![]() It’s an urgent pull to a place where you are not just understood, but seen whole. “But you came all the way from Canada for this, so you know what it’s like to need to see her.” I told her I’d never seen Carlile live and asked if she’d ever been to a show. I awkwardly and apologetically explained to the woman that I had just one ticket and I’d flown all the way from Toronto for the show, otherwise I’d let her have it. Outside the venue, fans milled about and shared stories of how far they’d traveled to be a part of this series of performances: There were people from cities like Chicago, Santa Fe, and Austin those who road-tripped with friends or flew in a father who’d never heard Carlile’s music but was there with his teenage daughter two sisters whose mother died two months before and was an avid fan of Carlile. It was January 2020, and the last night of a six-show run for Carlile. “Brandi Carlile is my whole life,” she said. ![]() “Is there someone I can call?” Through the tears, she explained that she had hoped there would be no-shows for tonight’s concert so she could snag a seat. Her face was in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. On the steps leading up to the front door of Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, a sacred hall affectionately known as the Mother Church of Country Music, a young woman sat weeping. ![]()
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