The Porcelain Light in the Night: A Feature on Lacey Allen – by BradQuan Copeland.

It felt like a movie. The day itself slowly unraveling in real time. I woke up around 11 a.m., still fogged from last night’s emerald clouds. I dragged my feet through my morning routine, then hopped in my car and zipped through the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru for some cookie-butter motor oil to coax my engine back to life.

Once wound, I took off for the day, immersing myself in research, interviews, and meetings before finally getting a moment to breathe and plan for the night’s event. At 8 p.m., Lacey Allen, a youthful, porcelain-lit performance artiste, was set to take the stage alongside local cover band The Refrigerators at Trick Shot Billiard Hall & Wicked Eatery, Pub & Entertainment in Clifton Park. I’d come across her Facebook page maybe a week earlier, which led me onto her website and its vivid showcase of her journey as an aspiring luminary. 

She’s been acting in stage plays since childhood, modeling, singing her heart out on the Lac Du Saint Sacrament Boat in Lake George during summers, and filling in for local bands, 15 in total, where she navigates various genres of music such as rock and roll, pop, country, jazz, disco, and R&B, all while preparing to leap into her own solo endeavor. Without hesitation, I decided to take a shot and asked if she’d be open for an interview following her show on the 21st, to which she ecstatically replied yes.

It was nearly 3 p.m., and I had just left the Silver Cannabis Company dispensary behind Stuyvesant Plaza. Today was clearly a good day, because after spending $60 on two containers of edibles, the clerk handed me a $50 Visa gift card. “Holy shit,” I said as he passed it over with a grin. I headed out to my car, sparked the joint ashed from the night before, then cracked open both containers of gummies and popped one of each to settle my nerves before driving over to The Book House to scan the local inventory and chill for a bit. Not finding anything new that grabbed me, I sank into the couch near the entrance and pulled out local author Sonya Trevizo’s memoir from my laptop case, The Education of a Musician’s Daughter, and dove in.

Dissolving into the churning emotions evoked from the intimacy of her work, I decided to reach out to my childhood friend and fellow music enthusiast, John, who’s recently been going through a turbulent stretch. I figured getting him out of the house and around the vibration of lively tunes could be a great boost for his spirits. So I extended my hand via text and awaited a response. At first, he accepted, but then flaked, so I had to dial him up and practically beg him, for the sake of his wellbeing, to get off his stubborn ass. Alas, he accepted, and I headed over to his place a little before 5 to hang before we hit the road. However, I knew my job wasn’t done.

There, he bitched a bit as I figured he would. “C’mon man, I don’t feel like being sociable. I’m gettin’ crabby in my old age,” he said as I chuckled at his 32-year-old ass before passing him a container of edibles. We then passed his dry herb vape back and forth, and once his shoulders slowly dropped, I was finally able to sell him on Lacey’s vibrant charisma, along with essentially bribing him with my Capital One card for bottomless drinks to heighten that ember within him into a full-fledged flame. Needless to say, he was locked on the hook. He then got himself dressed. Mind you, it was between 30-35 degrees out that night, and his drip of choice was a backwards Adidas cap, a hoodie over a Hippos Entertainment shirt, and some Adidas basketball shorts finished with his black leather slip-on Vans.

“What are you, a 13-year-old delinquent?” I asked as he paused for a second and looked himself up and down. Hell, it’s not like I was exactly painted for the runway, draped in all black like I was Johnny fucking Cash. We lightly roasted one another as we made our way out to the car as a pair of interracial ne’er-do-wells, rocketing our way through the 30-minute drive on I-87 as we hotboxed while alternating between Marilyn Manson and Sleep Token on full blast.

Upon arrival, we entered the large establishment, told the front counter clerks we were here for the Lacey Allen show, and were swiftly pointed to the adjacent door. Making our way through, we were met by a ticket taker who fashioned a shiesty demeanor and bore a ring formidable enough to crack cartilage as you’re bound to a chair in a white-lit backroom of a Vegas casino. He informed us that it was 7 dollars for a wristband. “Show him your press pass dude,” John recommended to no avail. Not that I thought I had a shot, SpongeBob lanyard or not. I knew I wasn’t that cool yet.

Quickly, I scanned the large showroom, decked out with a black-tarped pool table, a hefty bar packed with lurkers, a restaurant setup, and several televisions displaying the lottery and various college basketball games. It was already near capacity, and it was only 7:30. Spotting an empty wall space with a mounted tabletop, I improvised and maneuvered through the lake of bodies and hustling waitresses into the next room, where I grabbed two chairs. John had already taken my card and gotten himself his first Heineken before he met up with me and took his seat.

Popping another edible, I looked to the stage where I saw a Blink-182–Limp Bizkit-esque crew of rocker dads under orange-lit stage fixtures preparing for their set. John was very enthusiastic to see they had a brass section that cut through the alternative rock and pop music spitting from the speakers. I then scanned the room to immerse myself in my surroundings. Tattoos, military fades, Under Armour quarter zips, leopard print blouses, 90’s blowouts, and spunky knee-length boots — we were certainly among the youngest there.

Turning my head in a slow, syrup-thick sweep, I saw a smiling Lacey grace the stage with her wave-draped blonde hair and peach blouse, flexing a diamond L-shaped necklace that shot a glistening spark rivaled only by the beam of her teeth. After a few moments, we made brief eye contact and she exuberantly waved at me, to which I gladly reciprocated. By 7:42, the stage abruptly darkened, then the fixtures turned blue as smoke began to rise. At 7:48, I took another edible as John drank his second beer, followed by the same.

Drifting through the brush of clamoring chatter, time shot forth and suddenly we were filled to capacity. It was then the cymbals thrashed, the drums knocked, and the stage coruscated between blue, red, and green as they rolled into their first cover of “Uptown Funk” by Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars. I saw bell-bottoms start to shake up front as one of the band’s vocalists got the crowd involved. Lacey was having such a blast on stage with a childlike electricity that was so grateful to be in front of fixed eyes. It wasn’t long before she blossomed from her supporting role and took the lead with their cover of “Happy” by Pharrell. As she continued through the selection, I could feel the force of liberation as the roll of her voice echoed throughout the openness of the space. She’s young but feels further ahead as she’s learned to tame her tainted blessings. Her voice is a hybrid of soul and pop, like Janis Joplin meets Christina Aguilera, and it effortlessly shifts between various genres, matching the confident forward flip of her hair. I couldn’t help but imagine what original concoctions she’s got brewed in the vault.

Pages flipped through 4 Non-Blondes, Deep Purple, and Bruno Mars. I slipped into another edible as John joined along with his third or fourth beer. “They’re really a good ensemble, ya know what I mean?” John said woozily as he nodded his head smiling. His interest, along with mine, was further piqued once they waltzed into a hazy cover of “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. “Dancing Queen! BAM DUDE!” John spat out like we were in the heart of ’76 as I witnessed the underarm turns of dancers near the right of the stage.

Lacey’s vocals were as sinuous as weed smoke, locking even the waitresses into a contact high as one hurried by singing along into a menu. “FEEL THE BEAT FROM THE TAMBORINE, OH YEAH! YOU CAN DANCE, YOU CAN JIVE, HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE…” Lacey sang, capturing the attention of a pleasantly surprised woman as she made her way past me, leaving behind a tender, slightly sweet and powdery floral scent. Time dilated and my thoughts congealed as I leaned on air, experiencing a cushioned rush that suddenly blurred into the same feeling I had during that crack-of-dawn, jet-lagged jog, my feet pounding the pavement after a wicked Molly trip back in 2015.

The lit personality of the crowd began to unravel itself. A bearded man passing by jokingly flicked off someone, then turned to us in an animated beggar’s pose and comedically shouted, “6-7, 6-7, 6-7. What the hell does that even mean? I’m too old for this shit!” Following this, a sweaty fellow resembling that one uncle who’s always the life of the party moonwalk-shuffled his way across the floor with a deep carved smile to the bright Latin-pop horns of the band’s cover of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

Both of these men clicked well with John, whose right eye was as lazy as Lucky Luciano as he was now on his sixth, maybe seventh beer. I’d lost count, and as Lacey powerfully drove home the climactic breakdown of whatever song they dissolved into at that point, John’s moving lips appeared to spew pure gibberish as he spoke to me through my absent blur. I just snickered like Butthead and nodded my head.

Suddenly, I felt a jolt as they ripped into a hard cover of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long,” and John’s jaw dropped as one of the singers sounded identical to Brian Johnson wailing through the gutter on stage. “This is AC/DC man! This is some degenerate shit! There’s a lot of talent on that stage man! They can do some shit! SOME CRAZY SHIT!” he shouted, slurring as the clock melted toward 10:30.

My munchies began gnawing at me, so I decided to order some food. Extending the offer to John, he drunkenly declined and said, “I’m gonna grab another beer though. The tab may be a little outta control, man.” I laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and then went out into the next room where I ordered a Hummus and Pita plate with a side of Chips and Salsa at the front counter. While there, I could feel Lacey’s vocal projection as she divinely sang Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” I then paid, took my seat, and eagerly ate upon delivery while admiring the vivid picture quality of the TV as Nikola Jokic sank a clean three-pointer from beyond the arc as the Denver Nuggets took on the Houston Rockets.

Once I finished, I went back into the showroom and found John, who was taking down yet another beer, slouched in his seat. The show was now over, and I saw Lacey up front conversing with a crowd of admirers. Not wanting to disturb her, I messaged her via Facebook and told her to meet me in the dart room whenever she was ready. There, I sat alongside John, who then staggered into the front room when she made her way in for our anticipated talk. Our surroundings settled into a calmer rhythm, and the noise of the crowd dimmed behind us. With the adrenaline of the night still humming in the air, we finally began our conversation.

RRX Interview with Lacey Allen

RRX: When you step into a role or step on a stage, something shifts inside you. What part of yourself do you feel you are revealing, and what part do you feel you are protecting?

LA: “Growing up, music was number one. Honestly, it’s been number one since I was born — music was just in me. When I’m on stage, I want to make sure the heart and soul are really being encapsulated. I focus on energy and passion above all else. Energy for sure. If I’m not sweating, I’m not singing.

I’m trying to breathe my own life into the music. Even when I’m singing covers, I find something in them I can relate to. My soul is in the song.”

RRX: You move through so many genres and styles — rock, jazz, disco, theatre. When you sing, what are you actually trying to communicate underneath the sound itself? What truth do you want people to walk away feeling in their chest?

LA: “What I really want is for people to walk away feeling something — feeling held in whatever energy I’m putting out there. I try to embody the positivity around me, and I know people pick up on that. I feed off the experience itself. Honestly, all of my energy comes from whoever’s out there in the crowd.

I want people to leave feeling… satisfied. That’s the word. Even if the music I’m singing isn’t their thing. Like, you hear a song like Barracuda and you might think, ‘How does this represent me? I’m not a rock-and-roll person.’ But I’d love for even those people to walk away thinking, ‘Okay… I get it now.’ Even if rock isn’t their genre, I want the experience to still resonate.”

RRX: Every artist has a moment where the art feels bigger than them — a moment where the voice takes over. Have you ever felt that? And if so, what does that moment reveal about who you really are at your core?

LA: “A moment where the voice takes over… yeah, I’ve felt that. And honestly, those moments tell me a lot about who I really am. Sometimes I’m so focused on making something sound different that I actually lose the mind behind it. Really seeing into a song takes a lot of brain power, and when I go too deep, I start to lose the thought and just fall straight into the feeling.

But that’s actually helped me. Because when I’m just going ham — letting it all out, doing what feels right in the music — that’s when a real part of me shows through. Like… who I am as a person. That rawness. That freedom.”

RRX: You started in musical theatre. Theatre asks you to become someone else. Music asks you to become more yourself. How do you navigate that tension between transformation and authenticity?

LA: “Oh, I like that! You have to figure out how to make the character yourself, because somebody in that audience has never seen the show before. Which means that the next time they see that show, they’ll be thinking about you in that role.

With music, it’s different, because the bands are all over the map. I’m not hiding behind a character — I am the character. They’re seeing me as Lacey. So I have to show them who I am, while still honoring whatever the music is trying to say. It depends on the song.

For me, it’s about finding the character inside the song, connecting to it, and then layering my own voice over it.

It’s about bringing myself to the song, but also performing something like Heart in a way where people can still feel Ann Wilson, even if she’s not in the room.”

RRX: If someone hears you sing for the first time tomorrow and has no idea who you are, what do you hope they learn about your spirit before the song even ends?

LA: I hope they see the passion overall. Anybody can get on a stage and sing, but whether or not you’re going to turn heads is another story. For me, it starts with connecting to the music first. If I’m smiling, moving, dancing, and letting go, then the passion comes through naturally.

I want people to walk away saying, ‘Oh my gosh, she is so into it. This is who she is.’ Whether it’s rock and roll, disco, or anything else, passion is the biggest thing for me. And the energy. Nobody is going to vibe along if I’m just standing still holding a microphone.

But if I’m making eye contact, if I’m giving a genuine smile from the stage, that creates a sense of connection. Even a tiny 0.5-second interaction — just a glance — locks them in. And once you lock them in, you can take them anywhere.”

RRX: You want people to walk away feeling your passion. Where does that passion stem from? Is it a place of liberation, pain and sorrow, or a combination of both?

LA: I think it’s a little bit of everything. As you grow, you figure out what keeps you going. For me, that’s always been music. Any time I felt low or lost at home, I turned to it. When I was sad, I listened to sad music. When I was happy, I listened to happy music. It grounded me. And in theatre, I learned how to encapsulate the character within the song. That saved me.

High school was not fun for me. Not fun at all. I was a nobody. I was left out of the yearbook two years in a row. I didn’t have friends. It was rough because I was so greasy — I’ll be honest. I gave them reasons. My hair was unkempt. I didn’t feel confident. It was not a good time.

I used to wake up, dread getting on the bus, and dream about being someone else. I listened to the Heathers soundtrack and imagined I was Heather Chandler, the queen bee. I would walk through school pretending I was her just so I could have a sense of confidence going class to class. It kept the negative energy from sticking to me. I took that music and folded it into my own personality so I could survive it.

And now, with the bands, I’m still doing something similar but from a healthier place. I’m not Ann Wilson or Pat Benatar, but their energy — their authority, their confidence — I connected with that. For so long, hearing their power helped me build my own. I used what I admired in them to shape who I wanted to be. And now, I’m finally safe in myself. I love it.”

After we finished, I walked out into the front room and found John slumped over the table, his head buried in his arms.
“You good, man?” I asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

He raised his head lethargically and muttered, groggy as hell, “Yeah, man. I’ve had a few,” before finishing the last sip of his beer and setting the bottle back down.

The night was not only complete, but successful. And surprisingly, he only managed to rack up just under ninety bucks.

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