Kelly Watch the Stars

a piece about musical time travel

Kelly swam upstream in the sea of middle aged men.

When their knees worked better and they had acne instead of crows feet, these men had this album on CD, maybe tape, but can’t claim vinyl - no one was buying vinyl in 1998.

Her “in” to “Moon Safari” had been from one of those guys in 2004, through a mix CD of indie darlings including Thievery Corporation and Tortoise. She had driven to his place of business on her lunch break to grab it through the car window. He had hurried out from his barely-minimum-wage job and she had to get back to her high school campus before AP Gov.

Indeed, most of her music tastes could be credited to this man, who was barely a man at the time and if a man at all, only in physical development. Her emotional and intellectual development surpassed him, even though she was only recently legally allowed to drive and he was a few years into legally drinking. He was the first one to go down on her, the first to remark her body was sexy, and the first one to give her an audiophile rabbit hole to fall into. An insecure sixteen-year-old’s dream.

Twenty years later, she was marching to the concert venue, nestled in the bougie family-oriented Manhattan equivalent of Astoria and Park Slope. She was in an Amoeba Music t-shirt-turned-crop-top, a snug fit due to it being purchased before her Prozac weight gain and during a particularly disordered eating period. The merch line was New Yorker swift, the drink lines full of white wines and hard seltzers. The seats were plush, perfect for all the middle aged hips that would rest in them and pray they didn’t have to stand after the opener was finished. Their Merrells were a backup for hours of standing, but a backup they’d rather not take.

She didn’t even think her ex-boyfriend could be there until she was snaking her way through the salt and pepper parental crowd, some men wearing oversized t-shirts and trail shoes. She dismissed the phantom limb sightings, leaning into the assumption that his Covid paranoia at large gatherings would come with a mask accessory. Racking her brain through the Rolodex of memories, she couldn’t recall any mention of the album among the Pearl Jam and LCD Soundsystem playlists. She decided it was a safe bet she could lean into the nostalgic spaceship ride, not get sucked into a more recent past of complicated regret.

Kelly texts the man who gave her the quality music taste, sending him a picture of the “Sold Out” marquee. He replies immediately, confirming she’ll have “a blast” and that he and his girlfriend loved it. She credits him once again for setting her on the right taste path, to which he replies “like so many other things with you, it was my pleasure”. She wishes she was on the same terms with her ex-boyfriend, a dynamic of loving detachment and hardly a trace of resentment. But then again, this Music Man never made any promises he couldn’t keep.

Arriving to her seat just as the opener was beginning, the balcony was dark and surprisingly full. The attendees clearly had a babysitter down payment made or perhaps a live-in nanny on retainer. Maybe there were some other childless people here, too, but considering the group of friends in front of Kelly’s row contained three pregnant women, she didn’t think she was in the majority. 

Going solo to a concert is typically 90% fun. The other 10% of “bummer” are for moments like that awkward time between the opener and the headliner, wanting to share an epic moment with a widening eye or hand squeeze, and - at a show like this one - a long slow kiss as hands wander against denim amongst the trippy lights and psychedelic beats. She overhears French chatter and a spilled beer narrowly misses her brand new white Filas. The guilty clumsy party scrambles to clean it with cocktail napkins, and she reassures them it’s no big deal. Eventually an event worker gives it a couple wipes of a mop, but the aroma of Stella Artois lingers for the rest of the concert.

As she sits watching the show, a part of her feels shame that she’s back at the body she had in high school: too large for a small and too small for a large. Though she has years of anti diet doctrine to logically subvert her internalized fatphobia, she doesn’t like how she feels in these high waisted jeans. 

The lights dim, and the combination of sticky stale beer smell below her feet, the melodious murmur of the synth, and the hypnotizing lights transport her to the time she received that burned CD containing “Kelly Watch the Stars”. 

It’s incredible to be in many places at once, a magic trick only art can do. 
Kelly is 16. 
Kelly is almost 36. 
Kelly is on her back in the Music Man's bed, bucking her hips as she looks up at his popcorn ceiling. 
Kelly is in her living room unpacking from a family trip. 
Kelly is making her own hips buck, alone in her dorm room. 
Kelly is in her classroom, observing everyone’s independent work. 
Kelly is in her Dodge Neon, too high to be driving but driving nonetheless. 
Kelly is in her plush chair wearing Express jeans that are too tight, gripping her tote bag and nodding along to the binaural beats that make her feel everything is in the right place.