Blog

An evening with a songstress


 

Last Friday night she played the Bell House, a music venue found in the Gowanus part of Park Slope in Brooklyn. It's down a mostly deserted alley, lined with storage compartments and seemingly abandoned garage space. Seemingly a secret in itself, the place is actually a host of great local and national talent and variety. From holding beer competitions, to showcasing Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black's stand-up comedy routine, to booking indie-pop vets The Appleseed Cast and newcomers like Holly Miranda (of the Jealous Girlfriends), the Bell House usually isn't at a loss for entertaining. 

Most of the other bands that night (Animal Hands, Great Lakes, and The Brunettes) played on stage with more than one member. There's usually something about a full band that automatically creates a throbbing, dynamic appreciation for live music. Whether it's the drummer pouncing toward the back of the stage as the frontman looks on, or the bassist plucking away side by side with the lead guitarist wildly gyrating — in some respects, the more really is the better. 

Which brings me to Sharon's sparse set, where she and only she takes the stage with her lonesome guitar. Standing front and center, about a dozen spotlights shine in her direction, not only alluding to some kind of star quality, but also in a way blinding her a bit. "It's so bright up here, I can't really see or tell if there's anyone out there…are there people?" she said into the mic, half kidding, half serious. The singer-songwriter seemed shy by nature and often was very soft-spoken when talking in between her songs. Again, the smallness, or maybe meekness, showed itself. Her vulnerability was endearing, her fragility contagious.

The room itself was quiet throughout her set. We in the crowd even inched closer to the stage so that she would know we were there for her. Eyes were fixated on the way she'd lightly strum at her guitar and the way her neck would bend to the right and then to the left as she let out truly beautiful sounds, singing about love and growing to be independent. 

It seemed the fibers of her little body poured into each word. And while her songs moved in a sort of angelic yet vulnerable aura around her, the backdrop of the pitch-black stage behind her worked like an eerie setting out of a fairy tale.
 
There she was serenading, almost mesmerizing the audience. One moment it's Brooklyn, the next we are in a world that she's tailored with her music. And at that moment, I think we all agreed her world was better than ours.
 
To listen to Sharon Van Etten's music, check out her website.  

Dear Reader, In The Fray is a nonprofit staffed by volunteers. If you liked this piece, could you please donate $10? If you want to help, you can also: