April lingered on the horizon the same way Charlie Hickey lingered near the backstage door at Larimer Lounge on the first night of his Spring Breakers tour. A small crowd of young Denverites huddled near the front of the stage, listening politely to the opener and throwing occasional glances toward the up and coming curly-headed indie musician from Pasadena. They were starstruck and Hickey was unassuming, crossing his arms and nodding along to his friends’ songs like he himself was also, solely, a face in the crowd.
When 7 p.m. rolled around, Hickey scurried bashfully to the front of the stage and adjusted the mic. “I’m always so winded when I perform in Denver,” he admitted, as if not to get the audience’s hopes up, and began the show with his song “Dandelions.” This mellow recollection of the mundanity and anxieties brought on by the pandemic introduced themes that would be revisited throughout the show.
Hickey was humble and self aware, joking that he’d “never headlined in this city….” and then that, in fact, he’d “never headlined in most cities.” But immediately these voids in his self confidence were filled by fleeting moments of forwardness, like when he looked out at the crowd and warned, “Okay now this next one is a new song, so don’t act like you know the words.”
Softness, yearning and regret were undercurrents of his humor. He considerately propped the bouquet of flowers that a fan had given him against one of the speakers, and laughed defenselessly in the middle of the show, gesturing toward the front row. A girl had the request “TWO HAUNTED HOUSES?” displayed in bold letters on her phone screen the whole night, to which Hickey replied, “Alright. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do this song.”
In his song “Month of September,” he longed for drives through his childhood neighborhood, observing somberly, “Sometimes I think I do, but I don’t wish that I was a kid again / I just want something good to be coming / I want it to always be almost Christmas.” The feelings he channeled into his performance were heart wrenchingly honest and critical for somebody who is only 23-years-old.
As vulnerable as the content of his songs were, it was clear that Hickey was timid and new to the scene. In the middle of the show, he fumbled with his guitar cable and restarted his song “Planet With Water” after beginning it in the wrong key. Moments like this were graceless yet endearing, and certainly not enough to take away from the show’s impact. In a way, they made the night even more intimate, giving the audience a glimpse into the faults and trepidations that impact the real people who make up the performing arts landscape.
Hickey redeemed himself with an acting performance of sorts during his final song “Choir Song (I Feel Dumb),” standing with his feet together, shoulders slouched and hands clasped limply at his chest-–a fitting nod to the title of his debut album “Nervous at Night.” For the majority of the ballad, he dwelled on awkward phone calls and lonesome summers with his eyes closed until the last word of the final verse, turning abruptly away from the mic. Hickey slung his electric guitar over his shoulder and the band plunged the repeating confession “I feel dumb” into a world of rock and roll. The crowd belted the line with Hickey, and when it was over, he waved goodbye to his fans and scurried bashfully off the stage, rolling up the sleeves that had borne his heart for the entirety of the set.