I walk to the Tesco Express, 2 minutes from my house, to buy coffee and take advantage of the air conditioning. I arrive and the fridges are empty. There’s a curtain covering the fruit and veg. The place looks like it’s been looted. Something’s broken and now they can’t sell 75% of their stock. I grab a bag of coffee and, as I’m about to pay, I’m caught off guard by those supersized cans of Diet Coke – 2 for £3 with a Clubcard.
I get home and put the massive cans of Diet Coke in the fridge. ‘Silver Dollar’ plays out of my speakers and I absorb the lyrics. The song distracts me from e-mails, from the brewing coffee which now resembles rocket fuel. I hear the track fully, completely, for what may be the first time. It’s a celebration of giving and receiving love unconditionally and that, plain and simple, sums up the song’s creator, Sierra Ferrell – the trailblazing, shapeshifting songwriter who’s playing a show tonight.
The Diet Cokes need several hours in the fridge. Possibly some time in the freezer. They’re room temperature, which is a sin. It’s a blistering 30 degrees. There isn’t even a breeze to take the edge off. Manchester is a place built for rain, not for heat. There doesn’t appear to be an escape. By the time I need to leave, one of the cans is (finally) cold enough.
I drink the supersized Diet Coke on the bus, which feels like a greenhouse, and head to Circle Square where I find the only cool spot left in the city. Drenched in shade, I start to feel a chill for the first time in over a week. After a few beers, everything becomes a little easier.
I am in a celebratory mood. Good news has flowed all day. An event I work for won an award. Phoebe Bridgers emerged from hibernation. Brandon Flowers announced a tour, supporting his new Country-Western album – a sentence that seems like a fever dream. Things are going right.
The sun starts to set and Manchester Academy is full and hot as Sierra Ferrell walks on stage and sings ‘Rosemary’. The rest of the world becomes unimportant. Life melts into the background. This is all that matters.
The band adds a razor edge to proceedings. ‘Dollar Bill Bar’ is propelled by a shredding electric guitar that transforms the song from a two step into a rock ‘n’ roll number, whilst ‘Chitlin’ Cookin’ Time in Cheatham County’ is dark and brooding.
I am focused and immersed, floating in and out of a trance-like state. I feel balanced, my breath slow and deep, like I am trying to fill my lungs fully, rather than simply take in enough oxygen to hang on.
There’s murder ballads. Love songs. Sad songs. Declarations of self-love. Then there’s an Oasis cover – seriously. ‘The Sea’ sends the venue underwater into a murky world of rough and ready rag-time jazz, straight from the streets of New Orleans. ‘Years’ is anthemic, arms aloft. New song ‘Kickin’ Up Dust’ has one couple break into a Texas two step. ‘In Dreams’ is stripped back, tender as ever, goosebumps breaking through in the hot and sticky sauna. ‘American Dreaming’ is glorious. A sing-along anthem that ties the show together, unifying the room as a choir. Du du du du du…
This is the deep breath that was needed. My shoulders relax. The air becomes clearer. A few days later, I’m walking through a botanical garden in south Manchester. I find a shaded spot and read for an hour. Stomach rumbling, I grab a sandwich from the cafe and finally, it starts to rain.
The days after the gig are easier, as if I’ve found the one pocket of clean air amongst the muggy humidity. Clear head, clearer thoughts. Decisions made with certainty. No overthinking. I’ve seen several other gigs, including Shania Twain, and all of them have filled my cup. I’m at Milton Keynes train station singing and dancing along to Charley Crockett — his lost album, Clovis, has been found and released. I know in 3 days time I get to experience Sierra Ferrell again — the music, the community, the feeling will all come back to me. My tank refuelled.
I play golf and don’t care about the score. Waiting on the tee, my friend begins humming ‘In Dreams’ and says it’s been stuck in his head since the gig, nearly a fortnight ago now. I’m not the only one who felt the power of the gig. It lingered amongst everyone who was in that room.
Two weeks later and it’s even hotter. The London smog traps the sun, holds it down and it fights back with flames. I find The Southampton Arms, order a beer and watch someone flip over the vinyl playing behind the bar. Someone’s smoking a joint outside and in the shade it gets even hotter. The vinyl ends and a customer starts playing on a piano.
Kentish Town Forum is full – floor to ceiling – and there’s a humming buzz as Sierra Ferrell’s UK tour prepares to come to an end.
There’s a feeling of love and earnestness throughout the show, particularly when Sierra laments celebrity culture throughout, defiantly telling the crowd ‘I’m just like you’.
More new songs are teased, one called ‘Pair Of Dice’ that rolls and rises. ‘Bells of Every Chapel’ is joyous and tender, a celebration of an instant love, whilst Sierra’s much-adored cover of ‘Don’t Let Me Down’ sees her marching from left to right, spinning and twirling, dancing throughout, as if she herself can feel the acceptance in the room and finally, she’s fully, completely relaxed.
There was no sign of rain, not down in London anyway. But 4 songs in, when I’d settled into my spot on the balcony and the opening notes of ‘Silver Dollar’ played I felt that deep breath once again.
I don’t want your silver dollar, no
I don’t want your wedding ring
All that I want is a place to surrender
All of the love I have inside of me
