why the band broke up

the end of an era

I don't like to talk about the band.

I don't like to remember the shows we played, the rehearsals we shared, or the vlogs we filmed — memories, once beautiful, now tainted by shame and insecurity.

But I also don't want to forget. Because it was my first band, and I'd imprinted, the way a girl imprints on her first love.

Originally, I'd joined by accident.

My buddy from music school had invited me to 'jam' — he said they needed a guitarist. So I pulled up with my PRS and a few extra guitar cables to a rehearsal studio on Rivington Street, in Lower East Side.

When I walked in, the drummer and bassist were already hard at play, riffing off funk grooves. My buddy, the pianist, greeted me and introduced me to the others. Our singer ran in late, apologetic. With her, we made five.

picture something like this

We jammed over Valerie, September, and Tennessee Whiskey, feeling out the vibes and generally just having fun. We played a song our singer wrote, and then a song I wrote. It was a magical moment — my first time hearing my music with a full band.

As the session came to a close and I got ready to leave, our bass player interjected:

"So when are we booking our first gig?"

Huh? That was an audition?

I guess I'd made the cut.

Over the next few weeks, we got to know each other. We rehearsed weekly, shared meals and music, and geeked out at a Cory Wong concert. We joked around and eventually settled on a band name.

Our first show was at a bar called Carroll Place by Union Square. I'd found the gig through a friend from school. We got on stage late, around 10 pm, in front of a packed house of 50 or 60 — all our friends showed up. We played covers from Bruno Mars to Sabrina Carpenter, a few originals, and a Christmas jingle. People were singing and dancing, and the room felt warm and full of love. It was a great show.

Despite that, what I remember best are the mistakes I made. Hitting the wrong chord, fumbling awkwardly with my volume control, butchering a solo and sucking the energy out of the room.

at least it wasn’t televised

I was happy to be a part of the crew, but didn’t feel like I completely belonged. First, they'd all played together at Harvard, which made me the odd one out and triggered some latent sense of inferiority. Second, they were instrumentalists with years of experience, and I had only played a few times on stage. I felt like the weakest link.

So I tried to compensate in other ways.

I coordinated practices, produced our band tapes, and kept detailed session notes, filling in as an impromptu band manager. But I wasn't the only one working hard — everyone found ways to contribute. Our pianist made chord charts, our singer filmed vlogs, and our bass player wrote some code to help us determine our set list. And our drummer... well, he was our drummer.

top 5 most conscientious cover bands

After that first show, I was so excited for us. I felt like we had all the pieces to make something great. I wanted to play more shows, film social media content, and write songs together. I envisioned a future. But it turned out we were not all on the same page.

Two days before Christmas, we discussed the band’s future over Zoom. Our singer was on a gap semester, and I tried convincing her to delay her return to undergrad and give the band a chance. I shared my grand vision. She said she would think about it. Our pianist, the guy who had originally invited me to the band, was quiet. I asked him if something was wrong.

"Oh yeah, no, that all sounds good," he assured me.

But when I woke up the next morning, he was gone.

He left a text saying that he wasn't on board with the extra expectations that I'd brought up in the meeting - he'd just wanted a low-stakes group to jam and play shows with. I backtracked and told him that was fine, and we could just be a fun jam cover band. But it was too late.

"What's done is done," he texted back. And then he stopped responding.

I was devastated. Not just for the band, but for the perceived friendship. He was one of the first people I'd met in New York - we'd gone to a Broadway show together, played basketball, and I'd done a script reading for his musical. Sure, we weren't close, but I thought I deserved more than this level of ghosting. I both hated and respected him for making such a clear, unwavering decision.

Had I gotten too excited? Had I pressured our singer too hard when asking her to stay? She assured me otherwise. But I still got the sense that the breakup was my fault, that I had done something wrong.

We played our next show with a replacement on keys, but after that, the spirit was gone. We cancelled the following show, and our singer went back to school. The band was done.

A few weeks later, the bass player and drummer invited me over for one last hangout, where I met the guitarist from their previous band. He was skilled and experienced, and spent the night shredding, whereas I was unable to find my groove. I left, feeling like I'd made a fool of myself.

And that was it.

Looking back, months removed, I still feel residual shame and embarrassment, though it’s tempered now by understanding. Sure, I could have communicated better, but there were factors way out of my control — our pianist’s stressful personal life, our singer’s plan to return to school. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

Besides, all bands break up eventually. Every successful artist has experienced countless creative failures.

So I won’t stop dreaming. But next time I’ll take it slow, let it happen naturally. And one day, I’ll find a place where I feel I belong completely, exactly as I am.

Until then, I’ll keep looking.

👻 what I’ve been up to:

• Listening through Lorde’s entire discography. Gone through Pure Heroine and Melodrama so far. What an incredible songwriter and musician. She sets the bar high.

• Reading Klara and the Sun (thanks

  Eddie Dalton
  ). It’s a story written from the perspective of an AI robot who joins a family and becomes close with her new owner, a sick girl.