writing

The Case for an Annual Indie Holiday Show on Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative

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Yesterday, I did this show with Tom Gilliam, and that’s the thing the algorithms will never understand. Two humans in a room, pulling songs out of the ether, reacting in real time, laughing when a track zigged where we expected a zag. Tom brought his usual mix of deep cuts and quiet conviction, the kind that says I trust this song to hold the room. No branding, no content strategy—just listening, choosing, and letting the music breathe for three hour when the season feels like it’s suffocating everything else.

Every December, the radio loses its damn mind.

The same songs come crawling out of the speakers like embalmed corpses in tinsel: glossy, overproduced, scrubbed of friction, scrubbed of history, scrubbed of anything resembling an actual human feeling. You could swap the station, the city, or the year and never know the difference. Time collapses. Experience flattens. You are trapped in a snow globe, and someone else is shaking it for profit.

And yet—somewhere beneath the jingle-industrial complex—people are still writing holiday songs that don’t sound like they were focus-grouped by a mall. Songs that admit the season is weird, heavy, funny, lonely, joyous, exhausting, and occasionally beautiful in spite of itself. Songs that don’t pretend everyone’s family gets along or that joy arrives on schedule.

That’s where the annual indie holiday show on Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative comes in—not as seasonal programming, but as resistance.

Let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t about “saving Christmas.” Christmas doesn’t need saving. It’s doing just fine, selling sweaters and nostalgia to people who don’t necessarily like each other. This is about rescuing listening from the annual corporate hostage situation. It’s about carving out one afternoon where the holidays sound like actual life instead of a marketing campaign with sleigh bells.

Indie holiday music lives in the cracks. It’s written by people who don’t owe the season anything, which is precisely why it matters. These artists aren’t trying to out-Marathon Mariah or out-smile Bing Crosby. They’re asking different questions. What does winter feel like when you’re broke? What does joy sound like when it’s provisional? What happens when you miss someone who isn’t coming back, or never really came home in the first place?

That’s not anti-holiday. That’s honest.

An annual indie holiday show works because Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative has never been about sonic wallpaper. The show treats music like it has consequences—like it comes from somewhere and goes somewhere else. Dropping an indie holiday show into that tradition doesn’t feel like a novelty episode; it feels like an extension of the show’s moral logic. If you care about music the rest of the year, why would you stop caring in December?

And let’s talk about ritual, because the mainstream gets that part wrong too. Ritual doesn’t mean repetition without thought. That’s just habit dressed up as tradition. Ritual means returning to something because it still tells the truth. An annual indie holiday show isn’t the same playlist every year—it’s the same intention. Same question, new answers. Same season, different weather.

Some years the songs lean hopeful, like they’re daring the future to be better. Other years they’re threadbare, muttering survival strategies over cheap keyboards and acoustic guitars. That fluctuation isn’t a bug—it’s the archive. You can trace cultural mood swings through these songs like tree rings. Pandemic years sound different. Post-pandemic years sound tired in new ways. Political chaos hums under the choruses whether the artists want it to or not.

Mainstream holiday radio pretends time stands still. Indie holiday music documents the fact that it doesn’t.

There’s also something quietly radical about giving these songs space. Holiday tracks by indie artists are usually treated like curios—one-off novelties, seasonal jokes, algorithmic dead ends. But when you put them together in a thoughtful broadcast, they stop being gimmicks and start sounding like what they are: people grappling with tradition in real time. Covers become reinterpretations. Originals become statements. Irony gives way to vulnerability.

And vulnerability, in December, is practically punk rock.

The indie holiday show also creates a temporary community—one that doesn’t require fake cheer or mandatory sentimentality. Listeners aren’t asked to feel a certain way; they’re invited to show up however they are. If you’re happy, great. If you’re barely holding it together, pull up a chair. There’s room for both. That’s a rare offer in a season obsessed with emotional conformity.

Over time, something else happens. Certain songs come back—not because they’re “classics,” but because they earned it. A track that once felt like a lifeline resurfaces years later as a memory. A song that sounded bleak one December suddenly feels tender in hindsight. The show accumulates history. It remembers for you.

That’s not nostalgia. That’s continuity.

There’s a curatorial responsibility here too. Indie holiday music exists in a thousand scattered corners—Bandcamp pages, limited vinyl runs, digital EPs dropped quietly into the void. An annual show gathers those fragments and says, “This matters. Someone heard this. You’re not alone.” That gesture means something in a culture where algorithms decide worth based on velocity instead of resonance.

And make no mistake: this is what independent radio is for. Not scale. Not domination. Presence. Choice. Taste with a point of view. At a time when “discovery” is mostly just machine-generated déjà vu, a human saying “listen to this—here’s why” is a small act of rebellion.

The indie holiday show also refuses the biggest lie of the season: that joy must be loud, uncomplicated, and universally accessible. Indie artists know better. They write about chosen families, fractured homes, grief that sharpens during celebrations, joy that arrives sideways and leaves early. These songs don’t cancel the holidays; they make them survivable.

Which brings us back to Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative. Doing an annual indie holiday show isn’t branding. It’s ethos. It says the show doesn’t clock out when things get messy or sentimental. It says the holidays deserve the same critical attention, curiosity, and care as any other cultural moment.

And maybe that’s the real point. In a world hellbent on smoothing everything into sameness, this show insists on texture. On friction. On humanity. It trusts listeners to handle complexity—and that trust is rare.

So yes, do the indie holiday show. Do it every year. Let it change. Let it argue with itself. Let it contradict the season while still loving it. Let it be strange, sad, funny, and occasionally transcendent.

Because if the holidays are going to mean anything at all, they should at least sound like real people trying to make it through them together.

Video of The Day: The Beths – Mother, Pray For Me

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“Mother, Pray for Me” finds The Beths doing what they do best: wrapping emotional unease in bright, tensile power-pop. It’s a song that feels instantly familiar if you know their catalog—those interlocking guitar lines, the melodic immediacy, Liz Stokes’ unmistakable vocal clarity—but it also pushes toward something rawer and more pleading than their usual wry self-interrogations.

From its opening measures, the song pulses with a kind of restless confession. Stokes delivers the title phrase not as a dramatic flourish but as a weary admission, a reaching-out from someone who’s been holding it together for too long. The Beths specialize in songs about the gap between who we want to be and who we are on our worst days; here, that gap takes on a spiritual edge. There’s a sense of hitting bottom—not catastrophically, but in the quieter, more believable ways people actually unravel.

The arrangement mirrors that emotional arc. The guitars shimmer and dart; the rhythm section plays with an almost anxious tightness, as if trying to keep the song from slipping out of its own grip. Harmonies, one of The Beths’ signature strengths, arrive like little reinforcements—friends showing up, steadying a shoulder. When the chorus lands, it’s both a release and a recognition: the pop sheen doesn’t lighten the weight of the plea so much as hold it with tenderness.

Lyrically, the song walks that Beths tightrope between self-reproach and self-awareness. The narrator isn’t blaming the world or asking for absolution; they’re simply acknowledging the moments when coping feels like an act of faith. The invocation of a mother’s prayer is less religious than relational—an admission that sometimes we need someone else’s hope to borrow.

“Mother, Pray for Me” ultimately stands out because it expands the band’s emotional vocabulary without abandoning their sonic DNA. It’s catchy, it’s cutting, and it lingers, an anthem for anyone who’s ever felt a little lost and dared to ask for help, even quietly.

YTAA 11-18-2025 on Mixcloud

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It’s been a while since I found the time to upload a full show to Mixcloud! I promise to be better about posting them. The latest episode of YTAA 11-18-2025 is now available on Mixcloud. Please do me a favor and give it a listen when you have a chance.

Finding the time to post full episodes of Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative on Mixcloud has been more of a challenge than I ever expected. What seems, on the surface, like a simple matter of uploading a show ends up being far more complicated once you stack it next to the responsibilities of everyday life, the planning that goes into each week’s broadcast, and the desire to make sure everything I share is as polished, listenable, and enjoyable as possible. I want to take the time to explain why it has taken me longer than it should to get full shows posted and—more importantly—to apologize for the delay and talk honestly about my commitment to becoming more consistent on Mixcloud.

First, producing Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative isn’t just a matter of showing up, pressing “record,” and walking away. Even after so many years of doing the show, each episode requires preparation: listening to new music, organizing playlists, writing notes, checking information about artists, aligning segments, and making sure the flow feels right. That’s the part listeners hear directly. What listeners don’t see is everything that comes after the live broadcast—cleaning up the audio file, leveling tracks, trimming silence, removing dead air, tagging the episode, writing show notes, creating artwork, uploading everything, then double-checking it all to make sure it’s correct and accessible. It’s a process I care about, because sharing independent, alternative, and emerging music has always been something that deserves care.

But caring takes time, and time has been harder to come by lately.

Over the last several months (and, if I’m honest, probably longer than that), life has piled on its normal assortment of responsibilities: work, family, health, grading, teaching, commitments that can’t be rescheduled, and the thousand small tasks that accumulate without asking for permission. None of these things are unusual; they’re simply the parts of life that everyone negotiates in their own way. Yet what has happened, unintentionally, is that by the time I sit down to work on getting a full show uploaded, the day has already stretched far beyond the hours I planned on using.

Mixcloud uploads aren’t something I want to do halfway. I don’t want to toss a show online with minimal detail or sloppy audio just to say it’s there. That has never been the spirit of Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative. The whole point is to introduce people to music worth hearing—bands pouring their hearts into their work, musicians making something genuine, songs with meaning and craft. That deserves a certain level of attention. It deserves to be done right.

And yet, even with the best intentions, the backlog grew.

So I want to be completely direct: I’m sorry. Sorry for taking so long to get episodes uploaded. Sorry for not communicating more clearly when I fell behind. Sorry for making listeners wait when so many of you reached out asking when the next show would be posted. Those messages were kind, encouraging, and patient—and every time I read one, it reminded me how much the show means to people who want to listen on their own schedule.

When people care enough to ask, that means something. And I don’t take that lightly.

The good news is that when you fall behind long enough, eventually you recognize that doing nothing only makes the problem larger. It is time to fix it. It is time to get the shows uploaded more consistently. It is time to make the Mixcloud archive what it should have been all along: a reliable place where listeners can catch up, re-listen, discover new music, or hear an episode they missed live.

I am committing—publicly and sincerely—to posting more consistently. That means setting aside designated time each week to prepare, edit, and upload the shows, even if that means reshuffling other tasks or being more disciplined about how I manage my schedule. It means breaking the work into smaller chunks so that it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It also means giving myself permission not to overthink every detail. The show should sound good, absolutely—but perfectionism can be just as paralyzing as disorganization.

More importantly, posting consistently is a way of honoring the musicians and bands who trust me with their art. It’s also a way of honoring the listeners who tune in every Tuesday afternoon, who send notes and recommendations, who say kind words about the music I share, and who make this show a genuine joy rather than another responsibility. If the live broadcast is about community, energy, and immediacy, then the Mixcloud archive is about access—about giving people the freedom to listen when and how they want, no matter their schedule.

I realize that promises are only as meaningful as the follow-through. Saying I will be more consistent is easy; actually doing it requires effort, planning, and accountability. So here is the practical plan: older shows will be uploaded in batches, and new episodes will go up shortly after each Tuesday broadcast. It may take a little time to clear the backlog, but the process has already begun, and I intend to keep it moving in a steady, realistic rhythm.

If you have been waiting, thank you—for your patience, your encouragement, your interest, and your willingness to stick with the show. If you’re new to the Mixcloud archive, welcome. And if you’re one of the many people who loves discovering under-the-radar music, I promise there is a lot coming your way.

In the end, Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative has always been about connection: connecting listeners with artists, connecting independent musicians with audiences who want something outside the algorithm, and connecting a community that values creativity, heart, and authenticity in music. Getting the shows onto Mixcloud more reliably is part of strengthening those connections. It is part of respecting your time and honoring the work that musicians put into their craft.

So yes—it took me far too long. And yes—I am genuinely sorry for that.

But I am also incredibly grateful for everyone who continues to listen, share, and support the show. I appreciate you more than you know. And going forward, you can expect more consistent uploads, more reliable access to every episode, and the same commitment to sharing the best independent and alternative music I can find.

Thank you, sincerely—and stay tuned. The next batch of shows is on its way.

Why the Sad Song Always Hits Harder: A Tear-Streaked Love Letter to Melancholy Music

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Let’s talk about sad songs. Not just the ones that make you sniffle politely into your latte or stare wistfully out the bus window like you’re in a Sofia Coppola montage. I mean the real gut-wrenchers. The ones that hit like a tire iron to the heart at 2 a.m., that make you want to lie down in the wreckage of your own teenage angst and just feel things, goddammit. Why do these songs—these elegies in three chords and a cloud of distortion or whispered strings—move us in ways that triumph, joy, or even white-hot rage rarely can?

It’s because melancholy is the one universal that doesn’t require a passport. You don’t have to be fluent in a language, rich, cool, or even particularly literate to feel the weight of a minor chord progression in your bones. It slips through the gaps in your defenses like cigarette smoke under a locked door. Everyone, everywhere, has had their heart broken, or their dreams flicker out like busted neon. And sad songs? They’re the mixtape we make for our ghosts.

And look, I’m not talking about some weepy Ed Sheeran tripe here. I mean the good sad songs. The Big Stars and Elliott Smiths and Billie Holidays of the world. Galaxie 500 staring blankly at the floor through layers of reverb. Nick Drake whispering from inside a velvet-lined coffin. Songs that ache, that bleed, that mean it.

Sad music, real sad music, doesn’t pretend to fix you. It meets you in your pit and pulls up a folding chair. It doesn’t offer a hug so much as sit in the corner, staring into the same void you are, nodding along like, “Yeah, man. It’s messed up. Pass the bottle.” And in that moment, in that terrible mutual silence, there is communion.

Melancholy is Truth in a World of Happy Lies

Let’s face it: most of life is a hustle. A series of grins, resumes, likes, and hollow how-you-doins. Upbeat songs are marketing jingles for this illusion of perpetual sunshine. But sadness? Melancholy doesn’t lie. It doesn’t sell. It just is.

In a world obsessed with productivity and performative optimism—“good vibes only” and “rise and grind” and all that garbage—sad songs are the last rebellion. They remind you it’s okay to break down. That you can’t always be okay. That maybe you’re not the only one dragging a bag of old regrets down a long hallway of wrong turns.

Lester Bangs once said music should be honest, even if it’s ugly. Especially if it’s ugly. And sadness is honest. It’s the realest thing there is. It comes uninvited and leaves when it damn well pleases. And the best artists don’t try to outrun it—they give it a voice. They tune it into something spectral and strange and heartbreakingly beautiful.

It’s in the Sound, Man—That Wound in the Note

Musically, sadness is baked into the DNA. Minor chords, descending progressions, dissonance—it’s a language the body understands instinctively. You don’t think a sad song. You feel it.

Take a piano and slam out a C major. Clean. Uplifting. Now slide that E down to an E-flat. Boom: C minor. Everything changes. That one little shift, and suddenly it’s not a party anymore—it’s a funeral. That’s the thing about music—it doesn’t have to explain itself. The note is the feeling.

And then there’s the delivery. The human voice, trembling at the edge of breaking, is the most honest instrument on Earth. When Nina Simone sang “I Loves You, Porgy,” she wasn’t just performing—she was confessing. When Kurt Cobain howled “I miss you / I’m not gonna crack,” you knew he already had. Sadness in song isn’t neat or polished. It’s raw. Unfiltered. It stumbles through the chorus half-drunk and bleeding.

The best sad songs sound like they barely made it to the end. Like the tape is unraveling, the band is falling apart, the singer might cry or disappear or explode. And that tension? That’s the beauty. It’s art made from the edge.

The Autobiography of a Heartbreak

Every sad song is a memory in search of a body. A soundtrack for the first time you watched someone walk away, or the night you stared at the ceiling wishing you could just hit “off” on your brain. And when a song gets it—when it echoes your exact misery back at you—it feels like it was written just for you, by someone who snuck into your life and took notes.

There’s a strange comfort in that, isn’t there? In knowing someone else has suffered just as deeply, cried just as stupidly, hurt just as foolishly. It’s the one-sided conversation that makes you feel less alone. You don’t even have to reply. Just press play, and bleed.

It’s not just nostalgia—it’s mythologizing your own damn sorrow. The sad song turns your pain into cinema. Suddenly your heartbreak is artistic, your suffering noble. You’re not just sad—you’re part of some great, tragic lineage of sad bastards stretching from Schubert to Phoebe Bridgers. It makes the pain feel important.

We Like Feeling Things (Even the Bad Stuff)

Let’s get perverse for a second: people like sad songs because they want to feel bad. Or more accurately, because they want to feel, period.

In an age of numbing—social media scrolls, medicated serenity, binge distractions—we’re desperate for something real. And sadness, for all its discomfort, is real. It’s proof we’re alive. Listening to a sad song is like picking at a scab: you know it’ll sting, but at least you can feel it.

Bangs would’ve said something like: music is supposed to jolt you out of your dumb meat-puppet routine and make you confront yourself. A sad song is a mirror you can’t look away from. And sometimes we need that. We need to wallow a little, scream into the void, and be broken for three and a half minutes.

There’s an odd sort of euphoria in it, too. A bittersweet ecstasy. Like how crying can feel like a release. Or how Leonard Cohen could make you feel elevated even as he dismantled your soul one verse at a time. Because sadness, in music, is not despair. It’s transcendence through pain. It’s catharsis with a backbeat.

Because Some Beauty Only Exists in the Sadness

There’s a kind of beauty you can only find in sadness. Not in spite of it, but because of it. The cracked voice, the wilted melody, the lyric that says “I’m sorry” without ever using the word—it’s like watching a flower bloom in a war zone. Fragile. Defiant. Weirdly hopeful.

And maybe that’s the secret at the core of it all. Sad songs aren’t just depressing—they’re affirming. They remind you that you’re not alone in the chaos. That your pain is shared, even if no one around you knows what to say. That someone, somewhere, felt exactly this way—and made something beautiful out of it.

It’s that transmutation that makes it powerful. Turning grief into grace. Hurt into harmony. It’s alchemy, man. Pure magic.

The Final Chorus

So why are sad songs so emotionally moving?

Because they mean it. Because they speak when you can’t. Because they let you feel when everything else tells you to shut up and move on. Because they remind you of everything you’ve lost, everything you’ve survived, and everything you still carry.

Because they are the soul, laid bare. A guitar with no filter. A voice with no armor. A truth with no apology.

And let’s be real: nobody ever got goosebumps from a happy song at 3 a.m. Nobody stood in the dark, half-drunk and broken, and put on “Walking on Sunshine.” No. They reached for “Holocaust” by Big Star. For “Between the Bars” by Elliott Smith. For that one Radiohead song that always sounds like winter.

Because sadness, in music, is a kind of salvation. Not escape—but understanding. A sacred ache. A wounded love letter to the worst parts of being human.

And that, friends, is why the sad song always hits harder. Even when—especially when—you don’t want it to.

End Scene. Drop the needle. Cue violins. Fade to silence.

Video of The Day: The Mayflies USA – Calling The Bad Ones Home

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Oh, my God, The Mayflies USA have just unleashed the kind of song that makes you wonder if the world is still spinning in the right direction or if it’s just about to fly off its axis in a blaze of glorious emotion. “Calling All the Bad Ones Home” isn’t just a song, it’s a revelation. It rips through you like a storm, charging through every lyric, every chord, like a pent-up burst of energy and chaos.

Right from the first strum, you feel the pulse of a band finally arriving at the perfect intersection of rock’n’roll and unrepentant heartache. It’s jangly, it’s rebellious, it doesn’t ask for permission, and it’s absolutely alive. The guitars are so sharp they could cut through steel, and when the drums kick in, it’s like they’re the rhythm of life, the very foundation of reality into something new and thrilling. You shimmy and shake from the start. The vocals are perfect, a cathartic yet accessible call that makes you want to sing along, even if you don’t know the words. And handclaps… come on, we need more claps in songs.

This isn’t a song. It’s a lifeline for the outcasts, the dreamers, the ones who’ve been lost in the noise and are just now realizing they belong somewhere. It’s a melody of redemption wrapped in one glorious, impossibly perfect track. The Mayflies USA are here, and you’re not gonna forget them.

Full YTAA Faves of 2024 Show on Mixcloud!

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Every year, like clockwork, the music world implodes into its annual rite of passage: the “Best of” lists. It doesn’t matter whether we need them or not. We could all be listening to something that absolutely shreds, some obscure record that deserves reverence. Still, here we are, obsessing over arbitrary rankings, as if these lists will unlock some divine, objective truth. It is as if, somehow, this tiny, self-appointed cult of critics, bloggers, and tastemakers can distill the whole sprawling mess of 365 days of music into neat little categories that tell you what was really good.

It’s a bit comical, really. These lists are nothing more than trendy cultural currency, an exercise in opinion policing. As if, come December, we all need some authority to tell us what albums we should have liked. Sure, there are some gems in those Top 10s, some records that hit like a lightning bolt, that maybe wouldn’t have been discovered without the almighty guidance of Pitchfork or Rolling Stone. But let’s not kid ourselves – the list itself is a product, a marketing tool, another algorithm feeding on your desire for validation. The music may be real, but the rankings? Please.

Every December, the ritual plays out like a predictable drama: the same predictable indie hits, the same half-baked arguments, the same flavor-of-the-month that gets hyped until the world collectively shrugs and moves on. It’s all just noise. And yet, we devour it like it’s gospel, eagerly waiting for the validation that maybe, just maybe, our choices are “correct.” But here’s the thing: music is personal. These lists? They’re just noise. It’s time we recognize them for what they are: empty, meaningless packaging for a world that’s forgotten how to just listen.

And with all that said, we do an annual show featuring several hours of bands, musicians, songs and albums that impressed the hell out of us. But not going to make some silly rank order, just a bunch of songs that we thought were incredible. So, yeah if this is a bit speaking from both sides of the mouth, so be it.

Our YTAA Faves of 2024 show includes music from many excellent musicians, such as Tamar Berk, Wussy, Palm Ghosts, Nada Surf, Waxahatchee, MJ Lenderman, JD McPherson, Jeremy Porter, Former Champ, Jason Benefield, J. Robins, Dreamjacket, David Payne, Bad Bad Hats, Bike Routes, Brian Wells, The Campbell Apartment, Amy Rigby, The Armoires, Librarians With Hickeys, Bottlecap Mountain, Liv, The Popravinas, The Nautical Theme, Smug Brothers, The Cure, The Reds, Pinks & Purples, The Umbreallas, Nick Kizirnis, Guided By Voices, and The English Beat and The Tragically Hip re-releases.

So, if this is just another end-of-the-year ritual that nobody needs but everybody wants, then maybe it is worthwhile as a way to share some of the music that deserves to be heard.

The Unbearable Weight of Silence: Navigating Grief in the Dayton Music Community

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Dayton musician, Jay Madewell passed away unexpected on December 10, 2023 at the age of 51. Jay was not just a passionate music fan and avid record collector but a DJ, fantastic musician, and drummer who contributed to many musical projects in Dayton, Ohio. He had been active in the Dayton music community for well over 30 years where he encouraged many musicians to embark on their own sonic adventures and music-based journeys. His efforts in the legendary Dayton Dirt Collective, the Rock ‘n’ Roll Playdate as well as being an active and adventurous club DJ, hosting several themed nights such as the 1960s-focused Fab Gear, L’80s Night, and others. He was also considered to be the top wedding DJ for local musicians. Jay was involved in far more bands and music projects than can easily be listed here, but to list just a few — Real Lulu, Team Void, Power to the Peephole, Lexo & the Leapers, Dirty/Clean and GeeGee’s Punk Rock All Stars — are all evidence of a profound musical life.

A gathering of friends and family will be held at the Yellow Cab Tavern, 700 E. 4th St, Dayton, OH 45402 from 2-6 PM on Sunday, December 17, 2023 to share stores and memories of Jay.

When Team Void visited Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative, we got to know Jay a little. His enthusiasm, passion for music, amazing drumming, and wry sense of humor were on keen display. It was a pleasure to spend time with him. He had a fascinating charm, easy nature and also decidedly deadly wit, terrific sense of humor and provocative observational skill. Jay was kind and good natured without speaking down to others.

Music has incredible power to cut across the barriers we put up to protect ourselves, the distance of time, and the expanse of place, weaving itself into the fabric of our lives and becoming an integral part of our identity. Often it also becomes part of the experience and sense of a place, music becomes part of how we think about community. For music enthusiasts, the relationship with their favorite musicians goes beyond mere fandom; it is a deeply emotional and personal connection. Music fans wear t-shirts of a loved band or artists not simply to become walking billboards but to illustrate in obvious, perhaps unavoidable fashion, their association with a band, artist, record, tour… whatever connects them in some distant way to the music.

When a beloved musician passes away unexpectedly, the waves of grief that ripple through a community are profound, leaving a deep void that seems impossible to fill in the immediacy of the grief. The shockwave of loss feels personal as if one has lost a member of their family or a dear childhood friend and that feeling is real. It matters. The sudden death of a cherished musician sends a seismic shift through the hearts of friends, colleagues, fans, and others, creating a collective sense of disbelief and sorrow. Unlike other forms of loss, the death of a musician carries a unique weight. Music is the soundtrack to our lives, marking milestones, soothing sorrows, markers of accomplishments, and heightening joys. When a musician unexpectedly departs, it feels as though a part of our own narrative has been abruptly severed, leaving us grappling with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. The intimate connection to something profound and personally meaningful is severed; and that bond cannot be easily repaired or replaced.

Music is a deeply personal experience, often serving as a companion in times of solitude, celebration, sadness, or introspection. The lyrics and melodies of an artist become intertwined with the listener’s memories and emotions. Those who hear the music develop an intimate connection with the artist’s work, feeling as though the musician understands their innermost thoughts and feelings. The unexpected loss of this artistic confidant can be akin to losing a dear friend or mentor who understood without judgement how you feel. That cut is especially acute when the musician is in actuality a friend.

For many, music is more than a form of entertainment; it is a lifeline. The music we listen to is more than mere background noise to many of us, it is a soundtrack to life. Musicians have a unique ability to articulate the human experience, expressing emotions that listeners may struggle to put into words. When an artist passes away, the soundtrack to life is forever altered. The songs that once brought comfort, joy, or solace may now carry a bittersweet resonance, serving as a poignant reminder of an artist’s absence.

In the digital age, social media platforms serve as virtual gathering spaces for fans to collectively mourn the loss of a musician. Social media creates the space for mourning that ripples throughout networks close and those separated and far away. The outpouring of grief on platforms like Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook creates a sense of solidarity among fans, friends, and colleagues who share a deep connection to the artist’s work. Hashtags memorializing the musician trend whether locally or farther afield, amplifying the collective voice of mourning and allowing fans to express their grief in a public forum.

Fans often channel their grief into creating and sharing tributes that celebrate the life and legacy of the departed musician. From fan art and cover performances to heartfelt messages, photos and playlists, these tributes become a way for the community to collectively honor the artist’s impact on their lives. In this shared creative process, fans find solace and a sense of connection with others who are navigating the same turbulent seas of grief. These shared memories and tributes remind us that we are not alone.

The unexpected death of a musician shatters the illusion of immortality that often surrounds artists in the eyes of their fans, colleagues and the wider community. Music has the power to transcend time, and supporters may have envisioned their favorite musician continuing to create and evolve indefinitely. The sudden loss confronts us with the harsh reality of mortality, forcing all of us to grapple with the finite nature of life and fragility of art.

The music we love forms a crucial part of our identity, shaping our tastes, values, and even our sense of self. When a beloved musician dies unexpectedly, fans, friends, and colleagues may experience a profound identity crisis as they navigate a world where the artist’s voice and sound is forever silenced. The process of mourning becomes intertwined with a search for meaning and a reevaluation of one’s own identity without the guiding influence of the departed artist. Whether the contribution would be a song, a sound, a reassuring comment, or a silly joke — that source of comfort is no longer available. In those moments, a community turns to one another to find solidarity, hope and the needed comfort.

As with any form of loss, grieving the death of a beloved musician follows the familiar stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Navigating the stages of grief should not be considered a path to closure but rather a journey in establishing a sense of self and some grasp at understanding amongst the loss. The process is uniquely complex for members of a music community, as each stage is intertwined with the artist’s body of work, their influence on us and the fumbling efforts to come to some form of understanding. Denial may manifest as an unwillingness to accept that the musician will never create new music, while anger may be directed at the unfairness of a life cut short.

Bargaining takes on a unique form as members of a music community may replay “what if” scenarios in their minds, imagining alternative outcomes that would have allowed the musician to continue making music. Depression may settle in as fans grapple with the void left by the artist’s absence, and acceptance becomes a delicate dance between honoring the musician’s legacy and embracing the inevitability of their departure.

While the pain of loss is profound, the legacy of a beloved musician — at any level of experience — endures through their body of work, the contributions to a music community, and the creation of art. Colleagues, fans and friends often find solace in revisiting the artist’s discography, discovering nuances in the lyrics and melodies that take on new meaning in the context of personal and collective grief. The music becomes a bridge between the past and the present, allowing fans to maintain a connection with the artist even in their absence.

Music has always held a special and unique healing force in our lives. In the midst of grief, music has the power to serve as a healing force. Fans may find comfort in the familiar strains of a favorite song, using music as a therapeutic tool to navigate the tumultuous emotions associated with loss. Cover performances by fellow musicians, tribute concerts, sharing of photos, and posthumous releases become cathartic experiences, providing the music community with an opportunity to collectively mourn while celebrating the artist’s enduring impact. The love that they created remains with us if we can only find it and see it.

The death of a beloved musician does not mark the end of a relationship with the artist; rather, it transforms into an enduring bond that transcends a physical realm. Fans continue to carry the torch of the musician’s legacy, introducing their work to new generations and ensuring that the impact of their artistry is not forgotten. In this way, the community becomes the custodian of the artist’s memory, keeping the flame alive through shared stories, photos, traditions, and the perpetuation of the music itself.

The grief experienced by members of a music community when a beloved musician passes away unexpectedly is a complex and deeply personal journey. Music’s profound impact on our lives elevates the loss beyond the realm of simple fandom, creating a unique and enduring connection that transcends time. As music fans and supporters navigate the stages of grief, music becomes a source of solace, a bridge between the past and the present, and a recognition of artistic expression’s enduring power and beauty. While the pain of loss is undeniable, the legacy of a beloved musician lives on through the hearts and ears of those who continue to find comfort, inspiration, and connection in the melodies and lyrics that once emanated from the now-silent stage.