18 aug 2026

passion pit at the bellwether / los angeles, CA

the more you try the eraser…

I walked into the Bellwether a few minutes into the first song. When it’s over, the lead singer turns to thank us for showing up.

“I don’t know what to say at these things anymore— I’m 39,” he remarks. 

I laugh to soothe the ache in my chest. The first time I saw Passion Pit live was the summer before I started high school. I had just turned fifteen. At that point, the trajectory of my future was undecidedly decided. I’d already been introduced to music as a lifestyle, but I still wanted to be a songwriter, professor, celebrity, an author, and politician. The proverbial small-town-girl.

[17 may 2015] passion pit at the observatory north park / san diego, CA

Later that year, in November, Michael Angelakos came out as gay. I remember this disclosure came much to the confusion of Passion Pit fans, who had spent nearly three years absorbing Gossamer, the band’s sophomore album— dedicated entirely to Angelako’s wife. Around the same time Angelakos began advocating for mental health, mostly through Twitter and in interviews. At least from the outside, it seemed like nothing had really changed. Michael was still the same person, only from a new lens. Kindred had just come out in April. The second song on that album was none other than an apology seemingly made out to his wife, Kristina.

While he’d been fairly open about his diagnosis with bipolar disorder, the band’s first two albums hid those dark themes underneath thick synth pop flare. The lyricism of Manners (2009) and Gossamer (2012) was hardly intelligible through Angelakos’ intoxicating falsetto, intended to stand out among layers and layers of synthesizers and keyboards. Once it’s realized, though, it becomes difficult not to notice Michael’s pleas for help crying through stories of drunken nights and relationship turbulence. Gossamer is a 48-minute first person account of alcoholism and mental illness sugarcoated with sickly sweet, pink, pop persuasion. I understood it, and I was living it. Though he’d been legally ejected from my life in 2014, I’d only begin processing what we’d gone through with my dad at the end of 2016— two years after being granted my freedom.  I didn’t understand how my feelings could be so profound when my life had just started. I didn’t relate to my peers who could know anger without pleasure, pain without pardon, or happiness without grief, but mostly, I couldn’t understand what could make a man so angry. Gossamer verbalized what it could be like to experience mental illness as an adult. It was an insight into the thoughts that turn a person into the unreliable narrator of their own lives. I could understand that artistry is honesty, but it holds no obligation to reality. It’s funny in retrospect how much I relied on indie music to understand myself better. For whatever reason, tolerating the world around me was best articulated by a twenty-something year old white dude. Angelakos was one of many I’d grow an affinity for. 

The last time I saw Passion Pit live was on my eighteenth birthday. The plan had changed, but by May of my senior year, I could’ve sworn head to toe that I had everything thought out. I’d been accepted to university by then, fallen in love for the first time, made incredible friends I’d want to spend my twenties with. None of those things worked out.

There’s something comforting yet surprisingly terrifying about watching a man make his living on stage in a sweat-soaked plain gray t-shirt, barricaded by keyboards. I think it’s the physical manifestation of evidence that providing for myself through music and touring is possible, just exceedingly difficult. For as long as I can remember, musicians have floated my lust for life until I could figure it out for myself. It hurts to watch them struggling to make ends meet or with their self-concept. It stings when an album cycle doesn't simulate the hype surrounding the one before it. The gaps between releases get longer. Getting older and growing discouraged start to seem intrinsic.

When I get home, I plant myself at the base of the stairway and light up. I don’t think I’ve ever smoked more than I have in the last six months. I’m in my third year at UCLA. I still blast the same indie sleaze and there’s not a single person I loved when I was eighteen that I don’t love and long for now. Even the ones I haven’t seen since then. Especially the ones that would rather never see me again.

I couldn’t feel further away from it all. When I listen to music, I look in the mirror. I travel through time. I’m omniscient. Music reminds me that the essence of most things has already happened. I am not the first person to feel the way that I do, and I will not be the last. Whether I am in remission or in denial, I’ve moved forward. I think Passion Pit has, too. It’s a privilege to be a part of their history, even with everything attached to mine. I would never undo one for the other. I’m choosing to believe they were always supposed to be linked.