Postcard From STFU

A Plea. A Playlist. And The Secret Sauce of Life.

Well, damn.

I hadn’t planned on my first ever music post here at With Gusto to be an f-bomb laced rant—but here we are (and trust me, it comes with good reason).

Respectfully, I don’t know if you’re one of the ones who desperately needs to hear this, I genuinely hope you’re not—but if you are—kindly slip this postcard between a magnet and your refrigerator door. Preferably, at eye-level.

Let it serve as a (not so) subtle reminder that silence is Golden.

And sometimes, we all need to know when to STFU.

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Maybe I should begin this by explaining just how important music is to me—and just how pivotal a role it has played throughout my life and my travels.

I can’t count the amount of times I’ve been alone wandering the streets of some strange land, only to be stopped in my tracks—allured around a corner or into a Café—by a pleasantly unknown song or melody.

Or the amount of times I’ve been riffing in deep conversation with strangers, turned friends, and when the subject suddenly skips to music (because it always does), how everyone excitedly starts trading their favorite band names like baseball cards.

I have playlist after playlist, stacked with music that represents a lifetime’s worth of beautiful encounters and adventures—all nostalgically etched into my heart & soul like a well-curated soundtrack to a movie that might be titled, “My Odyssey of World Travels.”

No, I might not be able to sing or play an instrument, but what I can do is after a few suds, cut a motherfuckin’ rug stake my claim that music, no matter the country or the cuisine, is indeed the secret sauce to life.

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This past Saturday was a night I’d had circled on my calendar for months.

Lo and behold, one of my all-time favorite bands, My Morning Jacket, was finally gonna be in Dallas at the same time I was—something that hasn’t happened in more than a decade.

Tickets weren’t outrageous, but they weren’t cheap either, $165/per.

But I didn’t bat an eye.

Because the last time I saw My Morning Jacket (two summers ago at Red Rocks) it was one of the most electric, soul-shifting concerts I’d ever been to.

The performance instantly pole-vaulted MMJ into my Top 5 of Modern Day Bands—and when we walked out from the show, I shouted to my buddy, Michael, “Sweet mother of Jesus, dat was the most epic show of me entire life!” (a few $10 beers + micro-dosing sometimes does that to my pronunciation)

While Red Rocks’ natural acoustics and towering sandstones aren’t a fair measuring stick, something about the show here in Dallas hit different—disturbingly different.

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Before I get into that, here’s a relevant little nugget you might not know about me: I am an extremely considerate human being.

Like, pathologically considerate.

Always have been, always will be.

And I’m not patting myself on the back here.

In fact, the reason my consideration runs so deep stems from growing up in an environment where I was constantly walking on eggshells. I learned to read the room, and how to respectfully be in the room, at a very early age.

A set of stories and circumstances for another time.

All that to say, since childhood, I’ve always carried an enormous amount of consideration with me wherever I go. But especially in close quarters. On crowded trains, in sacred temples, at frantic food stalls—and yes, even at lawless rock-n-roll concerts.

So when we showed up Saturday night, I was present, considerate, and fully prepared for another epic, soul-tilting performance.

Given the slightly steep ticket prices and the band’s loyal, cult like following, I would’ve assumed most others would’ve felt the same way. But that assumption gives my fellow Texans way too much credit.

Because what unfolded around us damn near short-circuited my fuse.

The older couple directly to my left. The younger couple slanted to my 11 o’clock. The two thirty-something bros right in front of me. The handful of intoxicated middle-agers a few rows behind. And, lest we forget, the loud cowboy pacing up-and-down the aisle while also Face Timing his girlfriend who was laying topless in bed.

All of them, some at different times, others at the same time—chatting, snickering, and having full-on conversations throughout entire songs. Multiple times I turned my head in the direction of the loudest disturbance and exhaled a belly-emptying, “Shhhhh!”

Which did nothing but momentarily pause their voices.

Look, I know there’s always gonna be a handful of overzealous concert goers who sparingly talk too much. People are gonna people, right?

But fuck me seven ways to Sunday—never in my life have I been to a show where that many people, from that many angles, would not STFU.

I did my damndest to solely focus on the music, desperately not wanting all the noise to interfere with my experience. But it did.

My obsessively considerate mind could not stop my brain from repeatedly wanting to scream and shout—do you know where the fuck you are?

Do you realize some of us have spent years chasing this band? That the guy standing next to you might’ve maxed out his credit card to be here? That the woman in the row behind you might be hearing the song that carried her through her darkest hour?

So please, STFU.

Because music is sacred to some of us.

And you never know which song might be holding someone together, or which lyric might’ve given someone the strength to let go.

I get it, most human beings aren’t wired to think in that way—but still, why on earth would anyone pay good money to come to a concert and then behave like it’s a Hooter’s Happy Hour?

That’s something I can’t comprehend.

As I admitted, I am indeed overly considerate (and sensitive, and aware of my surroundings)—but good gravy, are silence and respect too much to ask for at a show nowadays?

It was a punch in the gut.

Not only because it made it difficult to sync with the music, but because it also highlights just how starved we are for presence and consideration—for the kind of collective respect and awareness that can make such populated experiences feel shared and magical.

The band still absolutely crushed it.

The light show was insane.

And in the moments when the collective energy was allowed to land, it was synchronistically undeniable.

But, on the whole, I walked away from the concert disappointed… in people.

Wishing we could remember how to shut the fuck up and listen.

Without dying to speak.

Without dying to be heard.

I’m writing this not to scold or preach—but to plant a flag.

A flag that represents more than “a rant about a concert.” A flag planted as a reminder that in a world constantly screaming for your attention:

Silence is a gift. Presence is a gift. Consideration is a gift.

And music?

Music is the secret sauce.

To be drizzled and to be shared as much as humanly possible.

So the next time you’re lucky enough to be in the room—please, I’m begging you—be in the room.

Allow the band, the music, and the people to do exactly what they came to do.

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Though the show didn’t turn out exactly how I would’ve scripted, I’m still really excited to leave you with something special.

A short My Morning Jacket playlist I created just for you.

Please know that narrowing it down to only 12 tunes was torture for me, but I know people are often less likely to crack into new music when overwhelmed by where to start.

So here’s a proper starter’s kit—made up of 12 tracks that have followed me across oceans, borders, and seasons of life.

PLAYLIST: MMJ 4 With Gusto (click here!) 🎸

The best part?

You get to listen without noisy, inebriated neighbors.

Just you. The music. And whatever mood you currently find yourself in.

Now, do us both a favor… press play and enjoy the sauce!

Oh, and for the love of God, while listening—please don’t utter a word.

With Gusto,

Adrian 🤘🏼

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