Why I Played the Kennedy Center

Yahoo

10-04-2025

I'm nerves on nerves, fizzy, breathing through preshow jitters. A voice crackles in the speakers backstage at the Kennedy Center: 'Five minutes to showtime.'
Though my band, Guster, has more than 2,000 performances behind us, this one is a real humdinger. Tonight we will be accompanied by the 60-member National Symphony Orchestra, which, on its own, is emotional and exhilarating; very few moments compare to fronting a world-class orchestra and, together, playing songs that are a part of you. There's also the venue itself, the historic Kennedy Center, which has served as a national cultural hub for more than half a century. But momentous events from beyond the stage hovered, too: In February, well after all 5,000 tickets had been sold for our two-night stand, Donald Trump dismissed multiple members of the Kennedy Center board and installed himself as the institution's chairman. The president, who said he wants programming to be less 'wokey,' gleefully promised a 'Golden Age in Arts and Culture' under his leadership.
[Read: America's cultural revolution]
In the weeks that followed, everything was chaos. Long-serving staff resigned, artists canceled their appearances in protest—including the actor Issa Rae and the rock band Low Cut Connie—and every ticket buyer had a new question to answer, a fresh moral quandary. Our band, too, found ourselves on a prickly path to one of the most revered venues in the country. We asked ourselves: What was the best way to use our voices in defiance of an administration that doesn't share our values? How could we support our fans, who have sustained us for decades, and many of whom were now deeply conflicted about being in a building that was at the center of a culture war?
It was a mess. Immediately after Trump's announcement, direct messages from fans began to stream in, and comment sections on our Facebook and Instagram pages swelled. Some had practical questions (were we going to cancel the performances?) while others discussed the ethics of simply attending a show at Kennedy Center in light of its freshly altered mission. Three factions coalesced: those who thought we should cancel in solidarity with other protesting artists; those saying we should save our protest for the stage; and a small but vocal 'shut up and dribble' contingent proclaiming that a new administration was a non-event. Not everything has to be about politics, the latter noted.
Thankfully, the four of us in the band are mostly aligned politically, which is a gift when our individual personalities are often reduced to a single, public entity. We immediately huddled and, though we all had our individual opinions, agreed that our voice as a band would be loudest from the Kennedy Center stage. That space was given to us by the venue's previous curators, and we were united in our desire to own it. We wanted to support the staff at the Kennedy Center who were caught in this political crossfire; the fans who had bought tickets, flights, and hotel rooms; and the musicians we would be performing with. Our challenge, beyond putting on an indelible show, was to find a way to make our dissension clear, with dignity and creativity. No one in the band was interested in hosting a rally on F Street, but neither could we just shut up and dribble this time. We had been given a microphone and we intended to use it.
Getting this messaging right was crucial for Guster. Touring bands that play three-and-a-half-minute pop songs don't find themselves in their fourth decade without an incredibly strong connection to their fans. We have never had a hit song on pop radio or been fawned over by the music press. The major engine in our career—and the reason it continues to thrive—is the relationship of our four personalities with the people who listen to our music. Certainly for some, we're the guys who played their college campus in the '90s or sang that 'Satellite' song. But many of our current fans have seen us dozens, if not hundreds, of times. They refer to other fans as their 'Guster Fam' and organize meetups before shows. Our annual festival in Portland, Maine, brings 4,000 people into a community that rivals the depth of Phish fans and Deadheads. Fans have tattoos with Guster lyrics, they name their pets after characters in our songs, and use our music at weddings and funerals. As we move through artistic and personal milestones, we do so alongside many of them, our evolving albums a soundtrack for our fans' evolving lives. It's a position we hold with deep honor and gratitude.
[Read: I performed a career-highlight show. Then Delta hit.]
Initially by circumstance and now by design, in the Guster universe, there is very little space between art and artist. The implication here is that many of our fans want to know that we have their backs, and we demonstrate these alliances on occasion. My bandmate Adam Gardner co-founded the environmental nonprofit Reverb, which aims to reduce concert and tour footprints. And we dipped a toe into wry activism when I wore a dress onstage in Ponte Vedra, Florida, coinciding with the state's anti-drag law in 2023. But in an ever more polarized world, solidarity becomes a more difficult assignment. As algorithms and politics herd us into narrower and narrower silos, the pressure increases on artists (as well as comedians, actors, and even brands) to mirror their fans' core beliefs. For some, every consumption choice is a reflection of their values. There is opportunity here, to strengthen the bond we already have with our fans; but there is also significant risk in alienating those with whom we may disagree. We must also be judicious and know when to speak and when to let the music speak on our behalf.
We had a test run straight into this volatility earlier this year. Following the presidential inauguration, we launched a three-week tour across the United States, including several shows in red states such as Iowa, Nebraska, and Utah. Initially, there was some unease: How would it feel to play these venues, which would almost certainly bring out audiences who were diverse in their politics? During that tour, just as now, America was raw and explosive, a powder keg. But these evenings proved transformative. Songs are time machines that, at their best, reduce and expose us. And this level of safely shared vulnerability, in a room of thousands, can verge on the spiritual. The knowledge that our fans could catch a glance of one another and think, Oh, we're actually all in this together offered us some assurance that our performances, even if just for a moment, actually mattered.
As our Kennedy Center dates approached, the headlines stayed tumultuous. The juggernaut musical Hamilton announced that it was canceling its 2026 run at the venue. Others remained steadfast. Conan O'Brien received the Mark Twain Prize at the Kennedy Center and gave a moving speech that toed the line of defiance, humor, and poignance. 'Twain hated bullies,' he said, 'and he deeply, deeply empathized with the weak.' The comic W. Kamau Bell, who performed at the venue shortly after Trump announced his takeover, wrote about the experience, noting that it was his job to 'speak truth to power.' And like Bell, my bandmates and I understood why other artists were continuing to cancel their performances. But he, O'Brien, and others demonstrated that there is more than one way to stand up for what you believe.
On Friday night, the first of the two shows, we played an incredibly moving set, flanked by the National Symphony Orchestra. The arrangements soared; the dynamics were rich and powerful. Lyrics that would normally slip through me on autopilot were now barbed and heavy. I choked up on our new song, 'Maybe We're Alright,' the words 'the lies we tell ourselves just to fall asleep' landing like a gut punch. As the evening continued, I could sense something expectant in the room; our fans, many wearing rainbow attire, Pride pins, and T-shirts with anti-facist slogans, were waiting for a declaration of some kind.
Near the end of the show, we invited some surprise guests to the stage. 'My friend Michael wrote the songs for a musical called Finn,' I said, reading from a statement. 'In the before times, they were booked to play here, but as you all know, things happened, and the show is no longer being presented by the Kennedy Center.' The musical, whose planned tour had been canceled, told a story of self-discovery, as a young shark realizes that he may, in fact, be a fish; its creators have said it can be read as reflective of the queer experience. We, as a band, have always felt connected to our queer fans, and our bond has deepened in this moment when diversity is under attack. The world we want to live in needs all kinds of fish.
'As the new administration has made abundantly clear, Finn's themes of inclusivity, love, and self-acceptance aren't going to be welcome in this building while they are in control,' I continued. 'So tonight our band is here to say 'Our stage is your stage. We are your allies, we stand with the LGBTQ community, and we want you to sing with us.' Please welcome the cast of Finn and composer Michael Kooman. They belong here.'
Michael and the five cast members of Finn joined us onstage to what I am certain will be among the loudest and longest ovations of our career. They accompanied us on our song 'Hard Times': 'I'm breathing in / the oxygen / I'm holding it / through hard times.' There were tears onstage and off.
Tonight, our final night, we once again invite Michael and the Finn cast to sing—and, this time, to say a few words. He takes a deep breath, waits for silence, and addresses the audience with confidence and heart: Finn is 'a show about growing up, feeling like you don't fit in. It's a show about finding your chosen family. And, most importantly, it's a show about being yourself and standing up for what you believe in, even if it's really scary. The message itself is more important now than whenever we began to write the show.'
As the last notes of our encore disappear into the theater, we collectively applaud the National Symphony Orchestra and our conductor, Enrico Lopez-Yañez. We turn toward the audience, huddle for a final bow, and look out at thousands of beaming faces. This is our chosen family, sharks and fishes—multicolored, vibrant, and most assuredly not welcome back to the Kennedy Center anytime soon.
Article originally published at The Atlantic