I went to an Ed Sheeran concert… alone

The first time I saw Ed Sheeran live, it was 2017. I was freshly out of school and spent weeks planning my outfit for what would only be my second concert ever. At the show itself, I was so far away from Sheeran that he looked like a dot. This did not deter me from screaming along to every song and dancing to ‘Galway Girl’ like a woman possessed. At one point, my friend lifted me on her shoulders so I could point at Sheeran in the distance and shout “There he is!”

Nearly seven years later, I wake up on the day of Sheeran’s +-=÷x tour, still unsure of what to wear. This time, I will be much closer to the stage, but my excitement is drowned out by a larger worry. I am going to be at the concert alone. Because I am easily anxious in social situations, I’ve always avoided going to a concert without company. In 2016, when Demi Lovato, Jay Z and Coldplay performed at the Mumbai Global Citizen Festival, I was glued to my friend’s side. I spent the two days of Lollapalooza last year with three people, dragging them to the front row of every show I wanted to watch. Even for Ed Sheeran’s 2017 Divide tour, I was accompanied by my sister and two friends (all cringing at how loudly I sang every song).

On the day leading up to the concert, I desperately resort to Instagram, posting a story asking who else will be attending the show. Do I really want to be all alone as couples around me gaze into each others’ eyes, slow dancing to ‘Perfect’? The few people who do reply to my story are going to be in different sections of the venue, and I resign myself to my fate. On the train ride to Mahalaxmi Race Course, I gaze out the window, tapping my feet and wringing my fingers as I imagine how catastrophic the evening will be. The scenarios are clear as day: everyone will whisper about the clothes I am wearing; I will trip and fall flat on my face and no one will stop to help me; a wave of anxiety will hit me when I see the large crowds and I won’t be able to do anything but sit in a corner with my knees drawn to my chest. Most importantly, without my friends by my side, I won’t be able to sing or dance with the same abandon, instead constantly worrying about what people will think when they look at a young girl dancing by herself. Surprisingly, none of these things happen.

Right from the moment he steps onto the stage in a black t-shirt, surrounded by fountains of fire, Ed Sheeran is dedicated to putting on a show. By then, I have wiped clean a plate of sushi and dim sum, feeling—for the first time—slight relief that I am alone. Not only do I not have to share my food with anyone but I also do not need to queue up in two different lines because a friend felt like eating pizza or tacos instead.

I watch the people around me: young couples hold hands and take solo shots of each other, children dressed in bright colours argue with their parents about what to eat, loud friend groups decide how to split the costs of the alcohol they just purchased. I quickly snap a selfie, realising I won’t have anyone else to look back on this moment with. As the sky begins to darken, I consider, for some time, staying comfortably seated here for the entirety of the concert. Then I remember 2017: how I struggled to get a glimpse of Sheeran as he performed. Dusting my shorts, I push through the crowds until the stage is in plain view. A ten-minute countdown later, he appears.

Even though it is his third—and biggest—concert in India, Sheeran seems almost surprised by his popularity. He shares how he sometimes closes his eyes while playing ‘The A Team.’ The song—his first hit—was what he used to play at open mics in London, to nearly-empty rooms. Now, when he opens his eyes again, he sees thousands surrounding him. “You guys are going to be my backup singers,” he grins about 15 minutes into the show. Soon enough, he has the audience harmonising (“The left side will sing the low note, the right side will sing the high note”) and screaming out of tune to every song. “If you don’t know the lyrics, make them up!” he insists, before explaining in detail how the loop station at his feet works. I fight my way further into the crowd, delighted I don’t have to worry about my friends wanting to stay in the back.

After belting the romantic ballads he is known for—from ‘Thinking Out Loud’ (“If you don’t know this song, you’re at the wrong concert”) to ‘Tenerife Sea’—Sheeran moves on to more fast-paced tracks. In a repeat of 2017, I find myself wildly stamping my feet to ‘Galway Girl.’ Here, his bandmate Alicia Enstrom steals the show as she expertly plays the fiddle around the 360-degree revolving stage. Minutes later, I rap the lyrics to ‘Don’t’, affronted whenever someone around me forgets a word.

Still, it is when Sheeran performs ‘Bloodstream’ that he truly shines. Despite experiencing the song live in 2017, I thought my mind had aggrandised how good the performance had been. This time, my experience is near-spiritual. As the lights change to a deep red, Sheeran begins a low hum, starting the song, written about an experience he had with MDMA. By the time he gets to the bridge, my eyes have been closed for longer than I can remember, abstract red patterns swirling behind my eyelids. My arms feel wobbly as they sway, and the crowd seems to have disappeared. It is only after the song ends that I open my eyes again, taken aback by how close the person in front of me is. Suddenly, I am thankful that none of my friends are here with me. If they had been around, I would undoubtedly be discussing the song with them instead of focusing on Sheeran’s performance, thus missing out on a cathartic experience I clearly needed. The knowledge that no one in this crowd knows me or will remember me makes it easier to let my guard down completely.

In the last few years, Sheeran has often been pigeonholed as an artist who writes love ballads, popular for hits like ‘Perfect’ and ‘Thinking Out Loud’, which have found an eternal spot in wedding playlists. Still, it is the variety in his work—often overlooked—that has earned him a place in the industry. In his 2017 track ‘Eraser’, the musician bitterly accepts his struggles with substance abuse. In ‘Nancy Mulligan’, he uses Irish folk music to tell the story of his grandparents’ marriage and in ‘New Man’, his biting lyrics poke fun at his ex’s newest boyfriend. Perhaps it’s okay to be at an Ed Sheeran concert because the issues he sings about are so personal that it feels like a friend talking to you. Even when he sings about love, it reminds you of a friend gushing about how their partner is the love of their life, instead of making you feel lonely.

Sheeran is also committed to growing as a performer. Any Ed Sheeran concert is never the same as last time: even the songs that he’s performed before a hundred times, he finds a way to perform better. There isn’t a dull moment at his shows: to keep things fresh for the Indian crowds, the musician brings out Armaan Malik, strikes a Shah Rukh Khan pose, then suddenly brings out Diljit Dosanjh and sings in Punjabi. He makes full use of the revolving stage, put together by BookMyShow Live, to connect with every last person in the audience. Instead of missing my friends, I realised the beauty of processing moments like this alone. Sheeran united the crowd easily, making thousands feel like one mass, connected to each other by our love for this artist. It is these factors that make Ed Sheeran a star—and one of the few people who can make me dance, as they say, like nobody’s watching.

Also read:

Ed Sheeran’s India stop will conclude his celebrated Asia tour

‘Thinking Out Loud’ about Ed Sheeran in Mumbai

Ed Sheeran parties with Bollywood celebrities at Farah Khan Kunder’s home