Underdressed and alone at the symphony
The last person you would ever expect to see at the Faye Webster concert in Manila is your ex-boyfriend.
But there he is, on a rainy Monday evening, nearly six years after the fact. It feels like the world stops dead in its tracks. And for a while it really does—the moment we lock eyes and hold each other’s gaze, there is an immediate tension of “Should I do something? Should I not?” that lasts just a couple of beats too long. I eventually break the silence. Polite “Hello, how are you?”s are exchanged, we ask each other questions we already know the answers to, and I awkwardly end the conversation by saying I am going to head to the restroom.
I don’t. I walk around aimlessly for the next hour or so, nursing an overpriced beer and watching the sea of people pouring in to see the Atlanta-born singer-songwriter despite the torrential downpour. Funnily enough, the moment feels strangely Faye Webster-esque. It’s like a scene pulled out from Tttttime off her most recent record, Underdressed at the Symphony. In the track, she croons, “I’m alone, but what’s new / I got t-t-t-t-t-t-t-time.”
It seems that every corner I turn, there are couples upon couples of the matcha-drinking, feminist literature-reading, tote bag-bringing variety. Some even showed up in smart-casual ‘80s workwear or sported the occasional Minion merch (an inside joke for Faye Webster fans). Either way, everyone seems to be holding hands or wrapped in a warm embrace.
But there I am, clad in a plain, all-black outfit—underdressed and alone at the symphony.
Before I know it, the house lights dim. The crowd erupts in deafening screams. Webster and her band walk onto the stage and launch into the first song of the evening, But Not Kiss. Sonically speaking, it’s one of the more appropriate songs in her discography to open a show with. The track is relatively more energetic, has a more pronounced drum beat, and includes a section where the crowd can scream, “Yeah! Yeah!” However, lyrically, Webster grapples with craving intimacy and not wanting it at the same time.
The band swells with every passing note, the crowd growing restless as they scream back to her, “We’re meant to be but not yet / You’re all that I have but can’t get.” It’s funny thinking about how this is typically the energy reserved for high-octane, happier-toned concerts. And yet, here we all are, singing about wanting someone you can’t have.
Those feelings of melancholy and quiet trepidations about love and loneliness have come to define Webster’s unique sound. It’s the reason why she, along with other prominent female artists like Clairo, have become the poster women for the tender-hearted. What some may describe as boring and cyclical—Webster’s writing style often includes multiple repetitions of a specific phrase—actually evokes such a deep feeling in listeners. You can’t help but gravitate towards her work.
The sentiment is definitely shared among the Manila audience. Song after song, one heartbreaking lyric after another, we sing every line back to the artist in harmony. Whether it is the grungy, buzzy guitar-driven Lego Ring or the sophistipop leanings of Thinking About You, you are compelled to sway and sing along.
As I nurse (yet another) overpriced beer, my eyes trail to the crowd surrounding me. I barely make out their faces against the glow of the stage lights, but you can see their silhouettes as bright as day. Around me are concertgoers leaning on the shoulders of their partners, or arms wrapped lovingly around waists, or the timid brushing of fingers.
By the time Webster and her band play Lifetime—a song often used for weddings or anniversaries by the cool and hip crowd—I catch the couple a few meters away from me start to step into a slow dance. I watch their hands slowly intertwine with each other, the man’s other hand on the small of her back. He twirls her around as Webster sings out, “Can’t imagine me before you / In a lifetime.”
I look away, almost embarrassed to peek into a strangely intimate moment. My friend, a fellow writer, sees the pair and makes the age-old Filipino joke that they’re just going to end up in heartbreak down the line. I laugh. I sneak another glance and see the girl closing her eyes, her head resting on her partner’s chest, the two still swaying to the beat of the drum.
Suddenly, there it is: a familiar feeling burrowing its way in my gut. It wasn’t cringe or disgust, but the twinge of jealousy. Because underneath all the snark, or the cynical jokes about love, exists the version of me that once slow-danced to the same lyrics in a dimly lit college apartment. Or perhaps it was the version of myself who couldn’t stop smiling on the commute back to the dorm, listening to the singer-songwriter crooning, “The right side of my neck still smells like you.” It might’ve even been the version of myself lying in bed, blushing, while Webster sings through my earphones, “Haven’t written a song in a minute / Haven’t been in love in forever / But I’m looking at you, looking at me / At every possible angle.”
Now, the Faye Webster songs that soundtrack my life are slower and more melancholic. I traded in my “Baby, tell me where you wanna go / Give you everything I have and more” for “How did I fall in love with someone I don’t know?” Less Lifetime, more But Not Kiss.
Before I know it, an hour is over. Webster thanks the audience before launching into her last song for the night: her breakout single, Kingston. Filinvest Tent erupts into ear-deafening cheers for the last time. The love song, which gained resurgence on TikTok a couple of months back for the lyric, “He said ‘Baby,’ that’s what he called me / ‘I love you,’” feels like yet another ironic end to my moody night.
The shape that music takes up in our lives changes and evolves as time goes on. That’s the magic of it; you never experience the same song, in the same moment, twice. It’s to live in nostalgia, despite there being a thin line between reminiscing and obsessing over the past. However, if there’s anything Faye Webster’s music has taught me, it is that you don’t have to act on memories. They can simply exist as feelings. The past can exist as just another moment.
On the trip back, with rain pouring down the windows of the cab, I text my ex that it was nice to see him again, and to take care on the way home. He replies, wishing me the same. My thumbs hover over the keyboard. My mind races—should I ask him what he thought of the concert? A question that I forgot to ask in the 20 seconds we talked? How do I continue the conversation?
Instead, I turn off my phone. I rest my head on the car window. Because whatever it was, it was just a moment. And that’s all it has to be. I listen to Kingston on the way home.
