The Real Graduation Advice & Why I Still Miss My Beck 2001 Tee

Ah, graduation season. That magical time of year when wide-eyed seniors toss their caps in the air, teeter into adulthood, and get bombarded with life advice from every direction. “Follow your passion!” “Network like your life depends on it!” “Always have a firm handshake!” (Okay, Grandpa.)

But if I were giving the commencement speech? I’d skip all that.

Here’s what I’d say: Never, ever get rid of a concert t-shirt.

That’s it. That’s the speech. Let me explain.

You’re about to enter the Real World™—a place filled with group texts about rent, long lines at the DMV, and endless meetings that could have been emails. Amidst all this, you’ll try desperately to cling to your youthful identity, your sense of cool, your free spirit.

But slowly, the world will try to chip away at that. One day you’ll blink and realize you own three beige cardigans and have started comparing air fryers for fun.

And this, dear graduate, is why the concert t-shirt matters.

That beat-up, bleach-stained, slightly-too-small tee from Bonnaroo 2002? That’s not just fabric. That’s a wearable time machine. That’s your 18-year-old self, front row, sweaty, screaming lyrics like they were gospel. That’s who you were before your job required two-factor authentication and you started saying things like “circle back” without irony.

And trust me—I know the pain of letting them go.

RIP, dear concert tees (to name only a few):

• Beck 2001 – your quirky genius and wrinkle-resistant blend are sorely missed.

• Smashing Pumpkins 1996 – grunge, angst, eyeliner… perfection.

• Pink Floyd 1994 – The Division Bell tour lives on only in my heart and a blurry disposable camera photo.

• U2 1995 – I still haven’t found what I’m looking for because I donated it during a tragic spring cleaning.

• Lilith Fair 1997 – the most empowering tee I ever owned. You smelled like patchouli, sunblock, and liberation.

Each of these was more than a shirt—they were declarations. Of independence. Of taste. Of volume. A concert tee is a small act of rebellion. It says: “I was here. I raged. I had questionable footwear but excellent instincts.” And most importantly, it says: “I remember who I am.”

One day you’ll go to clean out your closet, and that t-shirt will be in the “maybe” pile.

DON’T DO IT. That’s the slippery slope, my friend. First it’s the t-shirt, then it’s your spontaneity, your edge, your willingness to say yes to a last-minute road trip or cry during an Indigo Girls encore.

Now, am I saying your future depends on cotton? Kind of. Am I being a little dramatic?

Also yes. But listen: you’re about to grow in all sorts of ways. That’s beautiful. Just don’t let the world convince you that your quirks are clutter.

So go forth, graduates. Take the job, chase the dream, open the Roth IRA. But when you find yourself folding laundry late on a Tuesday, staring at that old concert tee and wondering if you should donate it? Don’t.

Fold it, smile, and put it right back in the drawer. You’ll thank me later.

P.S. If you’ve already Marie Kondo’d your band tee collection—no shame. Just promise me you’ll keep something that reminds you of the wild, unpolished, full-volume version of yourself. You’ll need that person. Especially when you’re stuck in a meeting called “synergy ideation.”

The photo above? I took it at a U2 concert in San Diego in 2017. An amazing night -- the lights, the sound, the feeling—it reminded me exactly why we hold onto these moments (and the t-shirts that come with them).