09/04 @ Tanglewood, Lenox MA

“It struck me how, in this moment, though quite far removed from one another, both Isbell and I were grappling with the passage of time, the mysteries of the universe that brought us to these specific spaces and moments.”

By the time I drove out to Lenox on Friday, the universe had already smiled upon me three times throughout the week. Nothing life changing, just three odd coincidences that worked in my favor, the first of which being this Isbell show. I had already bought lawn seats as another writer was set to review the show, but seeing as they were unable to make this new rain date, I landed their tickets inside Tanglewood’s Shed. A stroke of luck indeed.

From the minute I stepped onto those grounds, gazing up at the looming pines, surveying the lush green lawns, I was starstruck. I had heard this venue discussed, even seen it in movies (shoutout Bradley Cooper in Maestro), but I had never set eyes upon it myself. In truth, I nerded out. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I was there to do my job. I mean, in my real life, I’m setting up a classroom and making copies for the first day of school (and, no, those first day nightmares don’t go away when you’re on the other side of the desk, in case you were wondering). This night seemed to be yet another blessing from the universe I was not about to let go unacknowledged.

We walked along the path around the grounds, then among the maze of small trees to discover the hidden treasures among the small pockets — a whispering bench, a sun dial, a bust of Aaron Copland, who I now know had his ashes scattered near that very site. And the lawn itself! The flat expanse had picnic blankets with real picnics, families, couples, and friends scattered amongst it in a way that felt elegant, yet communal. In short, I was in love.

Giddy now, we took our seats just over a dozen rows back from center stage, our view fairly unimpeded as much of the crowd had not yet arrived when Patty Griffin began her set. She took the stage in a blush pink pantsuit, a fuschia top underneath, her wavy blonde hair and overall style something I can only aspire to have at 62. Alongside her were her guitarist and drummer, at the ready as she glanced at the crowd, as if beckoning them in, and conspiratorily unveiled that she’d be beginning with a Mexican ghost story. It was her 2025 track, “All The Way Home” delivered with a haunting rasp and slight edge of sweetness. She had the crowd in the palm of her hands by the time she reached the end of the first chorus, singing “They laid me to rest and hoped for the best, but that’s the one place that I’ve never known.”

The one-hour set was a masterclass between Griffin and her guitarist, David Pulkingham, evoking the best tropes of classic folk music without ever feeling trite or tired. Pulkingham commanded the room with his fast-changing riffs, though in a way that complemented Griffin’s singing rather than stealing attention from it. They left space for each other, her elongated vocals in the choruses and his dexterous breaks in the bridges, often coming together to play facing one another, their onstage chemistry lighting up The Shed.

Similarly to “All The Way Home,” many of the songs she played throughout the evening were dark in tone and content, from the pain of Civil Rights activists she captured in “Long Time,” inspired by a recent trip to The National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama, to “Born In A Cage,” inspired by the thousands of missing persons across the country that too often go overlooked or forgotten. While she did play a country ballad and offer an ounce of occasional softness, it was in the moments of discordance that she showed her true prowess. At one point, I found myself unable to move around in my seat because I was so enraptured by her performance. After each bout of discordance, though, she left us with that holy resolve, which was just how she ended her set.

Following what felt like mere minutes, the bells near the stage rang aloud, signaling the audience to find their seats once more for Isbell. It was announced that, by the artist’s request, the show would be phone and camera-less, though far fewer audience members followed that request than I would have hoped. Despite that frustration, however, it was almost immediately into Isbell’s set that it dawned upon me: the universe did want me at this show.

I’ve been acquainted with Isbell since his Drive-By Trucker days. In fact, he’s been performing exactly as long as I’ve been alive. Growing up, I frequently heard him in the car, on CD players in the house, and his songs (and social media posts) would eventually be sent back and forth in my family group chat. Now, in an odd twist of fate, I was sitting at the show with my fiancé, thinking about how Isbell was on his list of “must-see artists,” while remembering countless childhood moments sitting on the polyester seats of the Honda Odyssey, listening to my dad remark at how talented of a songwriter Isbell was.

And so, the emotional person that I am, I shed several tears only a few songs into the set as he sang his 2025 song, “Gravelweed.” His lilting delivery, half-running half-walking over each word, makes it feel as though each time he performs is a new confession, the lyrics tumbling out one after another. As any Isbell fan knows, his songs lend themselves to that style, with lyrics like “And now that I live to see my melodies betray me, I’m sorry the love songs all mean different things today.”

It struck me how, in this moment, though quite far removed from one another, both Isbell and I were grappling with the passage of time, the mysteries of the universe that brought us to these specific spaces and moments. While I’m sure much of the audience was simply enjoying themselves rather than winding themselves into a universal frenzy, I’m also sure that I couldn’t have been alone in my contemplations.

As if doubling down on this theme of time and the unexpected places it takes us, Isbell played a set that included songs from all eras of his career, including three songs from Drive-By Truckers — “Outfit,” “Decoration Day,” and “Danko/Manuel.” The crowd was excited for these tracks, but the energy really spiked with fast-paced, guitar-heavy hits like “Super 8,” “24 Frames,” and “King of Oklahoma,” all of which had the crowd on their feet singing along. With a six-piece group, at times including three guitars or two sets of drums, plus the bass and keys, they filled up The Shed, taking many breaks for the guitars alone to shine.

During the post-show car ride debrief, my fiancé and I reflected on the difference between the clarity in Griffin’s voice versus Isbell’s. While Griffin’s voice was more melodic, it was harder to discern each lyric; Isbell’s voice was unique in that rough-around-the-edges way, though each word was clear. In the end, we decided it was the difference in how each saw their practice: Griffin uses her voice as an instrument, Isbell uses it as a vehicle to get his lyrics across.

To me, this was nowhere more obvious than on 2020’s “Dreamsicle,” where Isbell utilized a well-placed emphasis on the lyrics that evoked desperation and yearning. On the phrases in the chorus, “folding lawn chair” and “swore you’d be there,” he managed to both punch through the words and extend them, forcing me to dwell on the images of a kid staring up at the stars on a warped plastic chair, faded by sun and set upon burnt out grass, hopelessly wishing that things would turn up his way after his parents failed him yet again.

Adequately summing up our trip through time and emotion, Isbell played the song I most love and hate as part of his encore. Looking through common first dance songs earlier this summer, I quickly came to the conclusion that I could never choose “If We Were Vampires” because I cry every. Single. Time. I hear that song. I really do love it, but I also really do skip it every time it comes on lest I be thrown into a confusing spiral of sadness and love. I just barely held it together until he began the second verse, with perhaps one of the greatest lines of all time, “If we were vampires and death was a joke, we’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke, laugh at all the lovers and their plans, I wouldn’t feel the need to hold your hand.” I teared up just writing that. I’m serious.

While I was still reeling from my heart shattering, the band played us out with an energetic “King of Oklahoma,” complete with several lengthy guitar riffs and whoops from the crowd. Soon, we were back in the car, crossing the border to New York, grateful for the experience that both Griffin and Isbell had given us.