The trio began with “Gay Agenda,” a single from Shamir’s upcoming album Heterosexuality about the power in escaping the “boxes” of gender and sexuality. They were backed by Rhea Freed on drums and Grant Pavol-whose long hair, sideburns, and jeans contributed to the 70s look-on bass. (Shamir identifies as nonbinary and uses he/she/they pronouns “I don’t wanna be a girl, I don’t wanna be a man,” they sing on the new single “Cisgender.”) Shamir emerged from stage left in a flower print shirt, a blue hat with a flower on it, rainbow checkered pants, and a sunflower choker.

(Raleigh’s strict noise ordinances kept the concert on a tight schedule.) Shamir is Shamir Bailey, a Las Vegas-born and Philadelphia-based artist whose gorgeous countertenor has been weaving deftly from genre to genre since their 2014 EP, Northtown. The opening act, Shamir, took the stage right at 8 p.m. So when the lights dimmed and the show began, it felt like a surprise, even though I had bought my ticket in October. The only way to deal with it all is to dispense with the future altogether. Pick a date in your calendar, plan a trip, and surely something must go wrong between now and then.

It has been nearly two years now of cancellations, postponements, disruptions, and disappointments.

My mere presence at the show seemed magical, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one there who felt that way. Waiting in line in the cold felt like a blessing. But after a call to a towing company and a short walk along the side of the interstate, we were picked up by another friend and arrived at the Ritz with a half-hour to spare. Then the car hit a deep pothole and we fishtailed to a stop on the shoulder. on the evening of the show, driving to Raleigh. Somehow I found myself in the back of a car at 6 p.m. One misstep, and I would pass the night of the concert in isolation, listening to Courtney Barnett through earbuds instead of a PA system. Late January provided an abundance of snow-and also coronavirus exposures. But as the date loomed, so too did the specter of the omicron variant. I had bought a ticket to the concert months earlier I had secured a ride my Courtney Barnett shirt was washed, folded, and ready to be worn. Even before the rear passenger-side tire of my friend’s car blew out in the middle lane of I-40, I had convinced myself that I would not, in fact, be seeing Courtney Barnett at the Ritz on Jan.

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