Let’s do this

Let’s do this.

I didn’t expect a parking lot to change my life.

When I rolled into Milwaukee to see Billy Strings hit the Fiserv Forum on that Friday in August, I told myself I was just “getting a feel for things.”

I’d returned from a trip to San Francisco for the Dead 60 weekend with burning curiosity about the Billy Strings fan phenomenon. Half-formed, half-reckless and fueled by intuition, I printed a couple hundred business cards with a vague sense that if I put myself out there, something would happen.

Something happened. Many things happened.

What I stepped into wasn’t just a concert crowd. It was a universe — alive, organized, chaotic, generous, opinionated, spiritual, hilarious, and deeply human. And within 24 hours, this project went from hypothetical to inevitable.

Let’s back up.

So back in June I’d gone to my first Billy show, the second of a two-night run at Allstate Arena. When I stepped onto the lot, I could sense something totally different — a totally electric atmosphere.

We got to our seats and made friends with my neighbors, a young couple in from Pittsburgh. The woman literally screamed when she learned it would be my first show, and we talked about their fandom, the number of times they’d seen Billy, and other bluegrass artists they’d started following.

The band walked onstage and launched into the Stanley Brothers' "Robin Built a Nest on Daddy's Grave.” I couldn’t believe this song from the 1880s had kicked an arena-sized audience into an instant frenzy.

That first set delivered the eternal “John Henry,” the haunting “End of the Rainbow,” and two classics from the Doc Watson catalog. It was like a time machine. I spent the break back in conversation with my new Pittsburgh friends, peppering them with more questions about Billy’s repertoire, influences and backstory.

While I’m new to the unique bluegrass universe, I’m a longtime fan of the old weird America songbook: Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music, pre-war blues (especially the Piedmont variety) and much of the music that shares its ancestry. Hearing these interpreted like this was absolutely thrilling, and unlike anything I’d ever seen.

But when the boys returned, they turned the dial on that machine to the 1970s, dropping Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin covers between originals, as well as a well-received “Tentacle Dragon” by Bela Fleck. My mind was blown anew, in a totally different way.

After the band left the stage and the lights came up, we lingered to watch credits roll on the big stage screen. The closing slate read “SEE YOU IN KC,” which I took as an invitation. My wife and kids were both asleep at home, but I considered this. What would it look like? It wasn’t that far, really.

My buddy and I walked out into lot, and the FOMO really kicked in. I looked over at a vendor making some late-night burritos — she’s be in KC. The kids blasting live Dead from a boombox out of a van almost certainly were going. That senior couple dressed in technicolor overalls? Of course.

Instead, I caught an Uber in the adjacent Target parking lot, a chaotic scene I’ve since learned isn’t a favorite spot among Goats.

But I couldn’t shake that buzz.

Less than two months later I was out in the Bay for the Dead 60 festivities. As we descended on Golden Gate Park, I couldn’t help but notice the massive delegation of Goats. It wasn’t only their number — they were visible. Sweatshirts and caps, but also colorful and custom fashion pieces with lyrics and symbols and signifiers from a complete universe. What was this?

At the end of that long, short weekend I returned to Chicago convinced there was something I needed to know more about. That next Friday Billy would be just ninety minutes north in Milwaukee. I didn’t have tickets, but I knew I needed to be there.

The Lot, the Cards, and the Awakening

I’ll be honest: handing out cards felt awkward at first. It’s one thing to conceptualize a documentary from the comfort of your desk; it’s another to walk up to strangers in a swirling Shakedown environment and say, “Hey, can I hear your story?”

But the moment I approached the first few people — rail riders, day trippers, families, super-fans — a door opened. People didn’t just talk; they wanted to tell me why they were here, what the music meant to them, what Billy represented in their lives. 

There was no warming up. The conversations started at full intensity.

I made my way through the lot — vendors, jammers, healers. Not just tees and crystals, a full “Meet Me at the Creek” board game.

And everyone — everyone — had not only been out in SF, but had also been along for Billy’s three-show Australia run.

By the time doors opened, I knew I wasn’t in Milwaukee for one story — I was in there for a thousand.

The Moment I Realized I'm In Over My Head (In the Best Possible Way)

The show itself was a whole education: The communal energy; the musicianship that felt like a physical force; the pit culture, the rail culture, the awe, the chaos, the courtesy, the rowdiness. Ole Slew Foot.

I’d attended concerts my entire life, but this one felt different — a ritual, a communal surge, a bluegrass revival meeting with arena lighting and psychedelic transcendence.

The Reddit Post Hit — and Everything Changed

At set break I checked my phone. Someone had posted a photo of my card on Reddit. My inbox began filling with DMs and emails from fans as far away as Vietnam. I spent the next two weeks on Zoom, listening. By the end of September, I had spoken with quite a few folk — earnest, articulate, hilarious, skeptical, emotional. Each conversation peeled back another layer of the culture.

It became obvious: this isn’t a documentary about a popular musician — it’s a documentary about what people find when the music becomes the compass.

The First Wave of Interviews — A Cross-Section of America

I met people who treat Billy’s music like scripture. 
People who say it saved their lives. 
People who feel conflicted about the scene. 
People who run archives out of spare bedrooms. 
People just looking for connection. 

And I realized: the Billy Strings phenomenon is actually 20 different stories happening at once.

The Moment the Project Became Real

At some point — after an interview with someone who described their first show as “a second chance at life” — I closed my laptop, stared at the wall, and said: “I guess I’m making a movie.”

The early days now feel like the overture — the rising theme before the story settles into its groove.

Let’s do this.