A few weeks ago, one of my favorite bands announced its indefinite hiatus after 13 years and five increasingly fantastic albums. Foxing was always on my radar, but didn’t truly win me over until their 2018 record, Nearer My God. The time since has made them my sixth most-listened-to artist, according to Last.fm, but that doesn’t include vinyl listens. They’re one of the few bands I’ve seen at least three times, each time in a different North Carolina city.
Clearly, they mean a lot. Maybe you can relate (or better yet, one-up me) with your own favorite artist. When the inevitable end comes, it stirs up emotions, memories, and reflections you never gave critical thought to. The internet age has made its own version of this: tier lists, album rankings, and other public forums where people share their stories.
I could gush about songs and particular records any day. What makes a track like “Beacons” from their fourth LP, Draw Down the Moon, stand out is how it finally gave me the words for a sense of self I never really explored. You read the title; it’s an anthem about singer Conor Murphy’s bisexuality. And somewhere along the way, it became mine too.
Reckoning with Self
Here’s something you didn’t need a cis white man to tell you: “Sexuality exists on a spectrum. Everyone’s relationship with it is different.” As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that there’s nuance to the self that you don’t even quite understand all the way. It’s there, and it’s something you’ve got to figure out. Or you can imagine that your brain is made of tiny boxes, find the box that’s gay and crush it.
I remember being in third grade when I had the random urge to color in my fingernails with a Crayola marker. It seemed like they’d look better that way! And yet, my dad saw me doing that and immediately pulled me to the sink to vigorously wash them off.
Now, trust me, I love my dad, and that’s far from a traumatic memory. But in hindsight, it was like finding a sign that says, “Here’s a boundary you are not to cross.” If that line didn’t exist, how different would things be? Not just for me, but for anyone.
Similarly, I think back to my best friend Connor in high school. We were so tight-knit, it was as if we were attached at the hip. But when we both transferred to a new school for junior year and he started hanging out with different people, I felt jealous. That’s not unique to my experience, but reflecting on it speaks to a level of intimacy that I find most male-presenting folks often lack. I can’t help but wonder what I was actually feeling that I didn’t have the language or permission to name.
Beacons of Shame, Left Behind
Moving to Durham changed things. It’s a uniquely queer bubble that’s diverse and welcoming to folks who share kindness and love. Living here has made it easier to build and have dialogues in community, allowing me to reflect on my sexuality without feeling forced to confront it in some dramatic way.
By the time I first heard “Beacons,” I was struck. Here was a band I loved, a singer I admired, and something I found relatable: growing up in a Catholic environment and carrying a sense of shame about potentially not fitting into that strictly heteronormative box. Conor Murphy’s message was all about realizing that once you step beyond that shame, everything is fine. You’re a happier person. You don’t have to conform to these expectations; you can focus on your own happiness instead.
The song was a catalyst. It helped me reconcile with my upbringing and start asking myself honest questions. Who am I attracted to? Who did I crush on in the past without even recognizing it? What aspects of my closest friendships did I deliberately seek out in intimate relationships later?
I started being true with myself, not with shame or panic about what it meant, but because I’m the only one capable of knowing who I am outside of imaginary or politically regressive judgment.
Image credit: Joseph Benitez
Throwing Away the Albatross
There’s a line in “Beacons” that still cuts to my core: “King of nothing but the space I take up.” It captured something I often felt (and can still feel) about myself. What does it even matter? Who cares? I’m only a ruler of the space I physically inhabit; I’m not trying to be larger than that. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself.
To that end, it felt easier to avoid being out in public, especially under our increasingly authoritarian administration. It’s like painting a target on yourself that could be avoided, as long as you’re comfortable compromising on your individuality. But at a certain point, you have to be upfront, not just for yourself, but with your community and the world as a whole.
Another lyric that hits is “Be the sword swinging back at the anvil that birthed it.” It comes in the second verse and feels like a counterpoint to where the song starts. Here, Conor Murphy is pushing against conforming just to move on. Instead, fight back against the forces that try to make you into something you’re not. Life is too short to compromise on your sense of self to please others, even the systems that shape us.
Taking Fortune in Everything
Since hearing “Beacons”, it’s been a journey to recognize where I’m at and what I’m feeling. I’m more comfortable learning about who I am without shame over what I discover.
There’s also something important about visibility, about people knowing that there are more queer folks in their lives than they think. You may not know or think about how many are around you. That representation matters. Not in some grand, performative way, but in the quiet acknowledgment that we exist, that we’re your friends, your coworkers, the people you see at shows.
“Beacons” unlocked something in me that I’m still discovering. It gave me permission to be honest with myself and opened up space for growth I didn’t know I needed. For that alone, it’ll remain my queer anthem long after Foxing is gone.
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