By BradQuan Copeland.

Holiday mystique tends to fade with age, unless one has children, which I do not. Such days often blur into any other, Halloween being one of them. Without plans but a refusal to bow to boredom, I did research to see what the city had to offer. “Lark Halloween Pre-Party with Laura Leigh, 6 p.m. to 8 p.m., free admission” was the post I read via Facebook and decided to attend. Reaching out to a friend, we made our way to The Eleven at Lark Hall.

At dusk, we wandered while admiring those partaking in the festivities. People of all ages dressed as colonial statesmen, inflatable reptiles, aliens, Scooby-Doo, a hot dog, and provocatively dressed Mario Bros. exuberantly prowled the streets in search of candy and company. 

Making our way in, we were greeted by Curtis Mayfield’s “Move On Up,” along with the orbiting vibrance of Disco Dots, and the singer herself, who made sure to speak to everyone as they entered. Her brown hair was partially kept back and tied at the crown. Dressed in a disco-era swirling blouse, paired with lustrous black leather pants, and finished with brown, character-driven cowgirl boots, she made her way over to the bar. Surrounding her were two men, one of whom bore a voice reminiscent of Clem from “Joe Dirt,” with a smoke-aged, gravelly rasp.

“Gimme a tequila,” she requested, and upon receiving it, she chatted briefly before making her way back to the stage. The puddle of spectators was now a lively pond, filling the intimate space decorated with mushroom lamps, plants, skeletons, and countless framed photos haloing the space, ranging from Abe Lincoln in sunglasses to a gold-framed, mosaic Grateful Dead print. To the left of me, a woman in a denim jacket adorned with dangling sequins shouted out to Laura, who personally acknowledged her just before mic check at 6:09.

With dry humor, she engaged the crowd, telling a story of a man in a BMW earlier who slowed down as she, equipped with a rake, helped a snapping turtle cross the street. “‘You know that’s a snapping turtle, right?'” she said, mimicking the guy as the audience laughed. “‘I’m doing a whole set on ghosts. I’ve got a song about how I killed my ex-boyfriend … just kidding,” she added, feeding the holiday’s spirit with darkened wit.

Her legs crossed, she strummed her acoustic, sending ripples through the speakers as her set began. Performing a wondrous range of covers, she swam through tunes like “Jealous Guy” by John Lennon, “The Way It Goes” by Gillian Welch, “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” by Lead Belly (and others), and “Another Brick in the Wall” by Pink Floyd. She also dove into a few originals from her lone EP, “Living in Cambridge,” and invited her brother onstage to jam alongside her, where he showcased a Jimmy Page-esque flair, boasting rapid yet controlled strumming.

Opposite me sat a shaggy-haired, drunken Mets fan wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Seeing me writing in my pad, he foolishly slurred, “Don’t f***ing shit on your life. I know who you are. You’re fucking CIA!” Chuckling with confusion, I looked over at my friend and attempted a friendly exchange to no avail as my request for his name fell on deaf ears.

Unhindered by the distraction, I was captivated by the rural drawl of Laura’s vocals. Her grace airily saturated my soul, steeping it in the woody ambience of a neat whiskey to match her free-spirited, earthy spunk similar to that of Bob Dylan. She’s a mixed bag of solitary and open road energy with universal adaptability, carrying a boundless, childlike charm in the way her voice holds a note, gently swaying like a boarded swing. There brewed a strong sense of community as everyone sang in unison, forming a middle ground where saints and demons could coexist in an unspoken understanding that they were there for a good time, not a long time.

By the show’s end, there lay an awakening as she unleashed a sinuous, harmonic howl—the alone-but-not-lonely might of a translucent she-wolf with the world at her paws. By day, she’s a check-to-check corn reporter; by night, a folk-blues velvet fatale laced with small-town charm and Big Apple ambition. Upon completion, the audience demanded one more song, which she gladly obliged as restless feet grooved carelessly in the near-capacity barroom. With everyone clawing and crowding for her attention, I made my presence known—and was lucky enough to score a private interview.

RRX: This is my first time catching you live. After coursing through your work, my curiosity piqued. When someone hears you for the first time, what do you want them to feel in those opening moments before the lyrics drop?

Laura Leigh: I hope people can relate to what I’m saying and feeling. My favorite music has always been the kind that makes you go, “Oh shit, I felt that too.” That’s what I want my songs to do—connect through shared emotion. My music comes from loneliness, pain, longing, and the need to express what hurts in a healthy way. When I get on stage and start playing, all that vanishes—it’s the only place I feel free. I want my performances to feel human, honest, and raw—to connect on a level deeper than words.

RRX: There’s an earthy rawness to your style, like a freshly picked carrot still coated with dirt. A soul-nourishing warmth that feels rooted in sincerity, as if there’s a story behind each chord strum. If you had to trace the core of your sound back to one experience or influence, where does it begin?

LL: Honestly, it all started around a campfire. I used to follow my boyfriend’s jam band, and when they’d stop playing, I’d pick up my guitar and play all night. That’s how people got to know me—“the girl who played around the campfire all night.” Those moments built my confidence and my voice.

A lot of my inspiration also comes from John Prine. He told dark stories in lighthearted ways so people could connect to them. That balance really shaped me—writing about pain and struggle, but wrapping it in warmth and humor so it feels universal.

RRX: Playing a Halloween-themed show at a spot like Lark Hall feels like the perfect cocktail of theatre and intimacy. Does performing in an environment that’s both festive and emotionally charged change how you interact with the crowd?

LL: I read the room constantly. I don’t hide behind the mic—I’m watching faces, emotions. I’m a super empath, so performing is about connection. Even if nobody knows me when I walk in, my goal is to reach them by the end of the set. That’s what gives me a high.

My heroes—Townes Van Zandt, Blaze Foley—played for strangers in bars and made them feel something. That’s the American dream for me: being on the road and sharing songs that make people stop and think. It’s finding freedom and connection through music.

RRX: As of late, I’ve been exploring a lot of local artists, and each seems to carry a different pulse of Upstate New York through their sound. How has living and performing in this area shaped your approach to the stories you tell?

LL: I live in New Paltz now and went to art school there—I was a painter before I was a musician. When I graduated, I didn’t know what to do, so I waited tables and met this chef named Pete, who took me in when I had nowhere else to go. I wrote my song “Pete’s Basement” about that time, and it helped me heal.

That’s what songwriting is for me—a way to process pain and turn it into something meaningful. Living here and hearing people’s stories—farmers, restaurant workers, old-timers at the bar—feeds that. Utah Phillips said songs come internally but from external forces, and that’s exactly how I feel. The people and stories of Upstate New York are what make my music human.

RRX: For someone just discovering your music, what’s the first song you’d tell them to start with—the one that really sets the tone for who Laura Leigh truly is?

LL: No one’s ever asked me that. My intuition says “Living in Cambridge.” I think that’s one of the best songs I’ve ever written. Because that one captures the roots of who I am and what I’m trying to do. But lately, “Loretta” has become my most personal song. I wrote it in a lightning strike—it just poured out of me one morning. At first, it was written in first person, but it felt too raw, too close, so I turned it into a story about a woman named Loretta.

It’s really me talking to myself—a letter to my own soul. Writing like that, being that honest, can make people uncomfortable, but I think that’s the point. I want my songs to hold up a mirror. They invite you in gently, then lead you out of your comfort zone. That’s what real connection feels like to me.

Stepping back into the chilled witching air, her voice clung firmly like a parasite to its host, a reminder that even when the mystique fades, openness and presence can still grant the gift of glow.