Moore.
In the middle of his set to close out the day, musician Trey Moore took a moment to be thankful. “I just woke up one day and decided to do this, and here you are, in the flesh.”
He spoke with an air of gratitude, and just a hint of incredulity, that Seeing Sounds — a day-long festival of music, clothing, food, games, and skating that he organized at Edgewood Skate Park — had actually happened.
Moore organized the event in partnership with Black Haven, putting together a full lineup of musicians and DJs all afternoon and into the early evening. Surrounding the stage were booths of vendors selling clothes, artwork, and other paraphernalia, a food truck, and a flock of skaters using the park.
The result was that, by 5:30 p.m., the festival had drawn a healthy crowd of people out to enjoy a hot summer day, whether that meant jumping rope, just relaxing in the shade — or crowding the foot of the stage.
The crowd gave support for Keila Myles, who commanded the microphone with just a drummer and a laptop as backup. Myles proved to be an arresting singer and incisive rapper, her drummer matching her intensity with skittering beats inside the bars she laid down to make heads bob and get hands thrown in the air. By the time she hit her last number, the crowd was all with her, as she taught all present the raucous chorus to her most upbeat number.
“Y’all got to sing it with me, because it’s so corny when people half-ass it,” she said. “Can we get some support over here?”
The audience was ready, shouting along with Myles the words hashtag kiss my Black ass, kiss my Black ass, ain’t no justice in these streets, no justice, no peace. It was in keeping with the tone of Myles’s entire set, which was soaked in the issues of the day. But a key ingredient was present also: Myles made social consciousness fun.
With the audience heated up, Ammar and his band proceeded to whip people up with material that partook of rock, punk, and R&B to create a sound that was full of tough grooves, sharp guitar, and through it all, Ammar’s voice, which ranged from a croon to a full-throated scream and back again, delivering emotionally charged songs that felt more cathartic than sad. He got a song request for an original from the crowd. He had explained that he thought it was “too sad for a day like today,” but he’d perform it anyway. He was rewarded with people singing along and moshing.
As his set continued, the dancing got more organized. At the end of one song, during which audience members got organized and formed a tight circle in front of the stage, Ammar beamed in amazement. “I’ve never seen anyone get lite to that,” he said. “That’s the most New Haven shit ever.”
As the band geared up for its final song, and the crowd looked like it was ready to mosh some more, Ammar laid down some rules. “If someone falls down, you help them back up,” he said. He took a breath. “Now let’s turn it up.” The band did, and the crowd worked it out.
Trey Moore then took the last slot of the day. After the sizzle of Keila Myles and the rock of Ammar, Moore’s music — which rolled hip hop and R&B together with a touch of rock — felt like a victory lap, ushering people into the cooler evening. Some of his music made space, and some partook of dense harmonies; what unified the sound was a sense that all the songs were made for dancing, built on grooves, tasty riffs, and Moore’s voice, which took quiet but firm control of the stage and the audience’s ears. They stayed to the end.
“I’ve been up since seven in the morning. I ain’t gonna remember none of this,” Moore said toward the end of his set. Then he reconsidered. “Yeah, I will,” he said. “Y’all are beautiful.”