On June 25, 2024, I saw Searows, or singer-songwriter Alec Duckart, live. I’ve been a fan since my first year, so when I saw that tickets were only five bucks on SeatGeek, I immediately bought them. Searow’s first LP, “Guard Dog,” helped me adjust to college. Almost a week later, my dog would be put down. It must’ve been a brain tumor because nothing else could explain why blood streamed from her eyes. I try not to think of it for too long.
But, I often think of Alec standing on the stage, awkwardly moving the mic, addressing a dead quiet hall. He chose the Music Hall of Williamsburg, an intimate space with a tiny stage and an even smaller turnout. Weaving through bodies, I found myself in the middle of the pit. There was something rare about this concert. Most artists focus on portraying themselves as perfectly poised, and yet, Alec kept on repeating how uneasy he was.
I was about as nervous as Alec was. My knees were bloodied from tripping during my run, sweat was peeking through my shirt, and my mind was racing as fast as my heartbeat. I brought a new friend to the concert and I desperately wanted her to enjoy his music, especially since “Guard Dog” was so special to me.
After ten minutes of fiddling with his acoustic guitar, he began singing. The entire crowd was silent as his voice echoed throughout the hall. It felt like singing even a single word along would bring dissonance. Alec’s voice was incredibly clear as a result of this silence and, in the vacuum of his stage, I found myself alone. It was as if he was singing only to me — to tell me something I needed to hear.
“And I don’t cry anymore/Except when I do, which is most nights/And I’ll try not to lie anymore/Or call it a symptom of fight or flight”
It was Alec’s vulnerability that struck me. I wondered why I kept these corners of myself – the hard, sharp ones – hidden. Why I couldn’t admit that I wish I took Willie out just a few more times, let her sniff the grass instead of rushing her, or brushed her coat a final time before I couldn’t anymore. Before she forgot her name, before she couldn’t see or hear, before her eyes pinned open like glossy marbles, before I couldn’t save her – before a slew of befores I’ve practiced forgetting. Sure, she was a dog. But it was horrible to witness beauty die an undeserved death.
“There are hands to be held and drinks to be spilled/I can and I will”
Needless to say, my summer was not the best. And yet, there were hands to be held and drinks to be spilled. My mom and I lounged on the couch, binging “Love is Blind.” My best friend and I rolled through the neighborhood, blasting Tinashe. I fought with my dad over “Jeopardy!” and I learned how bittersweet it feels to have your brother finally move out.
But, before I could see the beginning and end of my summer, for a moment on June 25, 2024, I listened. I heard “I Can and I Will” as an ode to life as a journey – a sum of its parts, many good, many bad. By writing about his experience so honestly, Alec opened a door to his audience’s vulnerability.
When we finally exited the hall, my feet drowned under the weight of movement. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to sit in Alec’s stillness. In the absence of guitar strings, where I could only hear gasping for breath, he was just someone trying, like me. There was no neat bow placed onto any of Searow’s songs. They fluctuated between joy and sorrow, never quite definitively landing on either. It was life encapsulated in six minutes and thirty seconds.
The concert and my summer sit within a pool of ambiguous feelings, where the more I swim, the harder I can find the surface. And yet, “I Can and I Will” carried me through the melancholy and ecstasy. Alec is right: we can and we will find our way back to the air.
“I wanted to be everything and I will/ ‘Cause I want it still”
We can, and we will.
