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This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at ASU chapter.

Live music is a transformative experience that cannot truly be put into words. Still, I’m going to do my humble job as a writer and try. 

Next to the speakers, perfectly angled around that small damp venue, you can feel the thrumming pulse of each note. You feel the singer’s voice quiver on an emotional line and hear them struggle through their memories of writing it. Every strum from the bassist will flow through you to the core, nestling in the low divots of your staccato bones. The drummer will strike and beat their art into existence, and your feet will answer, almost against their will. 

This is the beauty of music, live and in person. Every time I have the pleasure of hearing music live, I feel a deep, undisputed appreciation for being alive. This weekend was no different. 

I invited my younger sister down for a show at the Valley Bar, a venue I’d never been to. The performer, Haley Blais, is one of our favorites. She was selling tickets for $20, and it felt like an unreal opportunity. So, she made the trek down from our hometown, dressed in concert finery and ready to take on the city. 

We found a parking garage that wasn’t too expensive and sat in the car for a few extra minutes, just talking. We chatted about what songs we wanted her to sing, what our dream lineup would be and whether or not the opener would do well. As a rule of thumb, we don’t research openers beforehand; I’m not sure when this started, but I know we abide by it. 

It was nice knowing I would share that experience with her. I first introduced her to Blais’s music in high school, when we would drive to class together at 6 a.m. Her haunting voice made those mornings go by faster, and I remember them vividly. (I can only hope the same goes for my sister).

We couldn’t find the venue for the life of us. The maps kept pointing us to this one brickwork building, but there were no signs or indicators of a music hall in sight. Through the whipping cold, we walked around the building’s perimeter, looking in every window and open door. 

I was about ready to ask random passerbys if they knew where it was when our eyes fell upon a red neon sign, poking out down a long alleyway. The Valley Bar, printed boldly above a basement door. A kind man stood there, ready to search our bags and draw the obligatory (and always embarrassing) X’s on the backs of our hands. 

When we got downstairs, even friendlier workers checked our tickets and handed us a free poster. Blais’s album cover was printed on it in blue inked dots, ‘Phoenix’ written in bold at the bottom. 

While we waited for the performance, my sister and I played approximately four and a half games of eight-ball on GamePigeon, kicked up against a wall, watching the room fill out. It was certainly a smaller show, but I didn’t mind. There is something intimate about lighter crowds, in my mind. 

The opener, Grace Gardner, was amazing. She took to the stage in a striped shirt and a pair of beat-up sneakers. Within three minutes, I knew so much about her, from both her music, stage presence and dialogue with the crowd. She connected with us about having anxiety and talked about being from Texas. 

Whenever she would touch the wrong note on her guitar (something we never noticed), she would almost grimace at herself and shake her head. It endeared us to her even more, and my sister and I spent the whole car ride home listening to her music on Spotify. 

Then, it was time for Blais. She came into our presence like a soft whirlwind, a chaotic embodiment of music and tenderness. Almost immediately, she played “Survivor’s Guilt,” a mutual favorite. 

Accompanied by a phenomenal band, Blais poured her soul into that microphone, and it washed over the crowd in waves. At some points, she made comments about how timid and quiet of an audience we were, but I think it was because of how stunning her voice was in person. It knocked you back for a while until you could gather your bearings and remember to cheer your praises. 

It made me realize that no matter how bad things might seem, whether it be work or school, I can always count on music. A gentle safe place in the dimmed atmosphere of a concert hall, bodies around you all swaying along to beautiful songs.

Mia Milinovich is a junior at Barrett, the Honors College, studying English (Literature) and Journalism & Mass Communications. She enjoys writing, reading, listening to garage rock, and going to random, last-minute concerts.