Well, the show didn’t happen.
There’s something really special about outdoor concerts. I have performed many times on outdoor stages big and small, and attended many shows too, often surrounded by excited fans, kids dancing in the grass, and of course one or two drugged-out smiling weirdos near the stage twirling around awkwardly. In the midwest, the sun sets and lightning bugs come out as the orange evening light gives way to the glow of blue stage lights. And of course there’s that invisible, life-giving force connecting it all: music. Glorious rock music, a gift from God or evolution or both.
But for a second year in a row, intense lighting and wind storms prompted the City of Cincinnati, Ohio to cancel my band July For Kings’ outdoor concert. Last year, when an outdoor concert was cancelled we rallied and booked a club show for the very same night within a few hours. This year, we were unable to do so and instead returned to our jobs and whatever else without a lot of time to grieve. So here I am, doing a little wallowing. Thanks for humoring me.
When the show was canceled just a few hours before our set time, we were devastated. We really worked hard to rehearse a lot of material including some new songs. These things happen, yes, they do. And probably the best instinct is to shrug it off. Still, like people do, I spent some time trying to figure out where to place the blame. The city? They’re just trying to keep people safe. Wearing the wrong unlucky underwear? Our own optimism? C’mon lighting never strikes twice! And nobody can control the weather. Or at least that’s what they used to say. But that view is being tested lately by a prime suspect: climate change, and it’s not just a boogeyman.
As reported by WVXU, “Scientists say climate change is already causing more of these types of storms in the Midwest, because the atmosphere is warming and holding more moisture.” The severity and frequency of storms is increasing, and human-created carbon emissions is a part of that. While it’s true that these kinds of weather related cancellations have always happened, this summer forced me to consider how much of extreme weather is truly random. There are patterns now, and they’re getting impossible to ignore.
Weeks before leaving for Ohio, a local concert in Spokane was cancelled due to forest fire smoke. I had planned to take my son. Upon flying out of the smoke, arriving in Ohio and breathing that first breath of clean but muggy air I felt a sense of deep relief. But then, days before our Cincinnati concert was scheduled, I ended up spending part of an afternoon in my mother’s basement with her and my niece due to tornado warnings. Floods, winds and rains pummeled the area that week, and by the Friday our performance was scheduled, I was not terribly surprised at the result. A few days later as I was preparing to return from Cincinnati to Washington, Spokane itself caught on fire, the region’s worst natural disaster in recent memory.
The stories from the Spokane fires are terrifying, and the harrowing images look like they came from the upside down of Stranger Things or some apocalyptic film. This one was a wake-up call for many: forest fires are no longer confined to the forests (our neighbors texted and asked us to save their cat if our neighborhood in Pullman happened to catch fire too). Upon returning to Pullman, I found that the forest fire smoke I had left behind weeks before had yet to dissipate, and as of today the Palouse air remains a little hazy after well over a month of smoke blowing in from all sides.
Well here’s a thought I never had before: this planet sucks now. I mean, I am being hyperbolic. But with fires, storms, and floods, a little righteous anger at years of political inaction might be more useful than denial or apathy. For what is a planet if you can’t be outside?
All this makes me wonder if climate change is now accelerating the troubling anti-social trends we’re living through, just as the Covid-19 pandemic seemed to. Since being outdoors is less appealing and frankly less possible, we’re forced back inside, into our devices and away from physical communities of other people. It’s a well-documented fact that Americans spend less time together than they used to. There is a fun shortage that’s already creating economic barriers to gathering. Climate change threatens to make building community even harder.
In my own life, the most meaningful community I was ever a part of is the one I helped build with my rock band July For Kings, founded in the early aughts. We played hundreds of shows. And we built a modest following the old way: one show at a time in the decades when travel was cheaper, people were less distracted, and the planet was less angry. There are plenty of reasons I’ve continued to make music and committed to playing one or two shows a year, but a big part of it is the opportunity to escape the internet and hang with old friends. There is hardly anything better than being in community at a concert with hundreds of people. Did I say that already? What a bummer! Am I being dramatic?
The truth is I should feel grateful. I’m not asking for sympathy here I’m just sharing my summer of climate change. I haven’t lost a home or a loved one to a fire or a flood, as many did this summer. I haven’t had to spend weeks or months of my life in battles with insurance companies, or with fire damage or smoke reclamation companies. I haven’t been displaced. The horrors of climate change are real and have been for some time, but haven’t been felt quite as acutely by so many until now. We’re at a tipping point. This summer has forced me to reckon with a new reality: you can no longer reliably plan to enjoy yourself outside on this planet. The earth is simply less hospitable to human life and activity than it once was. I hate this, and I hate to admit it myself, but I must.
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My seven-year-old son said something recently that gutted me. “I don’t mind the smell of the smoke. It smells like home.”
Here are some resources if you want to give money instead of helplessly doom scrolling or shaking your fist at the sky like I am:
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