Less of a slow burn and more of an obsession that leads to the type of tunnel vision that makes me blow up the rest of the world just to see it, hear it and feel it. That was the case when I decided to move from Atlanta, Georgia to New York City in 2018 — I said goodbye to my old haunts: all that compiled knowledge of when to show up and get seated immediately without a reservation, which dive let you smoke inside, and which bartender poured the strongest drinks. I also said goodbye to my friends, who still have my best secrets, to a house, a marriage, a Mini Cooper I miss dearly, and a whole list of other daily rhythms and rituals in exchange for what I fell in love with. 

But it wasn’t just New York City that pulled me in; it was music — live music spilling out of speakers you shouldn’t listen to without earplugs, sticky floors that the Strokes, The Killers, and Yeah Yeah Yeahs had played and spat on. Conversations with all the acts that had to pass through, all with the promise we must’ve all mediated on like a mantra — if we could make it here, we could make it anywhere. 

Eventually, I made new friends, and one of those friends, Yaz, convinced me to buy tickets for what would become a new annual tradition — seeing Hamilton Leithauser perform at the legendary jazz restaurant and celebrated cabaret lounge, Café Carlyle as part of his annual residency. The intimate venue located on the ground floor of the Carlyle Hotel is packed with shiny chairs and white cloth tables, and walls lush with blue and pink hues of famed artist Marcel Vertès’ paintbrush. The backdrop worked as a perfect juxtaposition for our taste in music — the gritty garage-punk romps Leithauser howled over on the tracks that had made their way onto our formative playlist from his former band, The Walkmen. Each year, we would put on our fanciest garb, get wavy off stiff martinis, and watch Leithauser,his band, and a very special guest (this year’s star-studded surprises included Leon Bridges, Maggie Rogers, Joe Talbot of IDLES, Alison Mosshart of The Kills, and more) and we would nosh on delicious food while enjoying a ridiculously gorgeous live set.

We went to see Hamilton play there for the first time in January of 2020, two years after the residency started. We sat at a table near the host stand, and ran into Emilio, whom I’d met two days earlier at an artist interview. United over our clearly good taste in music and ability to clean up nicely while still radiating the energy of someone clearly more comfortable at a dive bar, we all became quick friends. 

The next year we couldn’t return because of COVID. When the would-be date of the residency passed, we all felt a notable pang of what we took for granted when we could roam freely. I wrote a sappy caption on Instagram, quoting Lana Del Rey: “I miss New York, and I miss the music, my friends and we miss rock and roll.” 

In 2022, in what now reads like an attempt to make up for that lost time, all three of us went back to the Café together — this time a little louder with a better memory of the setlist and stories in between —emphatic hand gestures during the building chorus of “A 1000 Times,” choreographed rocking during “The Bride’s Dad,” acting out each line of “Here They Come” giggling at each punchline in the banter between songs. Then, having a martini, another martini, and why not? Another martini. It was the year I sent a DM I still regret, Yaz lost her phone, and the three of us may or may not have gotten kicked out of a bar. I took a setlist home. It was my birthday. I had a ball.

The next year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Hamilton for NME before the show in a suite turned greenroom. We talked about The Walkmen performing again, his upcoming album, the post-punk revival heyday of 2000s New York City. By that point Emilio had started photographing the shows, which I like to take responsibility for having facilitated, after bullying him into getting me and Yaz’s photos absolutely right when forced to document us at the previous shows. But mostly it was just another sign of our insatiable love for music — we had to be closer, it had to be louder, we could not just like it — we had to be part of it. 

I remember the 2024 show because I was distracted and accidentally ordered what felt like a million dollars worth of Brussels sprouts and bottled water. It also spoke to how our lives had shifted over the years — Yaz’s amazing partner came with us and on the exact flip side of that, I was being sketchy because I was dating someone I said I definitely was not dating, so I loitered around the Upper East Side, waiting for my friends to leave so I could sneak to the other side of Central Park unnoticed. The following year, it was just Yaz and me in attendance because Emilio went on a different night with a date. And this year it was just the three of us in attendance again, and selfishly I was happy that it felt like we were right back where we started — through ups and downs, breakups and makeups, and even new favorite songs to belt out (I’m looking at you “Fist of Flowers”) old jobs, new gigs, and even a global pandemic — how sweet is it that we’ll always have the Carlyle?

I have a tendency to fall in love with things fiercely and fully. Less of a slow burn and more of an obsession that leads to the type of tunnel vision that makes me blow up the rest of the world just to see it, hear it and feel it. I love the painted walls of Café Carlyle, the consistency of Leithauser’s winter residency, knowing it will come again next March and I’ll be exaggerating a similar sassy shrug towards my friends while singing the words: “If the man that you need honestly wasn’t me, tell me, honey … who could that be?” during “The Morning Stars.” That I’ll emerge from the doors a bit buzzed, exhaling a customary “that was so good,” a grin painted on my face, and a renewed love once again for music, friendship, and the city beating in my chest.