Staring At The Sun
I've often heard that people make their most significant musical discoveries between the ages of sixteen and twenty. It’s no coincidence that this is also the time when many start experimenting with other symbols of independence—driving, sex, drugs, and alcohol. Music becomes the soundtrack to these moments, often leaving an indelible mark that outlasts the memories themselves, making the songs clearer and more meaningful than the experiences they accompany.
By 2003, I was well past those prime years of musical discovery. I had postponed adulthood by playing in bands, working at a record store, and eventually opening one with a friend when we were both twenty-five. The best part of my life back then was the sheer volume of music I was exposed to without much effort. The downside? I knew so much about music that it became harder to be surprised, let alone excited. Most CDs we received at the shop could be described as "Band A meets Band B, fronted by Band C’s singer." As a record store owner, this skill was useful, but it also dulled the thrill of discovering something truly new.
I still remember that sunny afternoon in the summer of 2003 when I opened a yellow padded envelope from the Touch & Go label, always a priority at the store. Inside was a CD, its cover a blurred-out “WALK” sign on a quiet street, with some small, elegant script at the bottom reading: TV on the Radio. We immediately put it on, and a few of us stood around, unable to articulate what we were hearing. None of us could quite pin it down (though whoever identified the cover of Pixies' "Mr. Grieves" probably earned bragging rights). Instead of trying to explain it to our customers, we simply told them to trust us and add the $5.99 CD to their stack. It worked—we sold hundreds of copies of Young Liars.
"Staring at the Sun" is one of the rare songs that still hits me as hard today as it did on that first listen. So when I had the chance to hear TV on the Radio perform it live last Monday, it felt surreal. I've seen them live several times over the years, but not in over a decade and never in a setting this intimate—a small SoHo event space where the band performed in front of a replica of the iconic New York City bar, Max Fish. The show, unadvertised and the band’s first in five years, felt in the best way like a warm-up for their upcoming gigs in New York, L.A., and London.
Nothing about the performance felt like a nostalgic trip or an attempt to recapture past glory. Instead, the band seemed almost unaware of the odd surroundings, playing with a casual brilliance. There was no fancy PA, no light show, and the stage was so low it was hard to see the band. But when I caught a glimpse of them, they looked like they were having fun—something I’ve come to value more at shows these days.
I can’t wait to see TV on the Radio on a bigger stage in November, and I feel incredibly lucky to have experienced "Staring at the Sun" live in such an intimate setting, twenty-one years after that unforgettable first listen.
These recent episodes of Identified are two of my favorites. Both were recorded at SXSW in Austin earlier this year, where these artists were promoting their new albums.
My conversation with Hermanos Gutiérrez almost didn’t happen due to a scheduling mix up. Once we sorted it out and I met Alejandro and Estevan, they seemed surprised to not be discussing their new album, or music at all. Needless to say, I was a bit worried. But within about 30 seconds, I was captivated. This was my first time with more than one guest—in this case, two Ecuadorian-Swiss brothers who play music together—so more than an interview, this felt like I was watching a really good TV show. The brothers were warm, open, and an absolute pleasure to meet.
Fabi Reyna and I have many experiences in common: growing up the only child of a single mother, finally meeting our fathers later in life, and eventually learning about distant siblings. When we chatted in Austin, we discussed her experience growing up in Mexico, phone calls with her imprisoned father, and how her work as the artist Reyna Tropical is inspired by a desire to further amplify the voices of women, and non gender conforming people.
Fifteen episodes of Identified are live now. Episode one is with Karen Ayers, a living descendant of the man who enslaved my paternal ancestors. After that, it’s a rapidly growing list of musicians, comedians, authors, chefs and friends talking about family. A new episode will drop every Thursday for the foreseeable future. Identified is available on all major podcast platforms, 100% free and ad-free. You can watch short video clips on YouTube and Instagram.
I hope you’ll give Identified a listen and share it with others who might enjoy it.
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My memoir is called My Life in the Sunshine. You can order it here, or listen to the audiobook on Spotify.
I hope to see you somewhere soon. Upcoming events are always listed here.
Nabil Ayers / Brooklyn
They were always so electric.