As the lights dimmed, I found myself in the middle of the floor at The Melkweg, a mid-sized music venue in the heart of Amsterdam's vibrant Leidseplein square, surrounded by an air of anticipation and excitement; with just a tinge of impatience bubbling up from several hundred people. People who either, like me, grew up on the same verses, or recently stumbled upon an indie artist they couldn't stop listening to.
One particular audience member was a tad too tall for my liking, so I gently nudged forward, inching closer to the front. Since I was there solo, it was much easier to find a strategic spot to soak in every single bit. Every moment that I travelled 10,500 kilometres for.
The spotlight turned on. There he was.
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There's seven billion, forty million people on the planet/
And most of us have the audacity to think we matter/
The first lines. The absolute disbelief. The subconscious mouthing of the words.
I had finally made it to see my favourite artiste perform live.
It's been quite the journey since I first discovered George Watsky on YouTube in 2011. He's responsible for shaping my music taste--to this day, it still shocks people that my favourite genre is hip hop and lyrical rap. I've blogged about him several times here, back when I was less self-conscious about how my admiration for his craft would be perceived. Somehow, this even led to an exchange with one of his old high school mates, a professor at Stanford who reached out via email for information on a poetry collection I'd mentioned here (unrelated to Watsky, but still ridiculously cool how connected the world is).
Though I've become a more mellow fan over time, he's consistently my Spotify top artiste, despite (yet probably because of!) the diverse and sometimes experimental styles of music he's put out.
When I posted on his Facebook wall almost 15 years ago (and apparently also commented on a YouTube video 13 years ago, as seen above), requesting a Singapore stop, he responded with something along the lines of 'that'd be cool, hopefully someday.'
Though I'd love for more folks to appreciate his music, he's always been a huge proponent of not "selling out", sticking true to who he is and what he stands for--it's evident in every lyric. Admittedly, there's something charming about being a fan of the alternative. So I'm not mad that my request didn't materialize over the last decade; it just meant I could take matters into my own hands. When else would I find myself flying halfway across the world for a lil side quest that turned into to my favourite trip of all time?
So here I was.
As he performed 'Headphones'--the very first song from his first album, about using music as an escape to block out the noise of the outside world--I was fully immersed. I completely surrendered to the surreal realization that the voice I'd heard in my own headphones (ha!) for years was now moving the air in front of me.
Then, he leaped into the crowd, immediately lifted by an audience that was game for anything. It was the perfect visual for the bars he was spitting:
This one is for the people who raised me up/
If you remember one thing, then remember how it felt/
When you felt for the first time/
Now, this was how you put up a show.
The final track, 'Nothing Like The Last Time', is an ode to Watsky's career, a mash-up of samples from his most iconic songs. Standing there relishing tunes that were earworms for specific junctures of my life, played one after the other, felt like an out-of-body experience.
Watsky created the soundtrack to more than a decade of my life; I was revisiting those very moments just as much as he was recapping his.
Then the lights came back on, the final curtain call was made, and I exited the venue. A bucket-list item that I never thought I'd cross off, done.
I don't quite recall if I'd grabbed dinner before, but after the show, I made my way to the McDonald's two streets down. As I was waiting for my number to be called, a thought crossed my mind: Did I really fly all the way to Amsterdam and not even attempt to meet him in person?
When my order was ready, I grabbed my brown paper bag from the counter, stuffed a fistful of fries into my mouth--mmmm salt--and ran back to The Melkweg.
There, I saw a bunch of people I presumed were also fans waiting outside. After a bit of hesitation (I hadn't spoken to anyone other than mumbling 'thank you' to staff all evening), I approached two of the friendliest looking ones, and asked if they were waiting for him.
They said yes, and mentioned they had friends inside the venue covering other exits to be safe. They welcomed me to join them (which I of course accepted!), and I later learnt they were locals who had seen him live on multiple occasions. Shortly after, one of them received a call: he was meeting fans in the venue!
We tried re-entering, and were initially stopped. With my new friends' quick exchange of friendly Dutch with the bouncer (ugh I'm so grateful), he let us in.
And then, this happened.
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How do you encapsulate the pure gratitude of having someone's music accompany you through every step of your most vulnerable growing up years? His lyrics lent me a voice when my own words didn't suffice, they made me feel so seen, and they even helped me navigate and uncover my own existential thoughts (I've even cited lines from his songs in therapy sessions).
I'm not sure I did a great job of articulating that in the moment, but I hope our short exchange gave him at least a glimpse of the impact he's had.
He was exactly how I'd imagined him to be--and I mean this in the most non parasocial way possible--taking his time to truly meet every single person who stayed behind.
Massive shout-out to Luke and his friend, who were the ones who made my little meet-and-greet possible, and even stayed to make sure I had a ready photographer and a marker for an autograph.
'Dream come true' is not a phrase I use lightly, one because it's hella corny, but two especially because achieving a goal can sometimes leave a void. What's next? Yep, the arrival fallacy.
However, finding an artiste who speaks your specific language is rare. While meeting George was a milestone, dream-come-true moment, I'm not left empty. I have the rest of my life to journey on with the best mixtape in the background, made even better knowing that he carries himself exactly how he portrays himself to be.
'And I can't really tell/ If I'm a good person or I'm faking really well' - Ten Fingers
He has enabled the best possible version of myself to exist: a version that is fiercely independent, brave when it matters, and filled with a whole lot of heart.
Thank you, George.
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