All the way back in high school, around my sophomore year, which would put me back in the year 2013, I was introduced to the song Hello My Old Heart by The Oh Hellos. At the risk of sounding unimaginative, the song resonated within me. The idea of building a wall, brick by brick, around your own heart, slowly and with quiet determination, filled me with images that captured my young, romantic mind.

Not content with listening to only that song from their EP, I decided to explore the remainder of their recently released album Through the Deep, Dark Valley. I was enchanted.

A curious element to my sudden love of the band was that, prior to most of this, I was considering myself a metalhead. Most of the music I listened to was metal or hard rock, and yet, over time, I was beginning to get a taste for folk. I couldn’t tell you why or how it all happened, but I knew that there was a sudden shift from only wanting to come across as dark and mysterious to appreciating the joy that folk music can embody.

The band fits squarely within the indie-folk rock (thanks, Wikipedia) genre. Their sound settled well with my love for the Celtic services (a much-needed breath of fresh air to the otherwise traditional hymns) that my church offered.

A secondary element was Tyler and Maggie Heath’s lyricism. Not only did the messages their words tug on my heart, but their strong literary references to Greek mythology, the Bible, and authors like C.S. Lewis made it feel intellectual, not just emotional. As a young man being raised in a Christian household and having just read a book on mythologies for class, none of the allusions or poetic language confused me; I could understand all of their lyrics.

I had hoped to go to a concert for them, but they had stopped touring after 2018, the duo citing that they needed too many touring musicians to make it viable for them at that current point. It was a disappointment, but I didn’t really think much.

As time passed, I started to listen to them less. Their last album they released, Zephyrus, was released in 2020. I listened to it, thought it was decent, and then moved on with my life. They remained a fixture on my playlists, though, and I don’t think I’ve ever skipped one of their songs when I press shuffle.

With the band not releasing music and my own life moving forward, they sort of went to the back of my mind. Way back in my mind. I honestly didn’t think about them much. I didn’t follow the band or either of the two Heath siblings.

The year 2022 rolled around, and, at the beginning of November, I got divorced. I was served my summary dissolution papers and separated. While I sat in the empty apartment, working my new (remote) job, I found myself uncomfortable with the silence.

Every day, I would wake up and play the entirety of The Oh Hellos’s discography on shuffle while I worked. I didn’t tire of the music. I didn’t tire of it. For a whole month, maybe even two, I would let it play in the background as I worked. I was numb and in shock, in denial of the events that had just taken place. Their music was like a soft blanket draped over me, keeping me from shivering against the coldness of the emotions pressing in.

More time passed. Two years later, I had decided I wanted to get a tattoo. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I knew I wanted something that was impactful to me. I wanted ink that had a clear meaning, a piece that I could point to and say, with all sentimentality and certainty, that this tattoo meant something. Of the myriad of options, one of them was the ghostly little figures on the 2011 EP. The more I contemplated what would truly be meaningful to me, the more I leaned toward those figures.

To me, the band’s music had come to represent a hard time in my life, but it was also a time in my life when I got through something hard. As someone who worries too much, overthinks things, and for whom the future, with all its uncertainties, brings anxiety, the band had become a symbol for my ability to take hold of life.

So I got the tattoo.

I don’t mean to deify them. I recognize that all of this flowery language threatens to make me sound like I’m attached too much to people who do not even know I exist. I’m not. What I am saying is that the art has become strands of thread woven into me.

I cannot help but be moved.

Earlier this year, I got an email that The Oh Hellos had announced a tour. For the first time in seven years, they were going on tour! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I quickly asked my sister (another person who loves their music) if she wanted to go. I ended up buying four tickets because her boyfriend and Minh Anh (I introduced you to her in my Vietnam piece) wanted to go as well.

I’m writing this the day after the concert at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Words cannot describe the entirety of how I felt. However, as this is a blog and I’m supposed to use words, I’ll try.

It was unreal, dreamlike, and cathartic. My heart was full. Minh Anh and I danced, jumped, and sang. I was cocooned in joy. My voice, as I let it rise to sing the lyrics I held so dearly, mingled with the crowd choir. Memories flashed through my head, attempting to haunt me, only to melt away as I abandoned myself to the music.

Time had ceased to exist for me. I was amazed when the set ended and Morgan hurried us out of the venue, concerned that it was almost 11pm and the parking garage would close soon. It was a quarter till. We hurried back; don’t worry, we made it out.

The drive back, I was tired but in high spirits. I dropped everyone off at their homes and got home. I collapsed into bed at 2am.

My heart is still full, and I am in disbelief that I saw them in concert. I am currently listening to them as I write this.

I am grateful to them for making their music. I keep wanting to say that I feel small. I think it is because I made it here to be able to see them in concert. It is one of those instances where, if you could go back to your younger self, you’d tell them things will be okay.

So to my past self, if you’re reading this, you’re doing okay. And you’re still listening to The Oh Hellos.