Like most concert photographers and music journalists, I have a bucket list of artists that I’m determined to shoot at least once in my little creative journey. I have artists on that list that have less than 500 streams on Spotify and artists that are explicitly no press and have been told multiple times that my list doesn’t make much sense–and to that, I say, I don’t care. Every artist on my list means something to me and, if anything, shooting them would be closure to a particular chapter in my life. So when I got the opportunity to shoot Pierce The Veil on Monday, May 19, in Philadelphia, I jumped at the chance to cross off the eighth artist on my list. 

I was first introduced to Pierce The Veil back in sixth or seventh grade and remember listening to Collide With The Sky on the bus ride to school over and over again. Their music fit beautifully in my current rotation of pop-punk albums that would become branded into my memory to this day, sinking themselves next to Sounds Good Feels Good by 5 Seconds of Summer, American Beauty/American Psycho by Fall Out Boy, Future Hearts by All Time Low, Revolution Radio by Green Day, and Madness by Sleeping With Sirens. If you’re between the ages of 20–25, you know exactly what I’m talking about. 

Saying I was excited about seeing Pierce The Veil after 10 years would be an understatement, especially since Sleeping With Sirens was one of their supporting acts. Madness by Sleeping With Sirens released on May 17, 2015. It was a Tuesday and my first listen was during lunch with my friend Stephanie. We shared a pair of wired headphones and streamed the album in full and I vividly remember tearing up to “The Strays” and “Madness.” 

I don’t really talk to anyone from middle school anymore, but that doesn’t change the fact that Pierce The Veil was the eighth artist on my bucket list to remind me that those memories still live somewhere inside me. Covering this show wasn’t just about the photos; it was about giving that younger version of myself something tangible, something full circle. 

Consisting of Dani Nigro and Keaton Whittaker, Daisy Grenade opened the show with grungy girlhood and a new era of pop-punk. They wore similar outfits, a black dress and a white dress with sparkly charm belts, and did an incredible job pumping up the crowd with their unique mixture of bubble-grunge tracks and pleasant stage presence. I was surprised to see how many fans in the crowd knew each lyric by heart, singing and dancing along with one another. 

I also want to give a quick shout out to The Highmark Skyline Stage at The Mann Center. Security was beyond amazing, even putting themselves inside of the crowd to make sure they could see each and every attendee and get to them if needed. Every crowd surfer was safely caught and gently placed back on their feet, and every medical emergency was treated with urgency. A few of them even conversed with the press and nearby fans to prepare themselves for what to expect from the crowd, taking mental notes about what to look out for during particular parts of the show. 

When Sleeping With Sirens came out, the crowd’s energy had increased tenfold. Lead vocalist Kellin Quinn sounded phenomenal, nearly the exact same as he did all those years ago. His signature high notes cut through the air with ease, and hearing “Go Go Go” and “If You Can’t Hang” felt absolutely surreal. There was a shared sense of nostalgia in the venue and I was surprised at how many older songs the band performed despite having a whole discography of new music to choose from. It felt like a deliberate nod to the fans who packed the floor like sardines–to the fans who had been there since the beginning and grew up screaming those songs to their bedroom walls (or, in my case, humming to them in their middle school cafeteria). 

When the sun set, Pierce The Veil finally took the stage with the kind of energy that made the years between then and now disappear. They opened with “Death of an Executioner” before transitioning into “Bulls in the Bronx.” I remember laughing with the other press photographers as we joked about holding our ground during the interlude of the second track so security didn’t think it was two separate songs and usher us out early. Honestly, the photo pit felt like a little community. We were all around the same age and got to reminisce about our memories of both Sleeping With Sirens and Pierce The Veil, and we all had huge smiles on our faces as we photographed the show. The crowd shook with the energy of fans belting every word to every song, old and new, and the band moved around the stage with the same raw passion that made so many of us fall in love with their music in the first place. Vic’s voice–raspy, urgent, familiar–cut through the humid spring air and I realized how much I had missed this era of music and all that came with it: the chaos, the connection, the catharsis. 

Throughout their entire set, I felt present. I wasn’t just doing a job, I wasn’t just photographing a band, I was living in the moment. And it was clear that Pierce The Veil was doing the same. The band played each song with the same urgency and emotional grit that defined their earlier days in the scene but, now, there was a new level of maturity in their performance, like they, too, had lived through the growing pains that shaped our adolescence. 

During their encore, the band played “Hold On Till May” and I felt my chest tighten. I took a look around the crowd and watched as friends looped their arms around each other, laid their heads on shoulders, and smiled up into the darkening sky because they had held on till May. For a while, I just stood off to the side of the crowd and watched strangers sing along with trembling voices as if the words of the track had been stitched into their hearts years ago. And maybe they had, because they certainly were stitched onto mine. 

At that moment, I realized that I held on till May, too. 

Ten years ago, I tried to overdose on a handful of pills and end my life. I didn’t think I’d make it through, but I did. And because I did, I got to go to a Valentine’s Day dance at my middle school with my two best friends at the time. We didn’t bring dates, instead we brought tiny cardboard cutouts of our celebrity crushes. Mine was Vic Fuentes, in all his emo glory, the way he looked when his music felt like the only thing that could verbalize how I was feeling inside. Ten years later, I tried to overdose on another handful of pills and end my life again. But once more, I made it through. And because I did, I found myself driving to The Mann Center in Philadelphia with a camera in my hand and hope slowly crawling its way back into my chest. The stage stood about eight feet high, but I didn’t notice the distance because when I looked up, Vic Fuentes was right there. The real one, not a tiny cardboard cutout this time. He was a little older, a little softer. Just like me. I took a moment to just look at him, to realize that because my suicide attemps failed, because I survived, I got to stand in the presence of someone who unknowingly helped me hold on till May-to not just see the band, but to see myself, still here, still growing, still alive.