Rhys Vivoli

Ricky Montgomery: pop with substance.

“There’s nothing more dangerous than the combined rage of teenage girls,” a teenage girl informs me after I ask a group of them to not beat me up. “But we won’t be mean!” She smiles, and the group nods in agreement and lets me out of the sardine-can packed crowd. Soma San Diego is hosting singer songwriter Ricky Montgomery tonight, and, after escorting photographer Rhys Vivoli to the photo pit, I’m making my way back to a less densely populated area. 

I do most of my talking to fans who are waiting in a line that wraps around the building all the way to the back alley. (Many interviewees will be quoted in print only, because there isn’t a parent there to give me permission to interview them on video.) A few gently challenge my presence, informing me that Metallica isn’t playing here tonight and then asking what my favorite Ricky Montgomery song is.

When I tell them I like “Black Fins” because it makes my allergies act up, they correctly ascertain that it actually makes my eyes water because of the emotional weight, and stop just short of offering me a tissue. Many seem to have difficulty expressing what Montgomery’s music means to them. It’s not that they lack passion, knowledge, or intellect. It’s just that it’s a difficult thing to articulate under the best of circumstances, never mind when you’re being put on the spot by a six-foot-tall metalhead who’s writing down everything that gets said. 

I think I’m clever when I ask questions based on the interludes from Montgomery’s latest album — things like “Is kissing someone while they’re sleeping assault?” and “How do you feel about ribbons?” But more often than not, the questions fall flat, usually because the person I’m asking hasn’t listened to Montgomery’s latest album from beginning to end. My old-school research constitutes a different approach than theirs, which is mostly pulling up TikTok videos. (TikTok is where Montgomery first went viral before signing to Warner Records.) Still, they tend to become animated when I tell them that the album stands up as a cohesive piece of work. It’s a rare thing that is becoming rarer: an artist creating something that’s more than just a collection of songs, something that instead forms an arc from beginning to end. 

The time between the start of Montgomery’s set and the end  of opener Noah Floersch’s isn’t music-free. It’s filled with songs such as Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch” — with “Rick” replacing the title word in a deadpan delivery. It’s kind of funny at first, but then it threatens to become kitschy, as song after song uses the same gimmick. Still, there’s nothing mawkish about the energy in the room as it continues to fill, or about the fans yelling “Rick, Rick, Rick” louder and louder as showtime approaches. The enthusiasm is authentic, with the loudest cheers coming for the opportunity to win an autographed set list just by signing up for information from the Human Rights Campaign (via text) to support LGBTQ+ equality. Out come the phones. 

There’s a genuine connection between audience and artist as Montgomery executes his set; most of the crowd knows every word, even of a song that was released just four days ago. On the stairs, a woman dances and acts out every lyric, serenading her companion. A “fuck yeah” escapes my mouth when Montgomery does “I Don’t Love You Anymore.” I’ve never heard it before, but the lyrics about conformity leading to suicide hit hard in a place that is usually denied and rarely talked about in public, and they feel deliciously subversive when surrounded by such jauntily poppy music.

Post-show, the air is electric; fans who were shy when I interviewed them pre-show are now gushing and articulate, visibly moved and appearing lighter than air. The merch booth worker tells me that the latest album is completely sold out on vinyl, so maybe it’ll be listened to as a complete piece by more fans. Or maybe I’ll finally get a TikTok account. Nah, probably not. But it doesn’t matter. People digest art in individual ways, and there’s no superior method. 

High-pitched screams come from a corner near the club as someone spots Montgomery leaving. It strikes me as being like a scene from a Beatles movie, but that’s cliché and comparative. So instead of dwelling there, I let myself feel elated that music with substance continues to be made, that artists and fans still connect — not despite the potential isolating effects of technology, but because tech can help form a connection that can carry over to real life.