I saw Willi Carlisle perform live for the fourth and fifth time this past weekend. I guess you could say that I'm a bit of a fan. I'm no music journalist, but I couldn't live these experiences without writing something down.
I've been a Willi fan since I saw him open for American Aquarium back in 2022. His live show has come a long way since then, and my enjoyment has only grown with it.
My perspective of live shows is a little different than most. I am an ambulatory wheelchair user. For those not in-the-know, that means that I am a wheelchair user who still has the ability to walk/stand. Not terribly well, mind you. And the experience generally becomes painful after a bit. I use a forearm crutch in most day-to-day things, like when I need to walk at work. I won't get into the nature of my disability here, because, quite frankly, it's none of your business. Just know that if you see me at a show, I'll more than likely be in my wheelchair. I could write a whole other essay on the accessibility or lack thereof in the world of small concert venues. But I digress.
All of my Willi Carlisle experiences have been from the vantage point of my wheelchair. Some venues, like the ones I visited this weekend, are pretty awesome when it comes to making a built-before-the-ADA-was-a-thing building accessible for me. Whether it's a Rev Room security guard letting me roll through the side door, or the people at George's Majestic Lounge that promised me a view of the stage and then reserved me a spot right at the front, it's always nice to feel welcome.
And as far as Willi Carlisle's music goes, "feeling welcome" is what it all boils down to.
Willi Carlisle's stage presence is what I like to refer to as "delightfully midwestern." He refers to the audience as "friends" and "pals." He seems ever so slightly flabbergasted that all of us showed up to see him. It's incredibly personable. To me, at least?
There's another aspect to my perspective on shows and concerts. I am autistic. And not the counting cards, always knows the exact time of day, does complicated math in my head kind. I have the flappy-hands-when-I'm-excited, rocking back and forth, and couldn't-pick-up-a-stranger's-social-cue-if-my-life-dependent-on-it autism. Some people call it "high functioning," which is just a way for those people to judge how much my autism inconveniences them. The better term is "low support needs." Although even that is only half accurate. I'm lucky to have a few close friends that act as my support system. They are the circus to my monkeys. And I don’t know if it’s my autism or what, but I’ve never been able to act normal about something I love. So did I get me and my friend custom, matching, “Traveling Willbillies” shirts for one of the shows? Yes. Did I look cool? No. Do I care? Also no. Stay weird, folks. As the Fruit Bats once said, if you love something and “Bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood.”
So I'm the autistic one in the wheelchair. (Who usually has a mohawk. I'm hard to miss.) My love of live shows is twofold. One, I usually get introduced to new music that way, like when I go see a band I love and their opener is an approximately nine foot tall folk artist who, over the course of his set, plays half a dozen instruments and quickly has me singing along to songs I'd never heard before. Two, I love the bands I love because they say things that I feel within me. It's the same reason I love poets; because they've said something in such a way that makes me want to raise my hands and shout "Amen! Me too!"
That's Willi for me. Both when he’s proclaiming the evils of the ol’ wally world, or singing about life on the proverbial fence. I imagine the goal of every artist is to make something that their audience can see themselves in. And see ourselves in it, we do. Some people mourn bad fathers. Some people lament lost friends. Some people just want to do-si-do. Me? Who knows what it’s like to feel like I was born wrong? I tear up at the thought of a two-headed lamb.
There’s always been something about live music that reminds me of church. Or, at least, what church is supposed to be. Not even necessarily the high-energy sing-a-long part. But that sense that we are all in this–whatever this is–together. I leave you with this: a poem I wrote about going to punk shows. And if you don’t see the correlation between folk shows and punk shows, I’m not sure what can be done.
You're not strangers if you like the same band No. 1
by Sarah Wofford
Doors open at seven.
The show starts at eight.
Punk shows are a lot like church
where we all know the right places
to sit and stand,
to scream and dance.
And you never push anyone into the pit
who doesn't want to be there.
You only exist in the lyrics you scream
and--depending on the speakers--
in the soundwaves beating through your chest.
I swear to you, somewhere in all of this
is the secret to eternal youth.
You never grow old at a punk show.
Your jeans never get tight.
Your Converse never wear thin.
Your hair never goes gray.
You never meet strangers at a punk show.
You're all there for the same reason,
so everyone is a friend
whose name you don't know yet.
I'm not sure how it can be so special
when it happens all the time.
In dingy bars
and basements,
In high schoolers’ garages
and college dorms,
but it’s nigh-on transcendental,
metaphoric and magical,
and every punk show I’ve been to
has healed a little
of what the rest of the world has taken from me.
A punk show isn’t perfect
but if you stand close enough to the stage
it’ll almost feel like it is.