By Juia Frederick
“Oh no, love, you’re not alone”
—David Bowie, “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars”
When I first wandered down the steps of Webster’s Bookstore Café on a cold Sunday morning in January, I was in my sophomore year of college — the worst year by far.
I had left my hometown of Perkiomenville with a graduating class of 170 and entered a Big 10 university with over 40,000 undergraduates. As an introvert at a notorious “party school,” I didn’t really know what to do with myself. Frats and big parties weren’t my thing, so I found myself alone on most Friday nights.
Desperate to cling to any sense of belonging, I did what students are supposed to do at Penn State: join clubs. However, I quickly found that the groups were already pretty established. I sat at introductory getting-to-know-you meetings while conversations swirled around me. I was doing everything right, but nothing was working. I was miserable and lonely.
Despite my best efforts, I found myself on the outside looking in.
That is, until I discovered live music at Webster’s.
When making my way into the store, I took in the sight of high shelves stuffed with pre-loved books, and mismatched secondhand tables and chairs. As I flipped through the vinyls toward the back, finally selecting a Bowie record and paying at the counter, I was drawn to the live music in the performance area.
Two musicians, Jeff Gibble and Zeb Crews, played classic rock covers to an audience sipping coffee. Jeff, the guitarist, noticing my Bowie record, played an impromptu rendition of “The Man Who Sold the World.” I finally felt seen.
Instantly, I discovered the community that I had been searching for. Though we didn’t share a class schedule or academic major, we had something more important in common: music. It didn’t matter that I was miles from home; I had stumbled upon something familiar. The Beatles and Bowie were our mutual “friends.” I had finally found my people.
Upon finding out Jeff and Zeb’s performance schedule, I returned the next time.
And then the next.
And the next.
I’ve since become their No. 1 fan. Jeff and Zeb have become friends of mine. My Sunday mornings at Webster’s listening to their music are easily my favorite part of my collegiate experience. Our circle has grown to encompass more Webster’s regulars, all connected by music.
Finding a sense of belonging in the overwhelming collegiate atmosphere while having just emerged from a global pandemic is hard.
This is why having places like Webster’s is so important. Such third spaces are areas outside of school or work where you can congregate, start to recognize regulars, and form unlikely friendships.
They promote community. Even if you are miles from home like I am, you don’t feel alone.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that the divide between the stage and the audience is a mere suggestion. At Webster’s, music acts as a place for storytelling. All of a sudden, memories surrounding these songs come flooding back; for me, listening to those songs with my dad, and for others, hearing them on the radio in the ’70s. There’s a certain vulnerability and camaraderie that develops when “Ziggy Stardust” plays.
As I’ve come to understand from my Foundations of Civic and Community Engagement class, music forms what political scientist and author Robert Putnam calls “bridges.” It acts as a connection between groups with different backgrounds.
In a place like State College, where downtown splits town and gown, music can be a connecting force. With so many hidden gems, there is a niche for everyone. If you wander beyond the beaten college path, there is the opportunity to find your community.
In my experience, music has overcome generational gaps, lending itself to promoting a deeper understanding of both parties. Music is the common language that we all speak, if we allow ourselves to actually listen. T&G
Julia Frederick is entering her fourth year as an English major at Penn State.
