Someone who ran around SoFi Stadium chasing angles.

Someone who screamed the songs word for word.

Someone who watched Lauryn Hill walk out and felt the whole stadium shake.

Someone who saw YE standing alone on a glowing planet and thought, yeah, this is one of those moments I am going to remember forever.

Because no matter where he goes, no matter what people say, no matter how complicated the conversation becomes, YE proved something at SoFi.

He is not going anywhere.

And whether people want to admit it or not, the world is still watching.

Dua Lipa's Radical Optimism Tour at the Kia Forum felt less like a regular concert and more like stepping into a polished pop fantasy.

Everything about the show felt intentional — the outfits, the lighting, the choreography, the visuals, the stage design, and the way each section flowed into the next. It did not feel like one long performance where songs were just stacked on top of each other. It felt like a show with structure, pacing, and its own world.

Like most people, I became familiar with Dua Lipa in the late 2010s when "New Rules" broke through and became one of those songs you could not escape. It was everywhere. The radio, the music video, social media, playlists — everywhere.

And with new artists, especially new emerging female artists, it can be easy for the music industry to sell the image first. Because at the end of the day, the music industry is still an industry. It is a business first, and sometimes it feels like the art comes second.

But Dua Lipa is one of those rare cases where it does not feel like that.

She feels like an artist first.

The reason I say that is because she has been able to consistently produce. She did not have one hit and disappear. She did not have one strong era and then fade away. For almost a decade now, she has been able to keep putting out hit after hit after hit.

"New Rules." "One Kiss." "Don't Start Now." "Levitating." "Cold Heart." "Dance the Night." "Houdini." "Training Season."

That is a crazy run.

Then you look at the range of people she has worked with — Calvin Harris, Elton John, Kevin Parker, a.k.a. Tame Impala, Barbie, and more — and it becomes clear that she is not just some generic pop girl or dance artist. She has range. She has taste. She has different eras, different sounds, and different versions of herself that still feel connected.

The first time I ever saw her live was during the Future Nostalgia Tour in Phoenix. After seeing how lively, physical, and energetic that performance was, I knew right away, "Okay, she is one of those artists I have to see every time she goes on tour."

That is why I made the trip to Los Angeles to see the Radical Optimism Tour at the legendary Kia Forum.

And the venue alone added a whole different layer to the night.

The Kia Forum is not just another arena. It is the house that the Showtime Lakers built. As a Chicago Bulls fan, being on that same floor mattered to me. This was the same floor Michael Jordan was on when he won his first NBA championship in 1991.

So before Dua Lipa even stepped on stage, the building already had history in it.

Walking through the guts of that venue and stepping onto the floor was special by itself. There is something about being inside a place like that, knowing how many major sports and music moments have happened there, that makes the night feel bigger before the show even begins.

And then Dua Lipa came out and immediately changed the room.

One of the strongest visuals of the night was her entrance against this massive gold curtain, wearing a pink fur coat and glowing under the lights. It felt dramatic, glamorous, and very pop-star. Not overdone, not messy — just clean, confident, and stylish.

From there, the show moved through different sections, each with its own mood and look. There were gold tones, red lighting, fire, dancers, broken heart visuals, metallic outfits, bright white lights, confetti, and big cinematic screen moments. It all felt like it belonged to the same world, but each part had its own personality.

That is what I appreciated most about the production. It was big, but it was not just big for no reason. The visuals supported the music. The dancers added movement. The fire added drama. The lighting gave each section its own feeling. The whole show looked expensive, but still clean and controlled.

And Dua herself looked completely comfortable in it.

She knows how to work a stage. She knows where the light is. She knows when to hit the choreography, when to slow down, when to interact with fans, and when to just let the room sit inside the moment.

The show is choreographed and structured to a T, but it does not feel stiff. It still feels alive.

One thing I really like about her is how genuinely grateful she comes across. She does not just point at people and move on. Part of the show includes her walking along the barricade, talking to fans, asking names, taking pictures, signing autographs, and making those moments feel personal.

That kind of fan interaction matters, especially at this level. When you are playing a venue like the Kia Forum, it is easy for the show to feel distant. But she finds ways to make it feel connected.

Another thing I thought was really cool about the tour was that she had these surprise moments built into different shows. It made it feel less like every city was getting the exact same copy-and-paste version of the concert.

The night I went, the surprise guest was Lionel Richie.

And that was crazy.

Because you are already at the Kia Forum, this legendary venue with all this history, watching one of the biggest pop stars in the world right now, and then Lionel Richie just walks out like it is nothing. It felt very Los Angeles in the best way.

It was one of those moments where the whole crowd immediately understood, "Oh, this is special." It was not just a random guest. It was one of those real arena moments where you feel lucky you happened to be at that specific show on that specific night.

By the time the concert reached "Houdini," it felt like the perfect ending. The song already has that slick, disappearing-act energy to it, so for her to end on that and literally disappear from the stage was a great final touch.

It was theatrical without being cheesy.

It was pop without feeling shallow.

It was polished without feeling lifeless.

That is really the best way I can describe Dua Lipa as an artist. She understands the music, the visuals, the fashion, the dancing, and the feeling of the show. She has range, and she knows how to build a world around her songs.

Dua Lipa's Radical Optimism Tour was glamorous, confident, cinematic, and completely controlled in the best way.

It was arena pop done right.

And watching it from the floor of the Kia Forum, surrounded by lights, fire, dancers, history, and thousands of fans, it made complete sense why Dua Lipa has become one of the defining pop artists of this generation.

She is not just having a moment.

She is building a legacy.

Photographing Linkin Park was one of those assignments where I did not need some long personal backstory to justify why it mattered.

It is Linkin Park.

That is enough.

I am not going to sit here and pretend I know every deep cut or that I grew up as the biggest Linkin Park fan in the world. I really know the hits. But that is also the point. Linkin Park is one of those bands where even if you only know the hits, you still know the songs. You know the sound. You know the energy. You know the impact.

They are a legendary band.

So when I got approved for photo credentials, it was still a big deal for me.

This was also my first time getting approved for concert credentials at Mortgage Matchup Center, which made the night feel even more important professionally. Every venue you get approved for matters. Every pit you walk into matters. Every new credential feels like one more door opening.

And for me, this was another one of those moments where I could feel myself moving forward.

The funny thing is, the song I was probably most excited to hear was "What I've Done."

Because ever since Transformers, that song has just had a different kind of feeling to it. If you know, you know. There are certain songs that are already big, and then a movie attaches an image to them forever. "What I've Done" is one of those songs for me.

The second I think of that track, I think of that ending.

That final shot.

That feeling of being a kid and hearing Linkin Park blast over something that felt larger than life.

So yeah, I wanted to hear that live.

Visually, the show gave me a lot to work with.

It was not the same kind of dark, ritualistic stadium world as The Weeknd. It was not the giant planet, spectacle-driven world of YE. Linkin Park felt more direct. More performance-based. More about the band, the lights, the smoke, the instruments, and the emotion of the songs.

The lighting had a colder feel at times, with blues, purples, and greens cutting through the haze. Then it would shift into these warmer, orange-heavy moments where the whole stage felt like it was glowing behind the performers. The smoke helped soften everything and gave the photos that layered concert look I always love, where the artist is sharp but the atmosphere around them feels alive.

That is what I liked about shooting this show.

It felt clean, but still cinematic.

There were moments at the piano that felt intimate. Moments with the vocalist standing in blue smoke that felt huge and emotional. Moments where the stage lights turned the performers into silhouettes. Moments where the guitars and drums gave the photos more movement and edge.

And then there were the wide shots.

Those were some of my favorite moments visually because you could see the full stage design: the long overhead lighting rig, the smoke rising up, the bright beams cutting down, and the band framed underneath it all. From a photography standpoint, that kind of setup gives you scale without needing to overcomplicate the image.

Sometimes the best concert photos are not the loudest ones.

Sometimes it is just the right light, the right smoke, the right gesture, and the right moment.

That is what I was chasing.

The cool thing about photographing a band like Linkin Park is that their music already carries so much weight for people. Even if you are not the most die-hard fan, you can feel how much the songs mean in the room. You can feel it when the crowd reacts. You can feel it when the hits start. You can feel it when people are singing along like these songs have been part of their lives for years.

That is the power of a band with a real legacy.

They do not have to prove why they matter.

The crowd already knows.

For me, this show was another reminder of how much I love doing this. Not every article has to be some huge emotional essay. Not every concert has to connect back to my entire life story. Sometimes it is simply: I got approved to photograph a legendary band, I stepped into the pit, I did the job, and I walked away with photos I was proud of.

And honestly, that is enough.

Linkin Park at Mortgage Matchup Center was a clean, powerful, professional milestone for me.

Another credential.

Another pit.

Another gallery.

Another reminder that I am still building this thing, one show at a time.

I remember sitting in the locker room in high school after a brutal football practice—sore, drenched in sweat, and half-listening to whatever was playing through someone's portable speaker. Then it happened. One of my teammates queued up a song I had never heard before: "White Iverson" by Post Malone. There are only a few times in life when a song stops you in your tracks—when your whole body just listens. That was one of them. Something about his voice, the melody, the vibe—it didn't sound like anything else at the time. Ever since that moment, I've kept an eye on Post Malone.

I wouldn't call myself a die-hard fan—I haven't dissected every track or memorized all his lyrics—but I've always paid attention. Post Malone is one of those artists who commands interest with every new drop. Whether it's what's playing on the radio or a feature on someone else's song, I'm always curious about what he's doing next. And that curiosity paid off in full when I had the privilege of seeing him live.

Watching Post Malone perform at State Farm Stadium was more than just a concert—it was a full-circle moment. There he was, a decade after his breakout, standing in front of tens of thousands, and he sounded exactly like he did in my headphones all those years ago. His voice—raw, raspy, melodic—is still one of the most distinctive in the industry. But what stood out even more was the crowd.

Post was introduced to the world as a hip-hop artist, but he's grown into something far bigger—genre-less, boundary-pushing, and unmistakably him. His recent lean into country influences isn't just a phase; it's a natural evolution. Half the crowd looked like they were headed to a rodeo, and honestly, it fit. The entire night felt like a celebration of that fusion—hip-hop roots with acoustic soul, swagger mixed with sincerity.

What makes Post Malone special isn't just his versatility—it's his spirit. There's a friendliness about him that's rare in artists at his level. He's constantly smiling, showing love to fans, cracking jokes in interviews, and never seeming to take himself too seriously. That humility is disarming. In person, that same energy radiates off of him. I caught dozens of moments where he was connecting with the crowd, smiling ear-to-ear, raising a beer, or locking eyes with someone in the pit. He gives the impression that he's genuinely grateful to be there—and that's powerful.

Breaking into the music industry is one thing. Staying relevant for a decade is something else entirely. Very few artists make it past that ten-year mark with their reputation, talent, and evolution still intact. Post Malone has not only done that—he's made it look effortless. And if his current trajectory is any indicator, he's just getting started.

Post Malone may not be everyone's number one artist—but he's everyone's somebody. That in itself is legendary.

Seeing The Weeknd live was one thing.

Photographing The Weeknd from the photo pit on the opening night of his stadium tour in my hometown was something completely different.

This was one of those moments in my concert photography career where I had to pause and really take it in. Like, holy shit, this is big.

Not in an "I made it" kind of way.

More like, I am making it.

I am making this happen by myself.

When I saw the email saying I was approved for photo pit credentials for The Weeknd, I just sat there for a second. I was not screaming. I was not jumping around. I just had this quiet moment to myself like, yeah, I am making big moves now.

Because it is The Weeknd.

Opening night of his stadium tour.

State Farm Stadium.

Arizona.

That is a big deal.

State Farm Stadium is special to me because I have memories there. I would occasionally go to Cardinals games growing up, maybe once every other year, and usually it was when the Bears were in town. Every time I went, I was in the nosebleeds.

The only time I remember getting close to the field was one game where the Cardinals were getting blown out. More than half the stadium was already gone, and the security guard kind of stopped caring, so they were letting people move down closer.

So we went down.

And I remember thinking, this is insane.

I am so close I can smell the grass.

And we were still probably 15 rows up.

But to me, that felt close.

That was the closest I had ever been to the field.

So to fast-forward 10 or 15 years later and now I am being professionally escorted through the tunnels of that same stadium, walking through the guts of the building, stepping onto the floor, and heading into the photo pit to photograph The Weeknd — that is a full-circle moment.

Because I remember being that kid in the nosebleeds.

And now I am walking onto that same floor with a camera in my hand.

That is surreal.

The Weeknd is one of those artists I knew I had to see at least once. His voice is too iconic. His catalog is too strong. And if there is one voice I wish I had as a performer, it is Abel Tesfaye's.

That voice is ridiculous.

There is something about his voice that just sounds cinematic. It is smooth, haunting, emotional, and powerful all at the same time. He can make heartbreak sound expensive. He can make a stadium feel like a nightclub, a movie, and a dream all at once.

And visually, this show matched that feeling.

Before The Weeknd even came out, the whole atmosphere already felt like we were being pulled into some kind of dark, exclusive world.

The masks. The robes. The red lighting. The smoke. The fire. The cityscape. The way Mike Dean's synths filled the stadium.

It all had this eerie, cinematic, almost ritual-like feeling to it.

It had this Eyes Wide Shut energy.

Not in a cheap way.

It felt polished. Strange. Expensive. Mysterious. Almost like you had walked into some secret underworld meeting where fame, heartbreak, sin, luxury, and destruction were all part of the same world.

The red-robed figures looked almost ritualistic. The metallic masks made them feel faceless and intimidating. The stage looked like a ruined city. The fire visuals behind him made everything feel apocalyptic. The light behind him was so bright and violent at times that it looked like he was standing in front of an explosion, or like the sun was burning directly behind him.

Then The Weeknd came out masked and cloaked, surrounded by that blinding white and orange light, and everything clicked.

This was not just him walking on stage and singing songs.

This was a whole world.

Every flame, every costume, every visual, every shadow, every synth, and every masked figure felt like it belonged there. Nothing felt random. It all felt connected to the atmosphere he was building.

And as a photographer, that is the kind of show you dream about.

You want light. You want atmosphere. You want costume. You want scale. You want something that feels bigger than just a person holding a microphone.

This show had all of that.

The first 15 minutes were intense because when you are in the photo pit, you do not have time to overthink. You get the first three songs or the first 15 minutes, whatever comes first, and then that is it. You either get the shots or you do not.

And I knew I could not waste that opportunity.

The whites were almost blinding. The oranges looked like fire. The reds felt deep and dramatic. His mask kept catching the light in this wild way, almost like his face had its own glow. The cloak gave him this phantom-like presence. Every time he raised his hand or walked across the stage, it looked like a frame from a movie.

I remember being in the pit and just locking in.

I was watching how he moved. Watching the light. Watching the smoke. Trying to time the fire visuals behind him. Trying not to miss the moments where the mask caught the light just right.

Trying to make sure I left with something worthy of the moment.

And honestly, I felt like I did.

That was one of the biggest personal takeaways from the night. I was standing in the photo pit with photographers whose work I had seen on Instagram for years. Bigger names. Bigger followings. More experience.

And I was right there with them.

That night gave me confidence.

Not arrogance.

Confidence.

There is a difference.

I have worked hard to get into these spaces. I have built my portfolio from the ground up. I have shot shows from the crowd. I have shot from seats. I have waited in lines. I have saved money for tickets. I have made the best out of whatever access I had.

So to finally be in the photo pit for The Weeknd at State Farm Stadium, on opening night, in my hometown, with my professional gear in my hands, that meant something.

That felt like proof.

Like, yeah, I am meant to be here.

I am always hard on myself. Even when I get something good, I still look at it and think about what I could have done better. That is just how I am. But after this show, I felt really good about myself.

At that time, I felt like I had taken my favorite concert photography photo I had ever shot.

Not because every photo was perfect. Not because I suddenly thought I was better than anyone. But because I knew I had stepped into a major moment and made something I was genuinely proud of. I had a photo that felt like a real turning point for me. A photo that made me feel like all the work, all the practice, all the denied credentials, all the crowd shots, all the long nights editing, and all the times I had to figure it out on my own were starting to add up.

That is a good feeling.

And I let myself feel it.

The funny thing is, I had originally bought a ticket too.

So after I finished photographing from the pit, the people escorting the photographers told us that once they brought us back, they were closing up their office. Basically, if we had a ticket and wanted to go back into the show, we had to put our professional gear away first.

So I had to run back to my car.

And my car was not close.

My car was literally about a mile away from the stadium.

I had to leave the building, run a mile back to the parking lot, put my professional camera equipment away, and then run another mile back to the stadium to get inside with my ticket.

And the whole time, I could hear the show echoing from State Farm Stadium.

Hit song after hit song was blasting from inside while I was outside running through the parking lot. I could hear the music bouncing through the air, and it just made me run harder because all I could think was, oh my God, I am missing it. I am missing it. Get back in there.

That is the stressful part people do not always see.

You get the credential. You get the pit access. You get the professional moment. And then you are still sprinting a mile to your car, putting your gear away, sprinting a mile back, trying to get through security again, trying not to miss the show, and trying to keep your brain locked in because you still have more work to do.

Because for me, I obviously love concerts. I love music. I love being there. I love the energy. I love the experience.

But during the actual show, I am not really enjoying it in the way a normal fan gets to enjoy it. My mind is locked in on getting the shots. I am thinking about positioning myself. I am thinking about angles. I am thinking about where I need to move next. I am thinking about how to tell the story of the show visually.

In the moment, it is quite stressful.

But it is worth it every single time.

It is worth it when you are done editing, when you finally see the final gallery, when you post the work, and when you realize those photos are going to last forever. Long after the show is over, long after the lights go down, long after everyone leaves the stadium, you still have the images.

Till the day you die, you will have those photos.

That is what makes it worth it.

So once I finally got back inside, I pulled out my point-and-shoot and got back to work.

That was the second half of the night for me.

From the pit, I got the professional, up-close version of the show. I got The Weeknd masked and cloaked under those intense lights. I got the fire. I got the smoke. I got the close angles. I got the drama of those first few songs.

From my seat, I got to step back and see the entire world he built.

The cityscape. The fire. The red-robed figures. The masks. The smoke. The lights cutting through the darkness. The crowd. The full scale of the stadium.

I started making my way around, looking for different angles, trying to capture what the show actually felt like from inside the building. Because that is the thing about concert photography. Sometimes the best photo is not just the closest photo. Sometimes the best photo is the one that shows the world of the show.

And The Weeknd's world was insane.

From up there, the show looked massive. It looked like some dark luxury nightmare. The stage had this fallen-city look to it, like a destroyed version of Vegas or some corrupted dream world. The fire visuals made everything feel dangerous. The red figures looked like they were part of a ceremony. The bright lights would hit so hard that The Weeknd looked like he was standing inside a sunrise, an explosion, or the end of the world.

That is what made the show so visually interesting.

It did not feel like a normal stadium concert. It felt like a movie. It felt nocturnal. It felt cinematic. It felt seductive. It felt apocalyptic. It felt expensive.

The Weeknd knows how to build a world. That was probably my biggest takeaway from the show itself. He is not just performing songs. He is performing an atmosphere. You know what his world feels like. You know the colors. You know the mood. You know the danger. You know the glamour. You know the sadness underneath all of it.

And at State Farm Stadium, that world was blown up to stadium size.

His voice carried through the whole place like it belonged there. It did not feel swallowed by the production. If anything, the production felt built around the voice. The fire, the lights, the masks, the robes, the city, the synths — all of it existed to support that sound.

That is why his music works so well live.

His songs already feel cinematic. They already feel late-night. They already feel dramatic. So when you put them inside a stadium with that kind of production, everything expands.

It becomes bigger. Darker. More intense. More immersive.

And for me, this show was not just about seeing The Weeknd.

It was about photographing The Weeknd.

It was about getting that email. It was about walking through the tunnels of a stadium I had only experienced from the nosebleeds. It was about stepping onto a floor I used to look at from far away. It was about standing in the photo pit next to photographers I had seen online for years. It was about sprinting a mile back to my car with the music echoing behind me. It was about sprinting a mile back to the stadium, getting inside, pulling out my point-and-shoot, and continuing to work the show.

It was about realizing I was not just trying to get into the room anymore.

I was in it.

I was part of it.

And that is a different kind of feeling.

When you are trying to break into concert photography, so much of it feels impossible from the outside. It feels like this secret industry where nobody gives you the map. Nobody tells you exactly how anything works. Nobody just opens the door for you.

And honestly, it can feel like people do not always want to help you get there either.

Concert photography is competitive. Access is limited. Credentials are limited. Opportunities are limited. Because of that, some people become protective of their spot. They may not say it directly, but you can feel it. Not everyone wants to share information. Not everyone wants to open the door behind them. Not everyone wants to see someone new start climbing toward the same rooms they worked so hard to get into.

And I get it.

This industry is hard.

But that also means you have to keep pushing anyway.

You have to keep building, keep shooting, keep asking, keep getting denied, keep trying again, and keep proving that you belong. You have to make the best out of whatever access you have until better access starts opening up.

Then one day you get approved to photograph The Weeknd on the opening night of a stadium tour in your hometown.

And you realize all that work is starting to turn into something real.

That is why this night mattered to me.

It was not just a concert review. It was not just a photo gallery. It was a turning point.

A holy shit, I am really making this happen kind of moment.

And I know there is still a long way to go. I know there are bigger shows, bigger goals, bigger artists, bigger publications, bigger rooms, and bigger opportunities ahead. But this was one of those nights where I could actually feel the progress.

The Weeknd at State Farm Stadium made me feel like I was stepping into the next version of myself as a concert photographer.

And that is something I will never forget.

How I saw Billie Eilish was actually bittersweet.

I was not originally supposed to be at the Hit Me Hard and Soft Tour. I originally had tickets to see Kid Cudi and Childish Gambino, and those were not just random artists to me.

Growing up, Kid Cudi and Childish Gambino were idols of mine. I absolutely loved their music. Their albums and songs were some of the first I bought when I got my first smartphone and started downloading music on iTunes.

There are certain songs you hear for the first time that just stop you in your tracks.

Kid Cudi's "Pursuit of Happiness" did that for me.

Childish Gambino's "Bonfire" hit me like that too.

"Bonfire" was my anthem in middle school. I remember putting on my orange Studio Beats headphones, getting off the school bus, dropping my backpack, pointing at the bus driver, and racing the bus from the start of my cul-de-sac all the way to the end.

The bus driver would laugh. Some kids would laugh. Some kids would cheer me on. Some kids probably thought, "What the fuck is wrong with this kid?"

But I did not care.

That became my ritual almost every day.

Get off the bus. Drop the backpack. Point to the bus driver. Race the bus. Win.

And of course I would win.

There was always something about "Bonfire" that got my adrenaline flowing. I would be sprinting down the cul-de-sac with that song blasting in my headphones, fantasizing about rapping it on stage like I was already some kind of performer in my head.

That is how much that music meant to me.

I was really into Kid Cudi too. Man on the Moon part one and two and Indicud were all huge for me. Those first few albums were instant classics in my life, so I was genuinely excited to finally see him live.

And with Childish Gambino, I brag about this anytime it comes up, but I knew who he was before anyone else. I knew this guy when he was just Donald Glover making comedy sketches with Derrick Comedy while he was at NYU.

Don't know what Derrick Comedy is?

That is my point.

YouTube it. You'll thank me later.

So when Kid Cudi canceled after breaking his foot jumping offstage at Coachella, and then Childish Gambino canceled because of a health issue, I was devastated.

The odds of both of them canceling within the same week were just insane.

Jesus, man. Can a guy catch a break?

But since I had 110% money-back guarantees for both tickets, I technically had equity in my tickets now.

Then Billie Eilish announced she was bringing the Hit Me Hard and Soft Tour to town.

Now, I am not going to pretend I was some massive Billie Eilish fan going into this. I would not even say I was a fan-fan. Not that I had anything against her as a person or as an artist. I just was not someone who had listened to all of her music, knew every song word for word, or listened to all of her albums beginning to end.

But she's Billie freaking Eilish.

You know what I'm saying?

Like, I had to see her.

Even if I was not a die-hard fan, she is one of those artists you know you have to experience at least once. So when the opportunity came up, especially after having that ticket equity from Kid Cudi and Childish Gambino, I used it and invested it into Billie Eilish tickets.

The other thing with Billie Eilish is that she does not really give out photo credentials like that.

At least not to people like me yet.

And it is not even like, "Oh, just freelance for a publication and you can get in." No. Even if you are shooting for a real outlet, a radio station, a newspaper, or an actual publication, Billie Eilish is not one of those artists where media access is easy to get.

To photograph her officially, you have to be high, high, high up in that space. You basically have to be working at the highest level, connected to a major outlet, or know the right people personally to even have a real shot at photographing her show.

But I am not going to let that stop me.

When I saw the layout of her concert, I was actually excited because the stage was 360, meaning I could walk around the floor and get shots from different angles throughout the night. That is one of the best things about a setup like that. You are not stuck in one spot. You can move, adjust, study the light, study where she is going, and try to make the most out of the access you do have.

And this is the part people do not always understand.

When I go to these shows, I enjoy them, but I am not really going there to relax.

I view them as work.

And I do not mean that in a negative way. I love doing this. But shooting concerts from the crowd is stressful.

You have to buy tickets, which are not cheap. You have to work your way into being able to afford those tickets. You have to wait in line for hours so you can get close enough to have a real chance at good photos. You have to invest in a point-and-shoot camera you are actually allowed to bring into the venue. Then you have to pray you do not get stopped by a security guard who does not know the rules, even when the venue clearly says that type of camera is allowed.

And yes, unfortunately, that has happened more than once.

I have literally had to talk to the head of security about it before, and luckily they knew the rules. But if you are ever in that situation reading this, always be respectful and keep your cool. Getting angry is not going to help you get inside with your camera.

Then once you are inside, you are not just standing there casually enjoying the show. You are stressed the whole night about getting the photos. You are pulling up the setlist. You are studying which song is coming next. You are thinking about where to position yourself. You are watching the lighting. You are studying other people's photos and videos from earlier tour dates so you can get an idea of what the show is going to look like before you even get there.

Side note, and I am just going to be honest here, I am not one of those guys who feels the need to hit on every girl he sees or impress every girl who makes eye contact with him. That is not really my thing.

But I will say this.

That Billie Eilish crowd had some of the most attractive women I have ever seen in my life.

Like, bro, it was ridiculous.

Anyway, back to the actual show.

When Billie came out, the stage had this giant cube-like box sitting in the center. It almost felt like this mysterious object dropped into the middle of the arena. Then she came up from underneath it, the box lifted, and there she was performing inside of it.

That was already cool visually, but what impressed me right away was how she sounded.

Billie Eilish is one of those artists who sounds exactly like she does on the record.

Whether you hear her in the car, on the radio, in your headphones, or live in an arena, her voice is the same. That soft, quiet, whispery, emotional tone she is known for is not studio magic. She really sounds like that.

Her voice is that good.

And the crazy part is, even in a massive arena, she still somehow makes it feel intimate. That is probably one of the hardest things to do as an artist. A lot of performers can make an arena feel big. Billie can make an arena feel small.

That is a different kind of power.

The most impressive thing I witnessed all night was when she did the live loop with her voice.

She told the crowd she wanted to do something, but it would only work if everyone was completely quiet. Immediately, the whole arena understood the assignment.

Everyone got silent.

Of course, there is always that one person who has to make the moment about themselves and scream something because they are desperate for attention. But the second air left that person's mouth, the entire crowd shushed them down instantly.

It was actually hilarious.

Then Billie did it.

She started looping her own voice in real time, building the sound layer by layer, and then sang over it.

It was beautiful.

I had never seen anything like that live before. It was one of those moments where the crowd was not just watching her perform. We were part of the performance because the silence mattered. Everybody had to participate by doing nothing, and somehow that made the moment even stronger.

That is what I liked about the show.

It was not just loud arena spectacle the whole time. There were big lights, pyrotechnics, confetti, stage design, and all of that, but there were also these quiet moments where the entire room had to lock in and actually listen.

And when Billie asks people to listen, they listen.

That is rare.

Another funny moment was when she played "Guess," the Charli XCX song she is featured on.

This was right around the height of the Brat era, when the "Guess" music video had recently dropped and that song was red hot. So when it came on, the crowd lost it.

And standing to my right were these two girls who looked like they were maybe 12 years old, with absolutely no parental supervision in sight, screaming that song word for word.

I was just looking around like, where is your mother?

Because if you know the song, you know why that was funny.

But that is also what made the crowd interesting. Billie's fanbase is intense. They know every lyric, every sound, every little movement. Some artists have casual crowds. Billie has a crowd that feels emotionally attached to her. You can tell a lot of these fans did not just come to hear hits. They came because her music means something to them.

And even as someone who was not a huge fan going in, I could respect that.

Billie also impressed me because she is not just a singer. She plays guitar. She plays piano. She moves around the stage. She talks to the crowd. She knows how to let a moment breathe. She does not have to overperform to hold people's attention.

There is something very genuine about her.

You can tell she cares. She cares about the music. She cares about people. She cares about issues. She cares about how the show feels. She comes across like someone who is extremely famous but still very human, which is probably one of the reasons people connect with her so deeply.

And yes, this was the show where she got hit in the face with a bracelet.

That moment was wild because I was standing in the direction she was facing. I remember seeing the bracelet fly through the air out of the corner of my eye, almost in slow motion, and then it just drilled her in the face.

And she handled it like a pro.

She did not stop the show. She did not freak out. She did not go off on the crowd. She kind of grabbed it, threw it offstage with this annoyed, passive-aggressive energy, and just kept singing like nothing happened.

That was honestly one of the most impressive things of the night to me.

Because I put myself in her shoes. You are in front of an entire arena, fully immersed in the song, the crowd is quiet, the moment is emotional, and then boom, something hits you in the face.

Me personally, bro, that would really upset me.

That would completely throw me off.

But Billie did not miss a beat.

She kept going.

That says a lot about her as a performer.

The show itself had a really strong visual identity too. The giant cube in the middle of the stage, the lights, the shadows, the darker atmosphere, the confetti, the fire, the crowd surrounding her — everything fit the world of Hit Me Hard and Soft.

That album title is honestly a perfect description of her live show.

There were moments that hit soft.

The quiet vocals. The piano. The live loop. The way the whole arena would go silent just to hear her breathe between notes.

Then there were moments that hit hard.

The lights. The bass. The crowd screaming. The pyrotechnics. The entire arena lighting up around her. The shift from whisper to explosion.

That balance is what makes Billie different.

She does not need to be the loudest person in the room to command it. She can be quiet and still make thousands of people lean in.

And now this tour even has its own 3D concert film co-directed by James Cameron and Billie Eilish, which is crazy. I have not seen it yet, but I experienced the show live, so part of me is like, do I really have to?

I probably still will.

But being there in person, seeing it unfold in real time, already felt cinematic. You could tell the show was built with that kind of visual scale in mind. The stage design, the lighting, the way she moved through the space, the way the crowd wrapped around everything — it already felt like something that could be turned into a film.

I walked into the night as someone who respected Billie Eilish more than I actively listened to her.

I walked out understanding the hype a lot more.

She is not just popular because of an aesthetic. She is not just famous because she is different. She is genuinely talented. Her voice is incredible. Her control is impressive. Her fan connection is real. And the way she can make a massive arena feel personal is something not every artist can do.

But for me, this night was not just about walking out as a bigger Billie Eilish fan.

It was also another reminder of how hard this concert photography really is.

People see the final photos and think it just happened. They do not see the long hours at work that go into saving for these tickets. They do not see you working seven days a week, working weekends, freelancing, and doing what you have to do to afford the ticket, the camera, and the opportunity.

They do not see you waiting hours in line, being on your feet all day, studying the setlist, studying the stage layout, moving around the floor, watching the lights, shooting thousands of frames, and then spending the same amount of time, if not more, editing the photos afterward.

They do not see you go through thousands of photos just to build one strong gallery.

And then, after all of that, you join Facebook networking groups for concert photography, post your work, and get backhanded compliments from smug people saying things like, "These are pretty good for crowd shots."

Or someone will literally comment, "Yeah, there is nothing here I would keep or use."

Thanks, dick.

That is the part of this industry that gets old.

If the photo is not from the pit, some people act like it does not count. Like you are just a poser. Like all the work you put into getting that image means nothing because you were not wearing the official wristband.

But an amazing shot is an amazing shot.

Period.

Whether it is from the pit, credentialed, five feet away from the artist, or all the way up in the nosebleeds getting an amazing wide shot that shows off the entire atmosphere, the shot either works or it does not.

And if it works, it works.

Because at the end of the day, haters are going to hate, and creatives are going to create.

If you are reading this and wondering how I do it, this is how.

Because gatekeeping is real, but so is putting in the work.

It is not easy. There is a level you have to perform at. There is a level of sacrifice required, especially when you are working class and starting from the ground up with no connections, no wealth, no private school pipeline, no parents making phone calls, and no one handing you access.

You have to build it yourself.

You have to keep showing up.

You have to keep creating even when people discount you, critique you, write you off, or try to make you feel like what you are doing does not count.

Anyone trying to get into concert photography, do not let those smug photographers bring you down.

This is a hard industry to break into.

If you got an amazing shot from the crowd, then you got an amazing shot.

Period.

Because those good shots you get from the crowd will eventually get you perfect shots from the pit.

I have always had a thing for British culture.

British shows, British music, British humor, British girls — I don't know, bro, there has always just been something about it that pulls me in.

When I first got into the show "Normal People", I completely fell in love with it because of how relatable it felt to me. Yes, I know Normal People is filmed and set in Ireland, but Daisy Edgar-Jones is a British actress, and it still connects to that whole UK world I have always been drawn to.

Her performance as Marianne Sheridan really stuck with me.

And what is interesting is, when I actually stop and think about it, a lot of the characters I relate to the most are female characters.

Beth Harmon from The Queen's Gambit. Olive Penderghast from Easy A. Marianne Sheridan from Normal People.

What does this have to do with Charli XCX?

Be patient. I promise it all connects.

I relate to Beth Harmon because she is brilliant at what she does, but she is also trying to survive in a world where arrogant, ignorant men constantly make her feel lesser than because she is a woman. It is already hard enough to be great at something. It is already hard enough to become elite at a craft. But to do that while people underestimate you, talk down to you, and act like you do not belong adds a whole other level to it.

And I relate to that in my own way.

For me, it is not chess. It is photography, videography, filmmaking, writing, and all the creative shit I am trying to build. And in my world, I am constantly surrounded by nepo babies. Everywhere I look, it is like, "How did you get that internship?" and the answer is, "Oh, my aunt knows someone in athletics," or "My dad works in professional baseball," or "My family has connections," or "My aunt is on the Rose Bowl committee, so I got to photograph the Granddaddy of Them All."

Meanwhile, I am over here trying to figure everything out from scratch.

No rich family. No private school pipeline. No aunt making calls. No dad opening doors. No one handing me sideline access just because of my last name.

And what makes it even more frustrating is how arrogant some of them are about it. They act like they earned everything by themselves, but then you look a little deeper and realize they had connections I could only dream of. Some of them post more photos of themselves on the sideline holding a camera than actual photos from the event they were there to cover.

That is the part I relate to.

Beth Harmon has to deal with people acting like she does not belong in the room, even though she is brilliant. I have had to deal with people who were handed access acting like they are better than me, while I am fighting my way into the same rooms without the money, the connections, or the safety net.

At some point, you either let that bitterness eat you alive, or you turn it into fuel.

For me, it became, "Fuck it. I am going to be great even if everything is stacked against me."

Because that is the choice I am making. That is the mindset. Fuck you. Fuck that. Fuck this. I am becoming who I want to become anyway.

And honestly, that is something I see in Charli XCX.

She embodies that kind of energy. Not in the same exact way, obviously, but in the way she moves through the world. She makes her own lane. She does not wait for people to understand her. She does not shrink herself to make the industry more comfortable. She is bold, experimental, vulnerable, messy, confident, emotional, and still completely herself.

I relate to Olive Penderghast because I know what it is like to be gossiped about. I know what it is like to be bullied. I know what it is like to be a genuine person and still be viewed as something you are not. But eventually, you realize you are either going to let that break you, or you are going to lean into it when necessary and take away the power people think they have over you.

And then with Marianne, I relate to her emotionally and intellectually. She can come off rash, harsh, or hard to read, but deep down she is vulnerable. She wants deep love. She wants connection. She wants to be understood by someone who actually sees her.

And that is where this all connects back to Charli XCX.

Because Charli has that same thing I connect with.

She is bold yet vulnerable.

She can be brash. She can be loud. She can be cool as fuck. She can party. She can give off this "I do not care what anyone thinks" energy. But then you listen closer, and so many of her songs are about love, insecurity, longing, connection, jealousy, identity, and wanting to feel something real.

And that is me.

I can be bold. I can be intense. I can want to party and act like I do not give a fuck. But at the same time, I want love. I want connection. I want to feel something. I want the real thing.

That is why Charli hit me so hard.

She is not just chaos.

She is feeling underneath the chaos.

So anyway, how did I even get here?

After discovering Normal People, I followed Daisy Edgar-Jones on Instagram. I will never forget this. I was in Pennsylvania visiting my grandparents, lying in bed in the middle of the night, doomscrolling because I could not sleep, when I saw this reel she made from Glastonbury. It was this beautiful, chaotic, fun little edit, and the song playing over it was "Guess."

I heard the lyrics and immediately had that meme reaction of, "Wait… what did she saaaaaay?"

So I looked at the artist.

Charli XCX.

And I was like, "Wait a minute… the 'Boom Clap' girl?"

Because that was honestly all I really knew her from at the time. I remembered "Boom Clap" being huge like 10 years ago. To me, she was big for a summer, she was everywhere, and then boom, in my mind, she was gone. I just kind of thought of her as a one-hit wonder.

And then I discovered Brat.

That summer officially became Brat Summer for me.

I listened to the album all the way through, and I was completely amazed by how much I related to it. I fell in love with the album, and honestly, I fell in love with Charli as an artist. I could not believe I had slept on Charli XCX for 10 years.

Like, where the hell had I been?

I love music. I think I have great taste. I love artists who push boundaries. But I was sitting there like, holy shit, bro, this girl is amazing.

So I went through her entire discography.

And very quickly, Charli XCX became my second favorite artist right behind Kanye.

That is how fast it happened.

There is just something about Charli XCX.

Or to say it the more dramatic French way, she has that je ne sais quoi. That thing you cannot fully explain, but you feel it. Her natural beauty, her attitude, her confidence, her humor, her vulnerability, her chaos — all of it.

I fancy Charli XCX. I am not even going to pretend I do not.

But it is not just because she is beautiful. It is the whole energy. She feels bold yet vulnerable, and that is exactly what I connected with so much.

That is also why Brat hit me the way it did. The album is so in-your-face, so cool, so "I do not give a fuck," but then it can turn around and go to the most vulnerable places about insecurity, friendship, jealousy, identity, confidence, and wanting to be seen.

And I was like, fuck, bro. That is me.

Bold, but vulnerable.

That is Charli to me.

Her music videos are amazing too. "Guess" featuring Billie Eilish is probably one of the hottest music videos I have ever seen. I am just being honest. The visuals, the attitude, the chemistry, the whole thing — it was insane. Even now, I still think that video holds up as one of the most iconic visuals from the Brat era.

That was another thing that pulled me deeper into Charli's world. It was not just the music. It was the visuals, the editing, the fashion, the attitude, the internet culture, and the way everything felt messy and polished at the same time.

I know Charli has said she does not really follow astrology like that, but she was born August 2, and I was born August 20, so we are both August babies and we both have a two in our birthdates. That probably means nothing to her, but it means something to me. I just think it is cool.

So as soon as I finished listening to Brat, of course I checked for tickets.

And sure enough, the Sweat Tour was coming to Phoenix.

Even crazier, compared to other floor ticket prices I have seen, these were actually extremely reasonable. Like, shockingly reasonable. So I got my ticket, ordered my Brat shirt, started wearing the cool dark sunglasses, started letting my long curly hair down more, and just fully leaned into it.

I was all bratted out.

I was jamming the fuck out to this album and honestly did not care what anyone thought. Because let's be real, Charli's demographic is mostly girls and gay dudes, and I knew there might be some stigma around me being this straight guy losing his mind over Charli XCX.

But I did not care.

Good music is good fucking music.

And I related to her too much to pretend I did not.

I was ecstatic for this concert. I think it was the most excited I had been for a show in a long time. There was just something about it that felt like the stars were aligning.

And then, to make it even crazier, Charli was in Chicago a couple nights before Phoenix and was photographed wearing a Walter Payton jersey.

As a Chicago Bears fan, that already had me hyped.

Then the same day Charli came to Phoenix, the Chicago Bears were playing the Jacksonville Jaguars in London for the NFL London Series. And this matters to me because I have always loved London. In 2019, just a few months before the world shut down from COVID-19, I took my mum to London to see the Bears play the Raiders.

So now Charli is wearing a Walter Payton jersey in Chicago, the Bears are playing in London the same day she is coming to Phoenix, and I am going to the Sweat Tour fully bratted out.

And I was like, "Bro… is this really happening? Is this all for me?"

Obviously, it was not all for me.

But it felt like it.

When I got to the show, I was right there. Front row. Smack dab against the barricade.

But that did not happen by accident.

Charli was not giving out photo credentials like that. From what I could tell, her official tour photographer, Henry Redcliffe, had the only real credentialed access to photograph the show.

So it was not like I could just pull up with a professional camera, walk into the pit, and shoot like a normal credentialed concert.

But honestly, that did not stop me.

Because bro, I refuse to lose.

I have that "I am going to fucking make it work" mentality. If I cannot get credentialed, then I am going to buy a ticket. If I have to wait in line for hours to be front row in the pit, then I am going to wait in line for hours. If they will not let me bring in my professional camera, then I am going to bring in my Sony Cyber-shot RX100 VII. If I cannot get official access, then I am going to get as close as I can and create my own opportunity.

That is just how I am.

And in a weird way, that felt connected to Charli too. She made her own lane, so I was going to make my own way.

It was one of my first times bringing my Sony Cyber-shot RX100 VII to a concert, and I could not wait to see what kind of photos I could get with it.

Before the show started, I was talking to the people around me, making friends like I usually do at concerts. One gay guy next to me started laughing, but not in a cruel way. It was more like he was laughing with me.

I was like, "What?"

And he goes, "Bro, look around."

So I looked around.

He was like, "You are the only straight guy on the floor."

And honestly, he might have been right.

It was me in a sea of gays.

But I did not care, bro.

Shoutout to the gays. They know how to party and have a good time, and they are always so friendly to me. I do not know why that is lol.

Anyway, once the lights went down, none of that mattered.

The iconic Brat green curtain was hanging there, glowing under the club lights. The whole arena had this dark, sweaty, neon, underground energy to it. It did not feel like a normal arena show. It felt like someone turned the entire building into a nightclub.

Then boom.

The curtain dropped.

The lights flashed.

Charli appeared as this silhouette in the chaos, and you could feel the whole room snap into it.

"Phoenix, are you ready?"

Then "365" started blasting, Shygirl was right there with her, and the whole place just exploded.

And bro, when I say she turned that shit into a fucking nightclub, I mean that.

She knew the assignment and got extra credit.

The whole show felt like a rave, a club night, a fashion party, a pop concert, and an internet cultural moment all happening at the same time. The bass was hitting. The lights were flashing. The crowd was jumping. Everyone around me was screaming the lyrics. I was jumping up and down with random strangers, just vibing, having a great night, completely locked into the moment.

That is what made it so fun.

It did not feel like everyone was just there to watch Charli perform. It felt like everyone was there to become part of the world she created.

Visually, the show looked exactly how it felt.

Smoke everywhere. Harsh lights cutting through the stage. Charli as a silhouette against clouds of haze. That Brat green popping through the darkness. The scaffolding, the screens, the industrial stage design, the shadows, the hands in the air, the phones lighting up the arena — everything looked like a chaotic underground club had been blown up to arena size.

And for me as a photographer, that was exciting because I was not just taking concert photos. I was trying to turn my concert photos into movie posters. That is the way I see this stuff. It is not just, "Here is a clear photo of the artist." It is mood. It is atmosphere. It is lighting. It is shape. It is energy. It is the world of the show captured in one frame.

That night gave me so much to work with.

I knew pretty much every song word for word, and I was having the time of my life. There are concerts where you are standing there observing the show, and then there are concerts where you completely lose yourself inside of it.

This was one of those.

Honestly, I think the Sweat Tour might be the best concert I have ever been to.

I do not say that lightly.

Travis Scott's Circus Maximus Tour is still one of the craziest live experiences I have ever seen. I mean, I love body-slamming, starting a mosh pit, and just going fucking ham. I love that type of energy. That type of show is insane.

But I give the edge to Charli XCX.

Not because it was bigger or more explosive, but because of what she means to me personally as an artist. Travis gets me hyped. Travis gets me excited. I can throw on his music and feel that crazy energy immediately. And that is not a shot at Travis at all.

That is just my honesty.

But with Charli, I relate to her. I dive deeper into her music, her visuals, her creative process, her history, her vulnerability, her confidence, and the world she creates. She does something for me personally as an artist that hits a different part of me.

So I went into the Sweat Tour with high expectations.

And she matched them.

She gave me a show I will never forget.

It was the combination of everything. What Brat meant to me. What that era meant to me. What Charli meant to me. Being front row. Having my camera with me. The lights. The sweat. The chaos. The crowd. The feeling in the room.

Everything just clicked.

It was one of those shows where you are not just watching it.

You are inside of it.

And then there was Troye Sivan.

I had no idea who Troye Sivan was before this show.

But holy shit, that guy knows how to perform.

His part of the show was extremely sexual, very bold, very confident, and honestly kind of shocking if you were not ready for it. He was doing some wild things with that microphone, but bro, he knew exactly what kind of show he was putting on.

And it worked.

The Sweat Tour was not just Charli doing her set and then Troye doing his set. It felt like two different energies feeding off each other. Charli had that bratty, chaotic, cool-girl, rave-pop thing going on, and Troye brought this very sensual, stylish, queer club energy that made the whole night feel even bigger.

But the way the night ended was what really surprised me.

By the time Troye performed "Rush," I was completely sold.

Honestly, "Rush" might have been my favorite moment of the night.

And what makes that funny is that I had no idea who Troye Sivan was before this show, so hearing "Rush" live as the finale was basically me losing my virginity to that song in the most chaotic way possible lol.

Front row. Whole floor jumping. Hands in the air. Everyone going crazy. Lights flashing. Bodies moving. The entire room fully locked in.

Bro, that shit was crazy.

Sometimes a song makes more sense live than it does when you are just listening to it casually, and "Rush" was one of those songs for me. It was the perfect way to end the night.

It is funny because the show did not even end with Charli, and somehow that made it even more memorable. It felt like the entire night was built around this shared club experience, and by the end, it was less about who was technically closing and more about the energy in the room.

Time flies at shows like that.

You blink, and it is over.

Charli XCX has a special place in my heart now. She has so many bangers, but more than that, she has eras. And I know I talk about eras a lot when I write about artists, but that is what really makes an artist interesting to me. How do they evolve? How do they change? How do they keep becoming new versions of themselves without losing the core of who they are?

Charli has done that.

From "Boom Clap" to Pop 2, from Charli to How I'm Feeling Now, from Crash to Brat, she has always been moving. She has always been experimenting. She has always been ahead of something.

And Brat just hit me at the right time.

It became the soundtrack to my life for that moment. Everything I was going through with friends, family, work, and even a girl I had a crush on at the time — that album was right there with me. It was bold when I needed to feel confident. It was vulnerable when I felt emotional. It was chaotic when life felt chaotic. It was fun when I needed to stop overthinking and just move.

That is why I am so grateful I became a fan during this era.

Charli has also inspired me creatively in a very real way.

One of my favorite things she has ever done is the "Forever" music video from How I'm Feeling Now. If you have not seen it, go check it out. I cannot say it is the first music video of its kind because obviously I have not seen every music video ever made, but for me personally, it was the first time I had seen a music video made like that.

It was this collage of fans, memories, clips, random moments, emotions, and chaos all cut together in a way that felt personal and alive.

And it inspired me to make my own version.

This year is the 10-year anniversary of me graduating high school, and I have been putting together my own "Forever" music video, basically shot-for-shot, but with my own footage and my own life.

And when I say I studied her video, I mean I studied it.

I downloaded the music video, put it into Premiere Pro, and made a cut at every single edit so I could map out exactly where each cut happened. There were hundreds of cuts. Maybe close to a thousand. Maybe I am exaggerating a little bit, but you get the point. It was a fucking lot.

It took me two full days just to cut and organize everything before I even really started building my version.

But that is how dedicated I am to my craft.

And honestly, I think it is one of the best things I have ever made.

I am very hard on myself. I am critical of everything I do. Even looking back at some of the Charli photos I took, I am already like, "I could have done better." Even though when I first posted them, I was like, "Oh my God, these might be some of my favorite concert photos I have ever taken."

That is just how I am.

But Charli continues to inspire me.

After she performed at Coachella in 2025, I was honestly sad for like a week because it felt like the official end of Brat Summer. Or at least the end of Brat as this cultural moment. That album meant a lot to me. That whole era meant a lot to me.

It was more than just music.

It was timing.

It was confidence.

It was identity.

It was the soundtrack to a very specific version of my life.

I am so excited to see what Charli does next — music, fashion, film, whatever. She always finds a way to surprise me.

I am a true Angel now, and I am not ashamed of it.

Even if I am the only straight man on the floor, I will be screaming louder than anyone there.

Charli, if you ever read this, I hope you see the "Forever" video I made on my Instagram. You and YE inspired me to actually go for it, to be bold, to stop second-guessing, and to make the thing I wanted to make.

Thank you for everything.

Green Day's Saviors Tour was more than just a nostalgic trip back through Dookie and American Idiot.

For me, it was a rare full-circle moment — the kind of moment that makes you stop, look around, and realize how far you've actually come.

Green Day was the first concert I ever went to as a kid. Years later, they became the first concert I ever received photo credentials to cover.

That is why this show meant something deeper to me.

This wasn't just about seeing one of the greatest punk-rock bands of all time celebrate two era-defining albums. It was about standing in the photo pit at Chase Field, camera in hand, realizing that the same band my dad surprised me with when I was 12 had somehow become the band that opened the door to my professional concert photography journey.

To really understand why that mattered, you have to understand where it started.

Green Day has always been tied to a very specific part of my childhood.

I remember when American Idiot came out and it felt like they were everywhere. The music videos. The black shirts. The red ties. The eyeliner. The attitude. The whole thing felt like this rebellious, chaotic, cartoonish world that somehow made perfect sense to me as a kid.

I remember hearing Green Day on the radio and immediately yelling from the backseat, "Turn it up!" so I could headbang in the car like I was already in a band or something. I remember watching their music videos on TV and thinking these guys were the coolest people on the planet.

One of my funniest early Green Day memories was at a childhood friend's birthday party. She was a girl, so it was one of those Barbie-type parties where I was one of the only boys there, surrounded by pink decorations, cake, and a bunch of music that was definitely not my vibe.

So, naturally, little me walked up to the DJ like I had some serious request to make.

I was like, "Hey, can you play 'Holiday' by Green Day?"

He just kind of looked at me for a second, like, "Yeah… I don't really think this is that kind of party."

And honestly, he was probably right.

But that was me at that age. If Green Day came on, I was locked in. I didn't care if it was a Barbie party, a car ride, my bedroom, or a random moment on the radio. If I heard that guitar, I was ready.

I remember wearing my first Green Day shirt to school and my best friend getting just as excited as I was, like, "Bro, you got a Green Day shirt?" I remember friends having posters of them in their rooms. I remember friends' older brothers and sisters talking about seeing them live like it was the coolest thing in the world, like they had gone to some secret adult universe I wasn't old enough to fully understand yet.

To me, Green Day wasn't just a band.

They were part of the culture around me as a kid. They were on the radio, on TV, on T-shirts, on bedroom walls, in conversations, and somehow always connected to that feeling of being young, loud, excited, and wanting to feel something bigger than yourself.

Then, in 2009, I had just turned 12.

My birthday is August 20, and my dad's birthday is August 22, so we have always had this unique thing where our birthdays are only two days apart. Because of that, we usually celebrated them together in some way, and that year, I thought we were just going downtown for dinner and to watch a primetime NFL game.

That was the plan.

Or at least that's what I thought the plan was.

As we were walking toward the restaurant, I noticed a huge crowd forming outside US Airways Center in Phoenix — the arena where the Suns played, now known as Mortgage Matchup Center.

I was confused because I knew there wasn't a sporting event that night. The Suns weren't playing. The Mercury weren't playing. So I'm looking around like, "What is going on? Is this a protest? Is something crazy happening?"

My dad said, "Let's go check it out."

So we walked across the street, and I'm standing there as a 12-year-old kid, trying to peek my head through all these adults to figure out what everyone was waiting for. I had no clue what was going on.

Then I turned toward my dad and saw my uncle pull tickets out of his chest pocket and hand them to him.

That's when my dad looked at me and said something like, "Oh, by the way, we're going to a Green Day concert tonight."

I froze.

At that time, that was one of the biggest surprises of my life. I had just turned 12. It was my dad's birthday. Our birthdays were two days apart. And now I was finding out that he surprised me with tickets to see my favorite band.

But the craziest part was, the surprise wasn't even done yet.

Me and my dad were not rich by any means. Anytime we went to events like this, usually sporting events, we sat in the nosebleeds. I remember my first time ever going to a Suns game in that arena, we literally sat in one of the last rows — the cheapest seats we could find.

So when we walked into US Airways Center and started heading toward our seats, I was already amazed when we reached the lower bowl. I was like, "Oh my God, this is the first time I've ever sat lower bowl before."

But we didn't stop there.

We just kept walking.

And walking.

And walking.

Until we reached the last section of the lower bowl, right before the floor. I thought, "Wait, are these front-row seats?"

My dad kind of chuckled and laughed like, "No, son, these are our seats."

Then he handed the tickets to the security guard guarding the stairs from the seats to the floor. She looked at them, looked at us, and said, "Enjoy the show."

Then my dad pointed to the floor and said, "These are our seats."

I didn't even know you could do that.

I didn't know that was an option.

It was my first concert ever, and somehow, I wasn't just seeing Green Day. I was seeing my favorite band from the floor, two days after my birthday, on my dad's birthday, as a surprise from him.

It just kept getting better and better and better.

I remember how loud it was. I remember feeling this combination of fear, anxiety, and excitement because the sound was so overwhelming. It gave me this jittery feeling, but in the best way possible. It was scary, exciting, chaotic, thrilling, and completely alive all at once.

Then I saw my first mosh pit.

My dad put his arms around my chest and kind of leaned over me, pulling me back to protect me whenever the mosh pits broke out. I was far enough away to be safe, but close enough to still feel like I was part of it.

And I just remember watching these grown men body-slamming, headbanging, and crashing into each other like little kids on a playground. It reminded me of how me and my friends would mess around at recess, slamming into each other, throwing ourselves around, whipping our hair back and forth in the car or in my bedroom while jamming out to music.

It was the first time I had really seen adults cut loose like that. I had never seen a mosh pit before. I had never seen random strangers come together and create this organized chaos where everyone somehow understood the rules without anyone explaining them.

It was wild.

It was loud.

It was electric.

And it was my first real taste of what live music could feel like.

Fast forward years later, and I'm walking into Chase Field — not as a kid in the crowd, but as a credentialed photographer covering Green Day.

That's the full-circle moment.

Green Day was my first concert ever, a birthday surprise from my dad on his own birthday, and now Green Day was the first concert I got photo pit credentials to cover.

Despite whatever hardships I was going through at the time, moments like that make me stop, look up, and thank whoever is responsible for something like this. Because it truly is a blessing.

I work my ass off to get here. I know that. But it is still a privilege I never want to take for granted.

That's something that sometimes irritates me about certain career concert photographers who have been doing this for 20 or 30 years. I get it — I'm sure when I'm their age, I'll have moments where I'm tired, annoyed, asking why we have to wait so long, or complaining about logistics. But I hope I never lose the appreciative attitude of, "No, this is still cool. This is still exciting. This is still a pleasure."

Because getting to do something like this is amazing.

When I arrived at Chase Field, I was escorted through the guts of the stadium, which was already surreal to me. I was literally an infant at the first inaugural Diamondbacks game ever, and now here I was, years later, being escorted through the inside of the same stadium for a Green Day concert.

That alone was crazy.

We walked through the dugout, through the crowd, and into the photo pit, waiting for this legendary band to take the stage.

And standing there, my heart was racing.

I had a two-camera setup, and I kept debating what I should do. Do I go wide? Do I go tight? Where do I stand? What lens gives me the best chance?

Then I had one of those gut feelings.

I don't know how else to explain it other than photographer instinct. That Jedi Force feeling. Something in me was like, "Bro, stand right here in this corner of the stage. Go wide. Be ready."

And photographers reading this — if you ever get that feeling in the pit of your stomach, listen to it. Because it is usually right.

As soon as the show started, Billie Joe Armstrong walked to the exact corner of the stage I was standing on. He leaned over the crowd, propped his foot up on one of the speakers, and welcomed Phoenix to the tour.

He was so close to me that if I reached out, I could have touched his shoe.

He was standing over me like a god.

For the first five to ten seconds of the show, I was completely starstruck. My jaw dropped. I was just standing there like, "Holy shit. That's Billie Joe Armstrong."

Then I snapped out of it and got to work.

That is one of the craziest parts about concert photography. You can be completely overwhelmed by the moment, but you still have a job to do. You have to feel it and capture it at the same time.

We were only allowed to shoot the first 15 minutes or the first three songs, whichever came first, but I was just happy to be there. I locked in, trusted my instinct, and captured some great photos.

Green Day opened the first half of the concert by celebrating the 30th anniversary of Dookie, and the production was insane.

They had this giant inflatable Dookie stage piece inspired by the album artwork sitting behind them. There were pyrotechnics, huge lights, and even a mocked-up airplane attached to wires that flew over the crowd, pulling directly from the album's visual world.

They didn't just play the album.

They pulled the crowd into it.

It wasn't just three guys standing on a stage playing songs. It felt like Green Day built a whole chaotic punk-rock cartoon universe around the music. There were lights, pyro, mascots, confetti, stage pieces, the giant Green Day logo, stacks of amps, comic-book visuals, and that massive heart grenade imagery that has become so tied to their identity.

Everything felt loud, colorful, ridiculous, and completely intentional.

That's what made the show work. Green Day has always had this ability to be serious and unserious at the same time. Their music can be political, nostalgic, angry, funny, rebellious, emotional, and still somehow feel like you're just having the time of your life.

The Saviors Tour leaned fully into that.

The stage felt like a punk-rock carnival built for a stadium.

After I finished photographing from the pit, I put my equipment in the security room and made my way down into the crowd because I had bought an actual ticket for the show. I wasn't just there as a photographer. I was there as a fan too.

So for the rest of the concert, I watched from the floor and shot with my point-and-shoot from inside the crowd.

That's when the second half of the show started: American Idiot.

And this is where the night hit me in a completely different way.

I hadn't listened to that album in its entirety in years. I couldn't even name the full tracklist off the top of my head. I knew the hits, of course, but I didn't realize how much of that album was still buried somewhere inside me.

Then they started playing it.

And something unlocked.

Deep inside the archives of my childhood mind, the lyrics just came back. I was suddenly able to sing damn near every song word for word. It came out of me like second nature. It was this weird, beautiful, almost surreal experience where my body remembered the music before my brain could even explain it.

That's the power of nostalgia.

It doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it just hits you in the middle of a stadium, surrounded by thousands of people, and suddenly you're a kid again, asking your mom to turn the radio up because "Holiday" is playing.

One thing that stood out to me from the first time I saw Green Day was how much they included the fans. They would invite people from the crowd onto the stage and ask if they knew how to play a song. If the fan could do it, they would let them perform right there with the band.

I thought that was the coolest thing in the world as a kid.

And years later, they still do it.

They still bring fans up. They still engage with the crowd. They still make the show feel communal instead of distant. Even with the massive stage production, giant props, pyro, and stadium-sized visuals, Green Day still carries themselves like a band that wants the audience to be part of the show.

That's what makes them special.

And the range of people there was incredible. There were people older than my dad, people my age, and little kids who were the same age or even younger than I was when I went to my first Green Day concert. It was one of those crowds where you could see the generations stacked on top of each other.

Some people grew up with Dookie.

Some grew up with American Idiot.

Some found them later.

And somehow, all of them were screaming the same songs together.

That is rare.

For me, the night became this combination of nostalgia, hard work, gratitude, and proof.

Because this industry is hard to get into. It is gatekept. It is closed-door. It can feel secretive. They don't let a lot of people in, and you really do have to fend for yourself.

One thing I take a tremendous amount of pride in is that I don't come from a rich or privileged background. I don't just "know a guy." I didn't fall into this. Nobody handed it to me. I had to grind, scrap, and find every piece of information myself.

Months before the Green Day show even happened, I remember seeing it advertised while I was at a Diamondbacks game. I looked at the promo and told myself, "I am going to figure out a way to get a credential to photograph that show. I will make this happen."

And I did.

I joined Blaze Radio, Arizona State University's college radio station. I joined the music department, showed them the concert portfolio I had been building, and they brought me onto the team.

My first assignment ever for them was covering Green Day.

Anyone reading this who is new, struggling, insecure, or feeling like this is impossible — I want you to know it is not.

Create your own luck.

I am living proof that you do not need to come from a rich background. You do not need connections. You do not need to be able to call your uncle or ask your dad to get you into these spaces. I had to figure it out by myself, and if I can do it, you can do it.

I started by working extra hours, delivery driving for Walmart, and taking any freelance gig I could with my camera just to save enough money to buy floor tickets to shows. I started shooting concerts with my iPhone from the crowd because that was what I had.

I did the best I could with what I had, and I refused to lose.

I remember getting denied when I applied for credentials for Tyler, The Creator. I was so devastated I didn't even go to the show. I just went home and went to bed.

At the time, I was working for Arizona PBS, and I thought, "Okay, I'm working for an actual news organization, an actual reputable outlet. There's no way I get denied."

But I did.

And I never forgot how defeating that felt.

But I also didn't give up.

I kept going to more shows. I kept taking photos on my phone. I kept editing, experimenting with different apps, using Lightroom, using Photoshop, and slowly finding my own visual style and language.

And yeah, maybe the average professional concert photographer who has been doing this for 20 or 30 years might look at my early work and think it's gross, too edited, unclear, too stylized, or too different.

But my generation understands it.

The social media generation understands it. They appreciate when something feels different, new, experimental, and unique. Because after a while, a sharp, clean image of an artist gripping a mic and screaming into it can get old.

At some point, the question becomes: what else can you do?

So if anyone reading this feels discouraged, I started out shooting on an iPhone 12. I got ridiculed. I got criticized. I joined Facebook groups and shared my work, and I know what it feels like to not be part of the crowd. I know what it feels like to be outside the club.

But don't give up.

Follow me on Instagram. Email me. Ask me questions. I am all for bringing the next person up because I know what it feels like to do this alone.

I want to see more working-class people in this industry. I want to see more people who appreciate this lifestyle because getting to photograph live music is truly an amazing thing to experience.

And on this night, photographing Green Day — the band my dad surprised me with on his birthday two days after mine — it all came full circle.

From being a kid on the floor at US Airways Center, overwhelmed by the noise and protected by my dad during my first mosh pit, to standing in the photo pit at Chase Field with Billie Joe Armstrong directly above me, camera in hand, heart racing, chasing the shot.

That is why this show meant something to me.

It wasn't just a concert.

It was proof.

Love him, hate him, or feel indifferent about him, YE — the artist formerly known as Kanye West — is undeniably one of the most impactful artists of this generation.

He pushes the boundaries in every direction he's facing at the time, for better or for worse. After his highly criticized takes on the Jewish community, YE was on a mission, determined to show the world and the music industry that you can't cancel him. And in some ways, he did.

YE performed a handful of listening experiences for his new album Vultures 1 with Ty Dolla $ign. At the time, there wasn't a fully set-out schedule, which is pretty much expected with anything YE does. The announcements for these shows were spontaneous. One show he'd be in Italy, another he'd be in Japan, then suddenly, Phoenix, Arizona was next.

I remember exactly where I was. I was sitting in the doctor's office waiting for my annual checkup when my friend messaged me saying that YE was bringing his listening experience to Phoenix.

I froze.

I couldn't believe that out of all the places he had been traveling — New York, Chicago, Italy, Japan — next on his list was Phoenix. I immediately hopped on Vivid Seats to claim my spot for this experience, front and center, where I truly believed I had the perfect view.

When I showed up about an hour and a half early, there were already two separate lines that simultaneously wrapped around Footprint Center. I was curious to see what the turnout was going to look like. Despite the political backlash and social scrutiny he had recently faced, you wouldn't have known anything had happened to him.

Everyone was there.

And I mean eras.

Much like Taylor Swift, YE has his own eras. He is arguably one of the only rap artists with that kind of distinguished discography and visual evolution. People dressed up from every chapter — early 2000s pink polo and backpack College Dropout YE, the My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy elegance, the hardcore rebellious Yeezus era, all the way to the modern-day Vultures era.

I came dressed to the nines myself, choosing the Yeezus era as my inspiration. That version of YE always stood out to me — darker, more rebellious, more industrial, more raw. So walking into that arena dressed in that lane felt like I was stepping into one specific chapter of his world while everyone else was representing their own.

Young, old, and everything in between — this was truly a unique demographic of people that showed up. YE is one of those few artists who has that kind of range.

I remember standing there, making friends with the people near me, talking, waiting, and taking in the scene. In almost any other circumstance, I would be irritated having to wait two extra hours for a show to start. But for an artist like YE, as long as I got to see him perform, I honestly didn't care. I was just excited to be there.

And in true YE fashion, he showed up two hours after the announced start time.

"Earliest he's ever been," me and another spectator jokingly said.

But once the show started, it was absolutely worth the wait.

One thing about YE is that it's not just the music that's the experience. It's the set design. The stage design. The atmosphere.

The entire floor was completely cleared out. No seats. No standing-room crowd. No traditional stage packed with instruments or giant screens everywhere. Just an open white floor that felt empty, intentional, and almost sacred. Hovering above it was this massive circular cloth screen, almost like a 360-degree veil or halo hanging over the arena. It wrapped around the center space and caught the light in a way that made the whole thing feel heavenly, foggy, and unreal.

It didn't feel like a regular concert. It felt like walking into some kind of ritual space.

YE is notoriously known for having some of the most unique and innovative stage designs in music. Nothing is basic with this man. Everything is new, unusual, creative, different, and exciting. No matter how you feel about it, you feel something.

And then boom.

The lights went out.

The show started.

No warning. No countdown. No nothing.

Everything on his terms.

And just like it was advertised, it was a listening experience. YE, Ty Dolla $ign, and a surprise appearance from his kids took center stage and vibed out to the entire album. YE, Ty Dolla $ign, and North West performed with microphones in hand.

The visuals matched the darkness of the album. The masks, the smoke, the shadows, the heavy lighting, the blank white floor, and that giant cloth structure above them all made the whole thing feel eerie and cinematic. At times, they looked like silhouettes moving inside a dream. Other times, it felt like you were watching something through a lens, like the whole arena had been turned into one giant film frame.

Then, in one of the most unexpected moments of the night, YE went into the stands.

He didn't just stay isolated in the middle of the arena. He entered the crowd, surrounded by fans holding up their phones, and the energy completely shifted. Seeing him inside the audience like that made the entire place explode. It was chaotic, intimate, and surreal all at once — the kind of moment where everyone realizes they are witnessing something they're probably going to talk about for years.

But after the listening experience was over, something unique happened — something I had never seen before.

YE just started playing his catalog of hits.

Starting from the College Dropout era and moving all the way through his current discography, he played hit after hit after hit, ending, of course, with "Runaway."

The man didn't even have to sing.

He just stood center stage, jumped around, amplified the crowd, and watched as the entire arena sang his songs nearly word for word.

What other artist can sell out an entire arena, stand in the center, and watch the crowd erupt as he plays hit after hit after hit?

It was definitely an experience I won't ever forget.

Being a fan of his, I got everything I wanted and more. From the show itself, to the energy, to the crowd, to the history of his music being played in that arena, it felt bigger than just a concert.

My personal comments for YE are this: I recognize and have empathy for his mental illness, and I hope he gets the proper support and assistance he needs to heal from the pain he has felt and to fix the pain he is causing.

Here's the thing with Travis Scott.

His concerts are not just concerts.

They are events.

They are wild. They are chaotic. They are rowdy. They are infamous. They are the kind of shows where people talk about the crowd just as much as they talk about the music. People rush the stage. People get carried out. Security is stressed. The floor turns into one giant mosh pit. It is not calm. It is not casual. It is not something you just stand there and politely watch.

It is rage.

And honestly, that is why I wanted to go.

I had heard all the stories. I had seen the videos. I knew Travis Scott shows had this reputation for being crazy, wild, different, and intense. Obviously, there is a darker side to that too. People have been injured at his shows, and unfortunately, people have even died. So when you talk about Travis Scott concerts, you cannot ignore how notorious and complicated that reputation is.

But that is also part of why the experience feels so intense.

There is this feeling of, what is this actually going to be like in person?

So when I saw he was bringing Utopia to Phoenix, I knew I had to go.

And bro, from the name alone, Circus Maximus already sounded legendary.

The album.

The tour name.

The visuals.

The merch.

The whole thing had this larger-than-life feeling before I even walked into the arena.

And let me just say this right now: I do rank part of a concert experience based on the merch.

I do.

Merch matters.

And hands down, to this day, Travis Scott's Circus Maximus merch is the best concert merch I have ever seen.

It was not even close.

There were so many pieces to choose from. Hoodies, shirts, jackets, different designs, different colors, different graphics — it felt like he brought an entire clothing drop to the arena. I walked in telling myself I was only going to spend around $40.

That did not happen.

I ended up buying this hoodie that was around $170 because it was just too fresh.

And when I say fresh, I mean literally fresh. The pockets were still basically sealed from the print. The graphic was printed over the pocket openings, so when I put my hands in, I had to separate the paint from the cloth. That is how new it felt.

I was like, bro, this is insane.

That is the kind of detail that makes the merch feel different. It did not feel like some random tour shirt they printed just to sell something. It felt like part of the whole Travis Scott world.

The merch was unmatched.

The opener was Teezo Touchdown, and he was a great opening act. He brought his own weird, creative energy to the show, and his microphone setup was really cool because it looked like it had flowers coming out of it. It fit him. It was strange, fun, different, and memorable.

But everyone knew what the night was really building toward.

Travis.

Before he even came out, an announcement came over the speakers welcoming everyone to Utopia. Then you hear them say something like, "Open that shit up," talking about the pits.

And bro, the second I heard that, I was like, oh yeah, let me in that shit.

I was on the outskirts at first, but I did not come to a Travis Scott show to stand on the side and watch everyone else have fun. I came there to mosh. I came there to rage. I came there to experience the show the way it is meant to be experienced.

So I started moving through people, making my way into the chaos.

I had my red shiesty mask on. Other people had masks on too. Everyone around me had that same energy like, yeah, we are here for this.

Then the Utopia intro started.

And then boom.

Travis Scott got launched onto the stage.

He was literally catapulted from below the stage up onto this platform, and the second he came up, fireworks and pyrotechnics went off at the same time.

The whole arena lost its mind.

Everyone was jumping.

Everyone was screaming.

Everyone was pushing.

Everyone was moving.

It was exactly what I paid for.

There are concerts where the show starts and people cheer.

Then there are Travis Scott concerts, where the show starts and the floor turns into a battlefield.

And honestly, I mean that in the best way.

The whole night felt like a two-and-a-half-hour mosh pit.

There were barely any breaks. The energy just kept going. Song after song, drop after drop, pit after pit. It was loud, sweaty, aggressive, fun, chaotic, and ridiculous. The lights were blasting. The fire was going off. Smoke was everywhere. Phones were in the air. People were yelling. People were pushing. People were jumping like their lives depended on it.

And that is the whole point.

If you are a real Travis Scott fan, I honestly think floor seats are essential.

I do not say that for every artist.

Most concerts, you can have a great time from the seats. You can sit back, watch the stage design, enjoy the lights, hear the songs, and still have an amazing night.

But Travis Scott is different.

If you are sitting in the stands at a Travis Scott show, you are basically watching other people have fun for two and a half hours.

The floor is the show.

The pit is the show.

The crowd is the show.

That is where the energy is. That is where the chaos is. That is where the whole thing makes sense. If you are a Travis fan, you are probably not trying to be calm. You are trying to get rowdy. You are trying to rage. You are trying to lose your mind for a few hours.

That is what I wanted.

And that is what I got.

Visually, the show was insane too.

The stage had this rocky, broken, dystopian look to it, like Travis was performing on some kind of ruined mountain or planet. He would stand above the crowd with smoke pouring around him, lights cutting down through the haze, and fire blasting behind him. At times, he looked like a silhouette standing in front of an explosion. Other times, the blue and white beams made the whole arena feel like some alien world.

That fit Utopia perfectly.

It did not feel clean or polished in a traditional pop-show way. It felt rough, aggressive, and cinematic. It felt like a world built for rage. The kind of world where the stage looks like it is crumbling, the lights are violent, and the crowd is part of the destruction.

That is what made it fun to photograph too.

Even though I was not there with official credentials, I still wanted to capture the energy. I wanted the smoke. I wanted the hands in the air. I wanted the phones. I wanted the fire. I wanted Travis standing above everyone like he was commanding the whole room.

Because that is what it felt like.

He had complete control of the crowd.

And that crowd was not easy to control.

There were two separate times where fans rushed the stage. And what was wild was Travis did not immediately have them kicked off. He was basically like, no, you already messed up, security. You did not do your job.

Then he told the fans something like, if I let you on this stage, you better go crazy. You are not just going to stand here and watch me perform.

And they did.

They went crazy.

That is the kind of thing that makes Travis shows feel different. It is not just that the crowd is wild. It is that he encourages that energy. He feeds off it. The fans feed off him. The whole thing becomes this loop where the more chaotic the crowd gets, the more alive the show feels.

And security knew what kind of night it was too.

At one point, I saw a kid try to rush from the seats down to the floor, and a security guard carried him out in a headlock. These security guards were not playing around. They were stressed. You could tell they knew exactly what kind of crowd they were dealing with.

Because Travis Scott fans are rowdy.

That is just what it is.

And bro, it lived up to the hype.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

I went in with high expectations. I expected chaos. I expected mosh pits. I expected fire. I expected people to go insane. I expected the show to feel different from every other concert I had been to.

And somehow, it exceeded what I thought it would be.

That is rare.

A lot of concerts are great, but they are still concerts. You stand there, sing along, take photos, maybe jump a little, and go home.

This felt like release.

That is the word.

Release.

Sometimes you need that. Sometimes you need to blow off steam. Sometimes you need to jump into a pit, shove people, get shoved back, yell lyrics, sweat through your clothes, and just rage for a few hours.

That is what Travis Scott gives people.

It is not just music.

It is physical.

It is emotional.

It is aggressive.

It is an outlet.

And I loved it.

By the end of the night, I was completely sold. I do not care if his next album is good or not. If Travis Scott comes back to town, I am going. I need to be on the floor. I need to be in the pit. I need to rage.

Because now I get it.

The Circus Maximus Tour was not just one of the craziest concerts I have ever been to.

It was one of the most fun.

It was loud, wild, dangerous-feeling, sweaty, cinematic, chaotic, and exactly what a Travis Scott show should be.

I walked in curious about the experience.

I walked out a rager.

And next time, I am not just getting in the mosh pit.

I am starting one.

Joji is one of the most interesting artists I have ever seen live because his career does not even sound real when you say it out loud.

Most people, myself included, first found out about him through YouTube.

Filthy Frank.

Pink Guy.

That whole insane, chaotic, dark, weird, ridiculous corner of the internet.

And I loved it.

I loved the comedy. I loved the sense of humor. I loved how strange it was. I loved how he could be annoying, gross, uncomfortable, hilarious, and somehow still completely original. There was nobody else really doing what he was doing in that way.

And on top of that, Joji is also tied to one of the most random viral internet moments ever: the Harlem Shake phenomenon.

That is another thing that makes his story so insane. Before Joji was selling out shows and making people cry to "Slow Dancing in the Dark," he was part of the internet chaos that helped spark one of the biggest viral trends of the early 2010s. The Filthy Frank world was not just weird for the sake of being weird. It actually shaped internet culture in a real way.

That is why his transition into music is so fascinating to me.

He did not come from a normal entertainment background. He came from one of the strangest corners of YouTube and somehow turned that into a real, emotional, serious music career.

But what makes Joji so fascinating is that he did not just become famous from YouTube and then try to casually make music on the side.

He fully transformed.

And that is what makes him different.

There have been people who got discovered on YouTube because they were posting songs. Justin Bieber is probably the biggest example of that. But that is different from being a full-on YouTuber first. Joji had an entire persona before the music. He had characters. He had lore. He had an audience that knew him for comedy, chaos, shock humor, and internet absurdity.

Then out of nowhere, this guy starts dropping songs that put you directly in your feelings.

That is insane range.

How do you go from crying laughing to crying sad?

That is Joji.

That is the part I connect with so much.

Because honestly, I feel similar to him in a way. I can be charismatic, weird, annoying, loud, dark with my humor, and ridiculous about things. But underneath all of that, there is depth. There is emotion. There is vulnerability. There is a part of me that feels things deeply, even if the outside version of me is joking around or being intense.

That is what Joji's music showed me.

His songs do not sound like Filthy Frank.

They do not sound like Pink Guy.

They sound like someone who actually feels a lot.

They sound like someone with heartbreak, loneliness, sadness, humor, weirdness, and sincerity all existing in the same body.

And once I heard "Slow Dancing in the Dark," I knew Joji was for real.

That song was the moment where I was like, oh, this is not a joke. This is not just some internet guy trying to make music. This guy can actually write something that hurts. He can make something beautiful. He can make something that stays with you.

So when I got the chance to photograph him, I was excited because I knew it was going to be different.

And it was.

Honestly, Joji had one of the coolest stages I have ever photographed.

The stage had these giant floating cubes suspended above him, and they did not just sit there as decoration. They actually moved. They would levitate, shift, and hover over the stage, which made the whole setup feel alive. It had this futuristic, video-game-like, digital-world feeling to it. Sometimes everything was glowing gold and he looked like a silhouette standing under this massive ceiling of lights. Other times the cubes shifted into blues, greens, pinks, and purples, and the whole thing felt like a music festival inside an arena.

It was bright.

It was chaotic.

It was funny.

It was emotional.

It was weird.

And somehow, it all made sense.

That is what I liked about the show. It did not feel like Joji was trying to erase where he came from. He did not feel like someone running away from his past or pretending the internet side of him never existed. He still had that strange, dark, twisted sense of humor. He still knew how to make the crowd laugh. He still knew how to make things uncomfortable in a funny way.

At one point, he put the microphone stand between his legs and started joking around with it like it was his dick.

That is Joji.

During an intermission, there was an animation of a urinal on the screen, and it was literally just someone peeing into it for what felt like three minutes. The stream just kept going and going. Then he played "My Dick" by Mickey Avalon.

Again, that is Joji.

And what is funny is that none of that took away from the emotional side of the show.

If anything, it made him feel more real.

Because that is the whole thing with Joji. He can be completely unserious and then turn around and sing something that makes the whole room feel heavy. He can make you laugh at something stupid and then two minutes later have everyone singing along to one of the saddest songs you have ever heard.

That contrast is what makes him special.

A lot of artists can be sad.

A lot of artists can be funny.

Not many can be both in a way that actually feels natural.

Joji can.

The crowd made the show even better.

This was honestly one of my favorite crowd experiences I have had at a concert. The energy felt loose, excited, and weird in the best way. People were there to sing, but they were also there to have fun. They understood the humor. They understood the sadness. They understood the chaos.

There were fans dressed in the legendary Pink Guy outfit going absolutely wild, and I loved seeing that. I even took a picture with a few of them because how could you not? That is part of the world. That is part of the history. That is part of what makes Joji different from almost any other artist performing at this level.

His fans know the joke.

But they also know the music is real.

That is a rare thing.

Joji also made the show feel personal in a way that did not feel forced. He had a T-shirt gun and was shooting shirts into the crowd. He took time to sign fans' vinyls and merch. He interacted with people. He let the comedy breathe. He let the weirdness breathe. He made the whole thing feel less polished in the best way.

It felt like Joji.

Not some overproduced version of him.

Just Joji.

The visuals were also so fun to photograph. There were moments where he was standing under this huge golden lighting rig, almost completely silhouetted, and the whole stage looked like it was glowing around him. There were moments where the floating cubes above him were lit in blues and pinks, making the stage feel futuristic and surreal. There were moments where the disco ball and beams of light turned the arena into this dreamlike party. Then there were quieter moments where he was just standing there under a spotlight, singing something vulnerable, and the whole tone shifted.

That is what made the show interesting visually.

It was not one thing.

It moved between chaos and emotion.

Comedy and sadness.

Bright festival energy and lonely bedroom-pop heartbreak.

And that is Joji in general.

He is not easy to put into one box.

He can come from one of the weirdest, most chaotic internet comedy backgrounds ever and still become a serious artist with songs that genuinely hit people in the chest. He can wear a ski mask, shoot T-shirts into the crowd, make dumb jokes, play ridiculous intermission videos, and then still have the entire room locked in when the emotional songs start.

That is range.

And honestly, I respect that a lot.

Because he could have abandoned all of that old humor completely. He could have tried to reinvent himself into some super serious, untouchable artist and act like none of the YouTube stuff ever happened.

But he did not.

He evolved without completely erasing where he came from.

That is what makes him feel authentic.

He still has that weirdness. He still has that dark humor. He still has that chaotic edge. But now he also has the music, the vocals, the songwriting, the stage design, and the emotional depth to back it all up.

That is why Joji works.

You get the sadness.

You get the humor.

You get the chaos.

You get the vulnerability.

You get the guy who can make you laugh at something completely stupid and then turn around and make you feel like your heart just got ripped out.

That is a wild combination.

And seeing that live made me appreciate him even more.

Joji's show was one of the most fun concerts I have photographed because it did not feel like anything else. It was not just a sad-boy concert. It was not just a comedy show. It was not just a festival-style production. It was all of that mixed together into something only he could really pull off.

And that is the best compliment I can give it.

It felt like Joji.

Weird, funny, emotional, chaotic, vulnerable, and completely his own thing.

It is Drake.

Enough said.

Love him, hate him, call him overrated, call him soft, call him corny, call him one of the greatest ever — whatever side people fall on, everybody knows Drake. Everybody knows the music. Everybody has at least one Drake song connected to some specific moment in their life.

And that is why seeing him live felt different.

Drake is one of those artists where the songs are bigger than just the songs. They become attached to memories. High school. Locker rooms. Bus rides. Practice. Crushes. Parties. Breakups. Late-night drives. Instagram captions. Random moments you forgot about until the song starts playing again.

For me, Drake will always have a special place in my nostalgia.

And yes, I am a huge YE fan. I also really like Pusha T. I respect Kendrick Lamar too. But I have never been one of those people who stops listening to somebody just because my favorite artist is beefing with them.

I am not picking sides like that.

Good music is good music.

And Drake is generational.

That is just the truth.

He is special. He has been special. He has been one of the biggest artists in the world for so long that people almost take it for granted. But when you actually sit there and hear the catalog live, it hits you all over again.

The man does not go away.

It is banger after banger after banger.

And for me, the Drake album that will always mean the most is Nothing Was the Same.

That album came out my sophomore year of high school, and it is not just my favorite Drake album. It is one of my favorite hip-hop albums of all time. I will never forget that feeling of listening to it in the locker room, at practice, on bus rides, and walking alone while fantasizing about the girl I had a crush on.

That girl-next-door type of feeling.

That teenage feeling where everything feels bigger than it actually is.

The crush feels bigger.

The loneliness feels bigger.

The music feels bigger.

And that is why Drake hit so hard at that age.

A lot of his music lives in that space of feeling alone, being alone, wanting someone who does not want you back, overthinking everything, and trying to act confident even when you are clearly in your feelings.

When you are a teenager, bro, you feel that.

You really feel that.

So when tickets became available for the It's All a Blur Tour, I knew I had to go. I had to take the opportunity to see him, photograph what I could, and experience one of the biggest artists of my lifetime in person.

And visually, the show matched the title.

It really did feel like a blur.

Not in a messy way.

More like a memory.

The whole show had this black-and-white, smoky, cinematic feeling to it. Drake walking through clouds of smoke. Phone lights glowing all around him. Crowd hands reaching up. Spotlights cutting through the arena. Giant stage pieces floating above the floor. A bed-like platform. A UFO. A floating figure. This whole surreal world that felt like memory, fame, nostalgia, loneliness, ego, and theater all happening at once.

It did not feel like a normal rap concert.

It felt like Drake walking through his own mythology.

That is what I took away from the stage design.

To me, the whole show felt like Drake telling the story of himself as a kid in his bedroom, dreaming, rapping, making songs, imagining this life before the whole world knew his name. There was this younger Drake look-alike on stage, sitting on a bed and on a couch, and it felt like we were watching two versions of him at once.

The kid who dreamed it.

And the superstar who became it.

One of the most interesting parts of the show was how he used AI live.

There was this younger Drake look-alike on stage, sitting on a bed and on a couch, and when you looked at the screen, they were able to put a younger version of Drake's face onto him.

And bro, it looked really cool.

It was one of the first times I had seen AI used like that in a live concert setting, and it did not feel awkward or forced. It actually made sense for the show. The whole tour already felt like Drake looking back at different versions of himself, so having this younger version of him on stage added to that story.

It felt like we were watching the kid who dreamed it and the superstar who became it in the same room.

Another cool thing about the tour was the entrance.

In every city, Drake would have someone walk him out. Sometimes it was a celebrity. Sometimes it was an athlete. Sometimes it was another artist. He did two nights in Glendale, and on the first night, he brought out Devin Booker.

So going into my night, I was excited.

I was like, okay, who is he going to bring out tonight?

But then it was just him.

And honestly, that was not disappointing.

Because it is Drake.

That is all he needs.

The way he came out was still fire because he walked down through the crowd. You did not know exactly where he was going to come from. The lights go out, the arena starts reacting, and then suddenly an entire section erupts because Drake is right there, being escorted down the stairs toward the stage.

That is a moment.

That is the kind of entrance that makes the arena feel alive because it is not just, "Here is the artist on stage." It is, "He is somewhere in the building. He is walking through the people. He could be coming from anywhere."

Then the show starts, and it becomes exactly what you expect from Drake.

Hits.

Era after era.

Memory after memory.

There are artists who perform songs, and then there are artists whose songs feel like timestamps in your own life. Drake is one of those artists. You hear one track and suddenly you remember where you were when you first played it. You hear another one and think of a girl. Another one and you think of a team bus. Another one and you think of being alone. Another one and you think of a party. Another one and you think of some version of yourself you have not thought about in years.

That is what made the show work.

It was not just about Drake performing.

It was about realizing how much of his music has been around for so many different phases of life.

And then there was 21 Savage.

Having 21 there gave the show a different energy. Drake has the nostalgia, the emotion, the ego, the captions, the singing, the rapping, the whole superstar thing. 21 brings this darker, colder, more direct energy. Together, they balance each other well live.

One of the funniest and coolest moments of the night happened when they basically stopped the show because of a fan.

Drake and 21 were performing, and then 21 had to stop and point out this girl in the crowd. He was like, yo, Drake, I have to give this girl a shoutout because she has been rapping every word bar for bar.

So they brought her on stage.

And bro, she killed it.

She did not freeze up. She did not act awkward. She got up there and performed like she was meant to be on that stage. She was rapping hard, going crazy, and you could see Drake and 21 looking at each other and laughing like, damn, this is actually wild.

That was one of those real fan moments that made the show feel personal.

Drake gave her a big hug and told them to let her get whatever merch she wanted, on him.

That was cool.

Because for all the superstar stuff, all the stage design, all the lights, all the floating objects, all the smoke, those are the moments people remember too. A fan getting brought on stage and actually delivering. The artist seeing that and giving them love. The crowd watching someone live out a dream for a few minutes.

That is concert magic.

Visually, this was one of those shows where the black-and-white look just made sense.

The smoke. The spotlights. The phones in the air. The crowd packed around the stage. Drake walking through it all. It looked less like a colorful party and more like a memory collage. Almost like old photos from a night you are trying to piece together later.

Which fits the tour perfectly.

It's All a Blur.

That title is honestly perfect for Drake at this stage of his career.

Because when you think about how long he has been around, it really does feel like a blur. So many albums. So many hits. So many eras. So many beefs. So many quotes. So many moments. So many songs that became part of people's lives.

And somehow he is still here.

Still selling out arenas.

Still making people argue.

Still making people listen.

Still giving people songs to attach their memories to.

That is why I wanted to see him.

Drake was a must.

He is someone I hope I get to see again, and I am glad I got to have that experience. Because no matter what anyone says about him, Drake is one of one. He is one of the defining artists of my generation. His music has been around for too many important moments for me to pretend like it does not matter.

And Nothing Was the Same will always take me back.

Back to sophomore year.

Back to the locker room.

Back to practice.

Back to bus rides.

Back to walking alone, thinking about the girl I had a crush on.

Back to that teenage version of myself who felt everything too deeply and had Drake playing in the background.

That is the power of his music.

It follows you.

And seeing him live made all of those memories come back at once.

Like a blur.