Friday night at GLR Books in Brooklyn, Bex Lindsey walked onstage with the kind of calm that only comes from having already weathered a storm. The room—book-lined, soft-lit, intimate—felt like a heartbeat you could stand inside. People leaned forward in their chairs as if reaching for the first page of a story. And then Bex began, and “The Process II” became more than an album title; it became the room we all lived in for an hour.

What makes Bex so compelling isn’t volume or bravado—it’s tenderness with a spine. She sings like someone who has carefully stitched herself back together and is unafraid to show the seams. Her voice, warm and close, carried that glow of late-night honesty, the kind that tells you both the truth and the way back home after you’ve heard it. Between songs, her small flashes of humor made the crowd laugh, but it was the pauses—the gentle inhales—that made us hush. She let silence do its work, and then she filled it with forgiveness.

“The Process II” is a diary you’re invited to read, but also a mirror that politely asks you to look. “Anxiety” arrived like a minor-key tide, naming the tremors most of us pretend not to feel. Bex didn’t dramatize it; she dignified it, letting the song swell and soften as if she were smoothing the sheet on a bed where sleep will finally come. “Phoenix” lifted the room a notch higher—no cheap triumph, just steady ascent—wings made of late nights and better mornings. On “The Radio Song,” she found that delicate pulse between nostalgia and now, humming the memory of road-trip static while tuning herself to a clearer frequency. “Prove Me Wrong” stood up straight—less a dare to a lover than a dare to doubt itself—and the crowd answered with a low, collective cheer you feel more than hear. And when she closed with “One Moment at a Time,” the refrain landed like friendly advice passed from hand to hand: small mercies, stacked patiently, will hold.

What struck me most was how the album’s title lived in the performance. Bex never sold us “outcome.” She shared process—breath by breath, page by page. Her arrangements were thoughtful and spare, leaving room for the lyrics to sit down beside you. A brushed snare here, a bell-toned guitar figure there, a piano line that felt like warm light down a hallway. Everything served the story. And when she leaned into a chorus, it wasn’t to be grand; it was to be generous.

There was a heartwarming domesticity to the night, too—the way GLR Books wrapped the music in paper and ink, how friends and strangers swapped smiles over the merch table as if trading recipes. Bex thanked the room like a neighbor, not a star, and still, by the end, she felt like both. People wiped their eyes without embarrassment. A couple near the back held hands. Someone whispered “beautiful” into the spine of their program as though it might keep the word safe.
If you listened closely, you could hear the larger arc: not just songs, but a sequence of soft reckonings. The record doesn’t rush your healing; it sits with you, cups your face, and says, “Let’s try again.” That is the sacred trick Bex Lindsey pulls off—making vulnerability feel like strength you can borrow. She isn’t performing wounds; she’s showing what it looks like when they close.

By the final notes, the whole room felt taller, somehow—less alone. Bex blew a grateful kiss toward the stacks, the lights rose shyly, and nobody really wanted to move. It was the kind of night you carry out onto Wythe Avenue like a candle in your coat—small, steady, and enough to see by. “The Process II” may be the name on the cover, but last night proved it’s also a practice: love your mess, sing it clean, and keep going, one moment at a time.
The official website for Bex Lindsey may be found at https://www.bexlindseymusic.com
Stream “The Process II” by Bex Lindsey on Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/album/1vQwT8xzqiUPahqeeCMdt0?si=V-yrg4X-T4CCYaF8E6T5BQ
Photo Credits: Dynamix Productions NY