Beyond the Stage: Bells Larsen and Dan Mangan at the Bronson Centre

What happens to art when only the “official” lens is allowed? Sometimes the truth of a show is found in the hands that hold the camera. Words and photos by Edie Olender.

The issue of who controls the media we consume has become ever more apparent. Major Western news outlets cover wars under the guise of neutrality which in effect becomes complacency. In my seminar class on research and communication in science, we discussed what makes a source reputable using moose conservation in La Vérendrye wildlife reserve as an example. We were taught that the gold standard is peer-reviewed scientific journals, but the librarian mentioned a report compiled by the Anishnabe Moose Research Committee which does not fit into our widely accepted scientific publishing standards yet certainly contains knowledge missing from the former. 

In much more minor ways, I have seen control of media trickling into the field of concert photography. I was denied photo passes for the previous two concerts to which I applied. I assumed this was on the basis of the size of the publication for which I was shooting, yet I did not see any photographers in the pit during either. One of the shows had a camera on a robotic arm that followed the artist around, occasionally broadcasting images onto the backdrop. I found out that the other artist exclusively allowed their own tour photographer to capture shots of the show. This was reminiscent of a concert I attended last year where on top of not giving photo passes, the artist’s social media was set so that they could not be tagged in any posts. Of course, fan photos and snapshots from the crowd would still circulate, but the artist had made it so they had a perfectly curated online presence. 

I think these events are unfortunate for negating other perspectives. Photojournalism, in particular concert photography, goes beyond verbal descriptors to allow the viewer to step inside that moment of time. A tour photographer’s photo is only one curated perspective of the show, but each person will experience the moment as a kaleidoscope of their past projected forwards.

The night before the Bells Larsen and Dan Mangan show, my partner told me about how Pinegrove had released an open-source website called Mapster, which is an interactive map cataloguing all their shows. Notes, setlists, photos, and videos are posted and linked to each concert. Website users can also upload their own media to add to the collection. I really respect this initiative because it turns individual moments into a collective, strengthening individual people as a community. Sometimes shaky iPhone videos where you can hear yourself screaming along captures the night better than a cinematic tour video released by management. My partner just came back from seeing Geese in Toronto, and the blurry video their friend sent me of them jumping into the open pit as the rest of the crowd follows tells me more about that night than the official videos posted by the band. 

Dan Mangan also has a great initiative to share his music. Fans who text in a specific code associated with the concert will be sent a recording of the complete set. His Substack newsletter also hosts an archive of live recordings and demos. For this reason, I am not going to write about the nitty gritty of the performance, the room’s acoustics, or how well the setlist flowed. You can find all that yourself. Instead, I am going to tell you about my kaleidoscope impression of the night, the little moments that were unique to my experience and which cannot be recreated. 

I am going to start with the day of the concert. I rolled around in bed soaking in my own melodrama. The thought of having to later go outside, get to the venue, and shoot this event felt like an awful joke, but I had an approved photo pass and the shame of not going outweighed my dejection. I had initially planned to shoot only the first three songs of Bells Larsen’s opening set and then leave since the thought of standing through a four-hour show felt particularly begrudging. It wasn’t that I thought Dan Mangan’s headlining set would be bad, I was simply less familiar with his work. In fact, it was Larsen’s name that caught my attention when I saw the event advertised. The album he is currently touring, Blurring Time, is quite literally blurring time: it was partially recorded before his transition and then completed after his transition, permitting his voice to exist on the record simultaneously within two different ranges. Despite my morning of stewed rumination, I was still curious to see at least a bit of this album performed live. 

Our conversation was interrupted by the dimming lights and Larsen walking out on stage. I had said that I would not be describing the show since this is accessible elsewhere, but the latter is not entirely true when the artist themself is hindered from making their live shows geographically accessible. Larsen was meant embark on a tour of the United States, but his VISA was denied due to new executive orders banning individuals from obtaining a VISA if their gender presentation does not align with their sex assigned at birth. For those who will not have the opportunity to see Larsen perform live in the near future, I will tell you something even better than a description of the performance. He was working his own merch table, so I had the opportunity to chat with him after the show. I told him about how I played their music for someone dear to me, someone who has some egg qualities if you catch my drift, and how this person told me Larsen’s music gave them such a warm feeling. When Larsen caught onto what I was saying, their eyes got wide with tenderness. I asked to buy a CD and if they would sign it addressed to this person. Larsen paused to think about what to write and then handed me the signed CD while refusing to let me pay despite my protest. The fact that Larsen wished this person to simply have the CD without any sort of compensation for himself speaks more to the experience of the show than anything else could. 

When I got to the Bronson Centre, a man was handing out LED candles to the lineup outside the venue. Later, I would find that this action brought light to the show in more ways than one; there was the LED glow, but more importantly, a figurative lightness of spirit generated through community. I made my way past security and was starting to set up my gear. Fans had already filled in the first row of the floor, but they kindly made space for me to squeeze in. I ended up beside someone who kept eyeing my camera as though they wanted to say something. I asked eventually if they had seen Mangan before; their face lit up as they told me about their previous concert experiences with an emphasis on how wonderful the fans are. I had noticed the same thing, this crowd made space for each other, again both literally and figuratively. Their partner appeared and joined the conversation. I found out their names were Sarah and Simon. I said that their names go together well with that alliteration. Simon responded that it used to be better before changing their name because their initials together had been S&M. Simon told me about growing up in Sudberry, the bush parties that taught them to hold their liquor, the arts high school they attended, the small music venue they frequented. They told me about how they used to work in radio, and we bonded over the importance of ear protection. We talked about being the shortest person in a mosh pit which caught the attention of a nearby girl who joined in our conversation. Her name was Fiona and as I’m writing this, today is her birthday. This will be important later in my story. 

Returning to the linear story, I had well over-stayed how long I had planned to be outside my house that day. Larsen’s set had ended, and just as I was about to pack away my lenses, Sarah and Simon found me and asked how I enjoyed it. We got to talking more, this time giving each other music recommendations. I suggested they listen to Great Grandpa’s recent album Patience, Moonbeam. In return, they recommended Viva! La Woman by Cibo Matto, in particular the song about a women’s pet chicken that gets cooked by a lover. They asked about my work, I told them about the emo club night I regularly shoot. They said they would check it out, maybe even bring their oldest. Simon suggested that Sarah should pick up photography again and they themself could dive back into sketching, together becoming that couple who walks down nature trails while one snaps photos of the birds and the other madly sketches the shrubs. I told them that I hope my partner and I grow up to be like them one day. All this chatting had distracted me, and now it was too late to leave.

Mangan’s set started and something you cannot see in the photos is the sunset. He told the audience that his new album, Natural Light, was written during a six-day cottage getaway, and that he wanted to bring the cottage to us. The amps and equipment boxes were blanketed with the type of afghans my grandparents had. A screen positioned behind the parted curtain was displaying the slow movement of a setting sun on a peaceful lake. Since pictures of screens result in strange artifacts and distortion, this moment is better described than photographed. 

After playing through his new album, something caught Mangan’s attention in the crowd. Fiona (you remember Fiona?) was holding up a sign that said, “All I want for my birthday is…”. As Mangan walked over, Fiona flipped the sign backwards, displaying the rest of the message: “to sing with Dan Mangan.” There was no hesitation as he asked her what song and helped her up on stage. She had beautiful vocals, but her ear-to-ear grin was even more beautiful. 

Throughout the entire show, my eyes kept darting to Simon and Sarah’s interlaced fingers. Gentle fingertips and caresses. For me, getting a photo of this became just as important as documenting what was happening on stage. Mangan knew it too – he knew that there was something in the audience, the type of warm feeling that makes you stay out three hours later than you thought you would. For the end of the show, he climbed down and joined us on the floor, at some point even up jumping on someone’s shoulders. In some way, Simon, Sarah, Fiona, and everyone else I spoke to that night was also holding a part of me on their shoulders. 

My friend Erica posted on their Instagram story a few weeks ago that community is showing up even when you do not feel like it, but in the end, you leave feeling better than how you did when you arrived. Bells Larsen and Dan Mangan both had great performances and heart-wrenching songs, but what made this show were all the people standing on the floor. This moment would be lost unless you spoke to someone standing there that night. You can truly only see the core of the show in the iPhone video Fiona’s mother or aunt took of her singing on stage. In the iPhone selfies fans took with Mangan as he walked beside them. In the calloused fingers tracing the back of a lover’s hand. In the sepia toned memories people will tell years afterwards, as they sit tucked under afghans while the sun sets across the lake.