I have a strange habit of finding myself in interesting places on election days.
Usually, those places have absolutely nothing to do with politics. No campaign signs. No talking heads. No endless parade of people explaining why the world is either about to end or finally become a better place.
On November 3, I found myself at A&R Music Bar in Columbus, Ohio. A room I've visited more times than I can count. A room that has hosted countless bands, some destined for bigger stages, others destined to disappear into the endless machinery of the music industry.
I've experienced just about every atmosphere this place has to offer. But something about this particular evening felt different.
Maybe it was the election. Maybe it was the strange collective exhaustion that seems to accompany any day when the country is asked to decide what happens next. Or maybe it was simply the anticipation of a good show.
Whatever it was, the room had a distinct energy.
Bugsy took the stage first.
The four-piece from Minneapolis caught me completely off guard. I walked in expecting one thing and was handed something entirely different. Their sound was familiar enough to recognize the ingredients, but the finished product was something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
And I loved that.
Their set leaned heavily into material from their upcoming album, I Become Lake Water, scheduled for release on November 10. Intertwining melodies wandered through sprawling arrangements, creating musical landscapes that felt less like traditional songs and more like places you could visit.
"Through Floorboards" was particularly striking.
Listening to it felt like wandering through a dense forest, searching for the perfect place to bleed out, only to collapse into a clearing overlooking mountains as the sun disappeared behind them.
Beautiful. Morbid. Strangely comforting.
There's something special about a band that can take you somewhere without telling you exactly where you're going. Bugsy managed that repeatedly throughout their set. Their music had room to breathe, to wander, to become something unexpected.
I left their performance genuinely curious about what comes next for them. That's about the highest compliment I can give an opening act.
Next came Liquid Mike.
Hailing from Marquette, Michigan, the band formed in 2020 around frontman and principal songwriter Mike Maple. And if Bugsy was a slow walk through an unfamiliar landscape, Liquid Mike was a reckless drive through your hometown with the windows down and the stereo turned up.
Their sound landed somewhere between Motion City Soundtrack and Free Throw, with enough personality to keep the comparison from becoming a crutch.
Big, unapologetically catchy choruses. Synth melodies weaving through the guitars. The occasional trumpet appearing like an unexpected guest at a party who somehow makes everything better.
It was fun. Really fun.
There's a particular satisfaction in watching a band that understands the value of a good hook. Not everything needs to be complicated. Sometimes a great melody, a little distortion, and a chorus that begs to be shouted back are more than enough.
Liquid Mike understood the assignment.
Then came Oso Oso.
The Long Beach, New York project, led by Jade Lilitri, has spent years carving out its own corner of the indie rock, emo, and pop-punk landscape. Music built around deceptively simple melodies, thoughtful songwriting, and the kind of emotional honesty that tends to stick around long after the song ends.
Something interesting happened when they took the stage.
A&R had felt half empty for much of the evening. Not deserted, certainly, but there was plenty of room to move around. Then, almost as if someone had flipped a switch, the space filled.
People pushed forward. Conversations stopped. The scattered bodies that had occupied the room suddenly became a crowd.
And then the singing started.
Every word.
It would be unfair to suggest that Bugsy or Liquid Mike hadn't earned their place on the bill. Both delivered excellent performances, and both brought something genuinely interesting to the evening.
But Oso Oso had something else.
History.
Not necessarily the kind measured in platinum records or sold-out arenas, but the quieter, more personal kind. The kind built when a song finds someone at exactly the right moment in their life and refuses to leave.
You could see it in the audience.
People weren't simply enjoying the music. They knew it. They carried it with them. And when those familiar melodies finally filled the room, they gave everything right back.
There's an intimacy to Oso Oso's music that makes it particularly effective in a venue like A&R. The songs don't need elaborate production or theatrical nonsense to communicate something meaningful. They rely on good songwriting, emotional clarity, and the understanding that sometimes the most ordinary experiences leave the deepest marks.
It's music for people who have spent too much time thinking about things they probably should have let go.
Which, I suspect, describes most of us.
As the evening unfolded, I kept thinking about the strange circumstances that had brought everyone into that room.
Outside, the country was busy arguing about its future. Votes were being counted. Predictions were being made. Somewhere, someone was undoubtedly screaming at a television.
Inside, a room full of strangers had found something considerably simpler to agree on.
The music was good.
The company was good.
And for a few hours, whatever was happening beyond those walls could wait.
Bugsy gave us somewhere to disappear. Liquid Mike reminded us that music can be joyful without sacrificing substance. And Oso Oso brought everyone together around songs that clearly meant something.
I don't know what everyone in that room was hoping for when they walked through the doors.
But I suspect most of them left with exactly what they needed.
Sometimes that's enough.
