Last Saturday, indie-folk band Sadurn arrived in Oberlin. Students wearing long skirts and loose-fitting flannels milled into The ’Sco. Following a well-received opener, Sadurn took the stage. After a quick glance at her bandmates, lead singer Genevieve DeGroot, illuminated by purple light, began to sing. The audience quieted as the band played “snake,” the opening song of Sadurn’s album Radiator.

I did not know Sadurn existed until last week. In the days leading up to their concert, I started listening to some of their music and was instantly enamored. I played Radiator on repeat, listening with my noise-canceling headphones as I worked in Mudd, walked across Tappan Square, and ran down the bike path. No matter where I was, I felt that DeGroot was singing me a lullaby in a small room. 

I later researched the band and learned that they made Radiator, their first full-length album, during the COVID-19 pandemic. They had decided to isolate together in a cheap Airbnb in the Poconos to work on music. They moved the furniture around to construct a private studio, surrounded only by the woods and wildlife. For two weeks they made music, not even sure they would succeed at making a full album. But, in 2022, they released Radiator. 

Sadurn’s music contains the intimacy of songs produced in a cabin. The instrumentals are simple and soothing. DeGroot’s voice is clear and honest, as are her lyrics. Most songs are addressed to a past lover, with little metaphor or overflowing lyricism. Sadurn is exemplary of writing that can hit hard without burdening itself with novelty. The twice-repeated line, “But my idea of love is that it’s lasting,” in their song “snake” may not be stylistically remarkable, but is still incredibly striking. Sadurn depicts genuine, unvarnished vulnerability.

“icepick” is another song that represents Sadurn’s rawness. The line, “Sometimes you get so quiet, walk down to the basement / And try to find the light switch and look for reassurance,” is an ordinary image, but it’s so lonely. I am heartbroken trying to imagine a quiet “you” searching for reassurance in the dark basement, as if reassurance were a solid thing they could find. Later lyrics refer to a chaotic and homophobic family, details that open the door to the song’s origins. These vulnerable details feel like a gift, trust offered to a stranger. 

At The ’Sco, I was surprised to encounter little difference between the songs played in my headphones and those played live. Sadurn played as if there were no one else in the room. DeGroot only spoke after playing a few songs and said few words. When singing, she stared straight ahead as if gazing into the past, face full of emotion, as she would occasionally scrunch the right side of her face while she sang a particularly impactful lyric. The band members shared satisfied smiles when they finished their performance. I felt I was peering through their cabin window in the Poconos, watching them discover their sound.

I can’t say for sure, but it seemed that other audience members were having the same experience as me. Many students danced absentmindedly — thoughts discarded, bodies swayed by the music. Some stood in groups of friends, and many others stood alone. Even as I stood with friends, I experienced the pleasant feeling of dancing alone in my room, wholly abandoned to song. 

Before attending these kinds of concerts, I used to laugh at the idea of doing so. I’ve always loved indie music, but I could never imagine what it would be like to listen to it live. How would I even dance? Would I not just start feeling really calm and sleepy? I’ve discovered that concerts don’t all have to be loud and high-energy. I won’t claim that I didn’t leave Sadurn’s concert feeling ready to tuck myself into bed, but I’ve definitely learned how to appreciate the quiet peace of live indie music.