On the way to the gig I made Alex stop the car twice. The first time was at the bank by my house, I needed to get some change for the merch table, and I stood in line for what felt like a very long time trying to get singles out of my bank account. Finally I got my envelope full of cash and hopped in the car. The sun was beginning to set as we crawled up Bushwick Ave — a cold afternoon but the lights in the sky were all the oranges and pinks and blues you could ever hope for. There was traffic, we were sort of running late, I was feeling a tremendous anticipation. I wondered if we had time to do something I felt I had to do. I had mentioned it sheepishly before we got in the car — I felt embarrassed, like I was being overly dramatic, I felt like I didn’t necessarily want to have to have him be there for what felt like maybe a private moment. But he never shied away. In fact he did what you always hope a friend might — he quickly and without hesitation accepted my request (he has always been this kind of a friend). As we approached I said, should we do it? And he said yeah, and then he immediately found a parking spot. He asked if he should come with me and I said yes, trying to make it sound as much like an invitation as possible, and less like a plea.

I reached in to the trunk of his car and pulled out a copy of the LP. I had spent all day releasing it — the tedious work of emailing folks and making posts — and after a long day of kind messages, surprising press, and e-commerce, this singular LP copy felt heavy in my hands, it slipped around in its neon green sleeve. I carried it with two hands across the street. We held the silence, held the space, and I showed Alex my favorite details of the de facto memorial (like the half-sun screwed to the top of a parking regulation sign). After a few more moments I slid a copy of the LP — riotously green and artificial looking — in-between two boughs of plastic flowers. It looked beautiful.

I pass the intersection where Devra lost her life often, which still to this day, many months later, is decorated with a wild explosion of colorful plastic flowers and notes of love. Our practice space (where she used to sing with us) is right around the corner, and the street where it happened is the main thoroughfare where I live. I can’t avoid it, and so I’ve embraced it as the place where I can feel her presence, where I can check in with my memory of her. I often pause by it on my way home from rehearsal, or I’ll let my eyes lazily consider it as I drive by in a car. I have seen what remains of the memorial a few times a month every month since it happened, noticing the slow sun-aging of the notecards and photos, taking stock of what endures (the plastic flowers), what is added (new notes from people I have never met), and what is removed (Juul pods, candles, the pink tambourine we left there). One unseasonably warm day leading up to the release I took a long walk there from Queens and listened to her sing my songs in my headphones with one hand gingerly placed against the post at the intersection. I was waiting for a sign, something to finally reassure me that we should go ahead with sharing this work. But it was silent. I thought about what it might all mean, I cried a bit, then I cried a lot.

There are so many moving parts to putting out a record — a week before the release show I found myself awkwardly carrying 50 LPs in cardboard mailers down the street on my way to work, just barely able to wrangle the four tote bags overflowing with media mail — apt metaphor. I was emailing tons of people and coordinating practices for eight different musicians and getting people out to the show — in other words, I was too busy to really think of what it might actually feel like to get in front of a room full of people and sing these songs which will forever sound a bit incomplete without Devra’s harmonies. In fact, it occurred to me way too late, I had last played the venue where the show was taking place with Dev — I hadn’t been on that stage since we had shared a microphone. And now here I was, very pointedly about to sing without her. I had asked three friends — Carmen from Scree, Felicia from Gemma, and Andrew from Adeline Hotel — to join me on stage, hoping that we could recreate a small glimmer of Dev’s charisma on stage (she was incredible — it takes at least three people to even get close). But even with their expert musicianship and warm, friendly presence, I was still terrified. Scared of what it might feel like, of what I might feel, of what me feeling the sadness I was earnestly starting to feel would mean before a room full of people.

As the show drew closer that afternoon with Alex — and as it seemed more and more likely that there were going to be a ton of people there — I couldn’t help but think the one thought that really wrenched my heart — Devra would have loved this. All of it — every single step of putting out the record would have brought her joy. She would have participated effortlessly and sincerely (as she always did). She would have been so proud of her contributions, so vocal about it. She would have been so delighted to have a crowd. She would be pumping us all up, talking about how we’re the greatest band to ever play, excitedly yelling, casually saying things about how it was a literal dream come true and how she actually loved us. I was so scared of how it all might feel without her that, until soundcheck that afternoon, I never dared imagine what it would have been like to have her there.

On stage, I know that I said something about Dev’s life, work, and memory, but I don’t remember what. In my typical fashion I had failed to actually prepare any remarks or write anything down — whatever I said through my tears was off the cuff and probably overly long. But we acknowledged the loss, I looked people in the eye when I could, and then we played the songs.

And what can I say? Playing the songs, despite my unremembered dedication, brought me as much happiness and contentment as I can contain - more even. Both the response to the show and the response to the record have gone far, far beyond my expectations. The release show sold out, the room was filled to bursting with friendly faces, both familiar and new. Folks were turned away (this never happens at my shows!). And when we played our encore — an old song of mine that ends on a repeated mantra of encouragement — the room joined in, louder than any crowd of mine has ever joined in before. Never have I ever felt so held. Never have I ever felt so considered, so a part of a social fabric, so at once bereft of the most joyous person I have ever known and so deeply filled with joy. It was one of the greatest, most beautiful, and most complicated nights of my life (and if you were there or if you were playing, I sincerely thank you - what a gift).

Dev — in the short amount of time I got to be her friend — felt like she was always daring me to be bigger and bolder. She wanted to do more, stay out all night, get the work done no matter what. And she loved nothing more than watching her loved ones thrive, she loved it when her loved ones won. I think we did right by her.

Hours later, after packing up the show and saying goodnight, we drove past that same intersection memorial on the way home. I craned my neck as we passed, hoping to be told — what — that I had done a good job? Still looking for a sign. And the LP we had placed there — so green, so square against the flowers — was there no longer.

At first I was outraged, who would do such a thing? But then I thought about someone walking past, seeing the LP stuck up in the flowers, and deciding to take it down. They get to their apartment and take it out of the sleeve. They put the LP on the turntable, drop the needle, and let it play. They look at the back of the record, they see the small reproduction of Devra’s mountain sunset outline, and then they hear her sing. Her voice leaps out at them, brilliant and heartbreaking, and in this one small way, she is here, in harmony.