Ten Concerts Later: Loving Music Unapologetically
There are a handful of artists I’ve been listening to consistently for over a decade. When you follow an artist that long—especially one whose music you consume in copious amounts during your formative years—you feel like you’re on a journey together. Their art progresses as you change. They age while you do. The memories tied to their songs multiply, shaping the soundtrack of your life. You also develop, or at least I do, a sense of loyalty and protectiveness over this artist who has been with you through the highs and lows.
My love for rap and hip hop stretches back as far as I can remember. As a young teen, I didn’t really know where to find music, so most of it came from my brother and his friends. Some of my earliest memories of feeling that ‘wow, I love this’ rush of emotion for music, were in the passenger seat of our mom’s car (sorry, Mom), with the bass turned all the way up as my brother blasted Lil Wayne. I vividly remember the first time I listened to Lil Wayne. The first time I heard Big Sean. Mac Miller. And G-Eazy. These are some of the artists whose music has been with me since those first listens.
Fast forward to this past weekend in Salt Lake City. A venue with a 2,500-person capacity, nearly full. The crowd pulsed with excitement, everyone waiting for that electrifying moment—the one you think about from the second you buy your ticket. The lights dimmed, the DJ faded out, and the energy in the room roared. G-Eazy rose from the center of the stage, framed by twin staircases, and started his set with One of Them, a classic featuring Big Sean from his 2015 When It’s Dark Out album. This wasn’t just any show for me; it was my tenth G-Eazy concert.
That realization—ten shows, over a decade of listening—sent me down memory lane. I thought about how much life I’ve lived alongside his music. One show I saved for a month, working shifts at an ice cream shop to cover the ticket and gas for a three-hour round trip drive. A couple of shows were birthday presents (though I ruined the surprise by demanding proof because I couldn’t risk missing out). One show had fewer than 100 people in the audience. Another filled a 7,200-seat arena. One was an album release party (one of my favorite stories). One was at a sprawling indoor/outdoor venue, and I ended up watching from monitors with no view of the stage. Each show brought its own set of memories: who I was with, the excitement I felt, and how every single time, G-Eazy would say, “You could be anywhere in the world, and you’re here, so thank you.” And every time, there was nowhere else I’d rather have been.
In my early teens, I loved music fiercely and without reservation. If you told me my favorite artist wasn’t the best, I’d argue otherwise with the confidence of a stubborn teenager. By college, though, my relationship with music had deepened. I’d immersed myself in the history of rap and hip hop, adding old-school legends like Nas and A Tribe Called Quest to my playlists. I knew who the greats were, I appreciated the artistry, and growing up on the East Coast I was especially well-versed in Biggies discography. My love for jazz, neo soul, r&b, and artists like Lauryn Hill also expanded and became part of my nightly routine. My Erykah Badu record got many spins. I loved discussing music, especially as a way to spice up those endless small-talk scenarios where new friendships begin.
But, something happened here and there when I mentioned G-Eazy as one of my favorite artists. Responses like, “You really think he’s the best?” made me feel the need to explain that loving his music didn’t mean I thought he was the greatest of all time. There were moments I felt judged for my answer, as if my taste wasn’t good enough. That judgment seeped into me, and I started holding back, hesitating to share my love for his music.
Sometimes I’d meet judgment with cheeky defensiveness: “You’re just mad because he could steal your girl.” Other times, I’d passionately rant about his artistry—his knack for cohesive albums with themes, his old wave of innovative flips on classics like Runaround Sue, or the sheer work he’s put into his career. This wasn’t just his music to me; it had been the soundtrack to some of my darkest and brightest days. Of course I was protective of it.
Those moments came and went, and I let go of any shame. I stopped letting others’ opinions dictate my joy. Now, I love what I love—unapologetically. Whether it’s music, travel, work, hobbies, there’s no space to be ashamed from outside judgment. We have the choice to receive it, or to leave it. And I’ve learned to approach others with that same openness, swapping judgment for curiosity. Instead of dismissing someone’s favorite artist (which I’m sometimes tempted to do), I ask why. Sometimes the answer is simple, but often, especially when asking people who love music deeply, they share stories that reveal a deep connection, like I have with G-Eazy’s music.
Being a longtime fan gives you a unique perspective. You see the full arc of an artist’s career and feel like you’re part of the journey. That connection is powerful, and I’m lucky to share it with a few artists. This weekend’s show though, felt special. It was a bridge between my younger self and who I am now.
The last time I saw G-Eazy live was six years ago. Back then, I was untamed in ways I didn’t fully understand—a whirlwind of energy and impulse. Now, six years later, I’ve found more balance and clarity. This show felt like a chance to reconnect with that wilder part of me, but in a way that’s more grounded. Being fully present, I could feel the music hitting just as hard—maybe harder—and it reminded me of how far I’ve come. G-Eazy’s latest album, Freak Show, which he’s currently touring, reflects a similar growth. Of course there are some classic bangers and mentions of wild nights and cases of Casamigos, but it also dives into themes of loss, anxiety, identity, and love—things that resonate with me deeply.
The show started to come to an end and I knew there would only be one or two more songs. The last full song of the night was Lady Killers III, and it was like a collision of past and present. For a moment I thought he was playing the original Lady Killers, and one note in I was transported back to my teenage self at my first concert in 2013, ‘scream singing’ (as my high school friends and I called it) the chorus with utmost joy. Then, as the new version unfolded, I was right there in the present, singing every word. The joy was immense—an unleashing of the untamed inner child, a reminder of how much I’ve grown, and how much joy there’s still to be experienced.
That moment wouldn’t have been possible if I’d let others’ opinions sway me. So here’s my message to you: love what you love, and love it with passion. Celebrate the music that lights you up, and don’t let anyone dim that spark.
If there’s a song you unapologetically love, send it my way on IG. Let’s share the music that makes us feel alive.
