The Universe Smiles Upon You

It was early November 2015. I was scrolling through the latest drop from Vinyl Me, Please, a now-defunct record-of-the-month club I’d subscribed to mostly out of habit. Each month, they’d refresh their member store with rarities, exclusive pressings, and intriguing new releases. Usually, I’d skim, maybe pick up something on a whim, then move on.

But that month, something stopped me. A two-minute instrumental track… simple, unassuming… caught my ear. I hit play. And the sands quietly shifted.

It reinvigorated my love of guitar.

Stadium Arcadium, the 2006 double album from Red Hot Chili Peppers, was my first real musical awakening. It taught me the fundamentals I still believe are at the heart of good music… groove-driven interplay between rhythm and lead, fluid song structure, unexpected vocal harmonies. It’s what made me pick up a guitar in the first place. I didn’t just listen to their discography. I studied it.

But when John Frusciante left the band in 2009, the spark faded. The band’s new direction with Josh Klinghoffer was fine, even admirable. But it didn’t move me. And slowly, my guitar started gathering dust.

Until The Universe Smiles Upon You.

That album didn’t just make me want to play guitar again… it reminded me why I fell in love with music to begin with. There was no ego. No flash. Just groove. Space. Feeling. The guitar and bass danced together in a way I’d never heard before… fluid, intentional, hypnotic. And the guitar itself? It wasn’t just rhythm or lead. It sang. It filled the space where vocals usually live, not as a substitute, but as its own voice. It was completely unfamiliar. And completely electrifying.

It taught me how to travel the world.

Hearing the album was one thing. Experiencing it live? That was something else entirely.

I’ve always loved live music… the rawness, the unpredictability, the magic of watching songs come alive in real time. Especially with the bands I gravitate toward: no click tracks, no backing stems, just pure in-the-moment execution. It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to a religious experience. The deeper I fell into the album, the more I needed to feel it in person.

But they weren’t coming to my town. That much became clear. So if I wanted to hear them, I had to go to them.

Their mini tour in May 2017 felt like the perfect excuse. They were opening for Tycho, another longtime favorite, so I could knock out two bucket list artists in one go. I did the research. Compared flights. Weighed cities. And landed on the May 9th show in Nashville. (Fitting, right?) I went. I watched. I was floored.

And I knew immediately: I had to see more.

Each show only deepened the obsession. I started planning better, learning how to stretch credit card points, book smarter routes, travel solo. I became a master of maximizing miles for music. It opened the door to see other artists I’d always dreamed of catching live. But no matter where else I went, I kept coming back to Khruangbin.

Because eventually, it stopped being just about the music.

It brought me community.

Growing up, I never really fit in anywhere. Not nerdy enough for the nerds. Not athletic enough for the jocks. Not quite sharp or focused enough for the gifted kids. I was always in between. And when I entered the working world, I stayed in that liminal space… always the youngest in the room, surrounded by coworkers bonded over a decade of shared office history I wasn’t part of.

There was never a place where I belonged.

Until now.

From the people in the crowd, to the crew behind the scenes, to the band on stage, the Khruangbin community became the first place where I felt seen. Heard. Held. We came together for the music, but the friendships have far outgrown it. Some of the people I’m closest to today… video directors, yoga instructors, philosophy professors, wellness educators… are people I would’ve never crossed paths with otherwise. But here we are. Family.

I’ve been part of plenty of music communities. At first, they all feel warm, inclusive, full of promise. But over time, the energy shifts. The loudest voices drown out the rest. The negativity creeps in. The joy gets replaced with gatekeeping. Some scenes pushed me away from the very music that brought me there.

Not this one.

With Khruangbin, as the shows have gotten bigger and the fanbase has exploded, the love has only deepened. The vibe has only gotten warmer. Somehow, it keeps feeling smaller, closer, more connected.

It’s more than a band.

It’s home.

It changed everything.

Because eventually, it stopped being just about the music.

Somewhere between the shows, the cities, the long drives and late-night conversations with strangers-turned-friends, I started to change. I wasn’t just figuring out how to book flights or game credit card points. I was learning how to show up for myself. How to trust my instincts. How to take up space in the world without apology.

My self-confidence, once tentative and quiet, started to take root. I stopped waiting to be invited and began carving out space where I felt like I belonged.

Even my first real relationship came from this world. A shared love of the band sparked a deeper connection… one that showed me how powerful music can be as a bridge between two people. It didn’t last forever, but it mattered. It helped me see myself differently. And that kind of growth sticks with you.

Looking back now, ten years since that debut LP was first released, I can say without hesitation: I wouldn’t be the person I am today without it.

The people I hold closest… some I met because of this band, others I likely wouldn’t have connected with had this journey not opened me up… are now permanent fixtures in my life. The ripple effect of that album touches everything.

It all started with two minutes of music.

And somehow, ten years later, it still feels like the universe is smiling upon me.