I really don't have the time to write this one up, but I can't let it go. Twenty years from now there will still be evidence that a pop star performed at the T-Mobile Center – souvenir T-shirts with the date printed on the back will persist in mothy boxes tucked away in storage units, sharply-lit photos will appear in The Pitch's archives, and assuming the library survives, the curious will find the professional review that ran in The Kansas City Star – but this house show will only be a hazy memory. Years from now, I suspect that a greying trio will try to remember the name of this house, cycling through any number of names bestowed on the city's unofficial venues, but none will be quite right. Eventually, one of them will remember there were candles and lasers. Another will recall the house was off Troost. The third might recollect seeing someone with a banjo play there. So, I write this now for those three future Kansas Citians struggling for details. I hope you find it and that it helps you remember.

Both the events and the house that hosted them were called Folklore. It was part salon, part house party, and part music showcase. Drew Black ran it out of his home. It was indeed off Troost, at 41st and Forest, in the Manheim Park neighborhood. It was a rising area back then – lovely homes with small, well-maintained lawns stood beside overgrown vacant lots where classic Kansas City four-squares had once been. I went to it once in May of 2025, as did sixty or so other people. We were spread between the front porch, living room, kitchen, and backyard of the home. Most everyone appeared to be in their mid-thirties with a few younger and a few older. Most were handsome. Many were queer. Nearly all were hip. I played with the dog in the backyard until someone announced that it was time for music. Then I followed a queue down into the house's stone basement.

Drew Black stood in the corner of the subterranean space, illuminated by dim colored lights, candles, and the faint glow of fragrant incense sticks. He had been a fixture of the Kansas City music scene for a decade or more, playing in acts where he mostly called the shots. As such, his solo performance wouldn't be radically different from what I had seen before. For twenty minutes he strummed emotionally-rich acoustic indie tunes focused on self-realization, mental health, and social connection. The songs overflowed with mysticism and symbolism, with themes of water and darkness surfacing regularly. He explained their origins to the audience who sat on folding chairs, pillows, or just stood in the back of the room peering through hanging water lines and furnace ductwork. He thanked everyone for coming and credited them with helping him find community. This was something very important at the time, because while access to music was ubiquitous, it was often consumed passively as recommended by computer algorithms. Many listeners knew nothing of the musicians behind the songs they heard – or if they were created by actual humans at all. Black hoped to combat this broader devaluation of music.

Some of the attendees never saw Black or any of the other performers. They chatted next to the stove or on the rough patio all night. Inside or out, people discussed politics – specifically the impending implementation of fascist policies by President Trump then in his second term. Trans individuals were particularly vulnerable in that era, and that was a major topic of conversation.

Futchdog played second. Futchdog was the project of a woman named Maud. She started the set playing a banjo – more frailed than picked or plucked. Some of Futchdog's set recalled classic 1960s folk, while others carried the more chaotic timbre of 2000s folk punk. There were several John Hartford covers. Later, once Maud switched to acoustic guitar, there were several Neutral Milk Hotel covers – one was suggested by an audience member, and delivered without reservation or rehearsal. Maud was a genial performer, providing humorous stories as part of her open communication with the audience. Her voice broke well, providing emotion and nuance. She screamed through the fastest songs, strumming at lightning speeds, and energizing the audience. During a cover of Woody Guthrie's "This Land is Your Land" she asked the audience to sing along. Most in the audience knew the chorus, or maybe the early verses, but Maud sang them all. "In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people / By the relief office I seen my people / As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking / Is this land made for you and me?" Singing in a group was particularly powerful, as in this era, most people consumed music in isolation, each hearing a custom soundtrack on their "earbuds." Futchdog wanted the audience to interact with music with humanity, and for thirty minutes they did.

Between acts the audience left the basement, returning to the cooler comfort of the porch or the backyard. This was before global warming made May in Kansas City unbearable. But I stayed, watching Drew Black turn off lights, power on laser effects, and ensure that the small PA was ready to power the headliner.

Juliette Frost was the last performer of the night. She did not favor the folk embraced by the night's other artists. Young and fearless, she blended EDM beats and ethereal dream pop washes into long compositions that meandered and mesmerized. Later she explained to me that her compositions were never finished – elements were barely created before she was already dissecting, reinventing, and recombining them in new ways. Each of her sets was full of bespoke music. The audience connected with this night's program. Frost's voice was controlled and steady in the highest registers. Occasionally it was commanding, though often it was breathy, requiring audiences to lean in to experience it. Sometimes there were rehearsed lyrics. Sometimes there were wordless ad hoc vocalizations. When the beats were chunky and fast, she danced with intent, anchoring her human form to the earth. When the beats were ghostly, her movements were fluid and celestial. It was then that the movement of her hands cast witchy spells. The dark room, now bathed in fog and illuminated only by green rays of light that landed as dots against the wall, made Frost appear to be moving through space. The idea of a lunar rave amused Frost and she invited the audience along. The audience, though still seated, seemed ready to take that trip with her.

Afterward, Drew Black returned to the microphone to thank the audience, invite them to stay as long as they wanted, and to announce that the next event would happen in three weeks. This wasn't the first Folklore event of 2025, nor was it the last. This one existed to capture the mood of the time – a moment when people were isolated by politics, by social media, by late-stage capitalism, and unsure how to strike back against those formidable foes. No one knew the answers, but most suspected the solution started with simply being near each other. That's why this happened. That's what makes Folklore worth remembering.