REVIEW: I’m Not Over Cameron Winter
REVIEW
REVIEW
☆ BY EVE SMITH ☆
BARCELONA, JUNE 4, 2026: FOREBODING CLOUDS HUNG OVER THE GATES OF PRIMAVERA SOUND—A line of people curved around the triangular apex of the Auditori building; some sat on the sidewalk while others stood in denial of how long the wait would be until doors opened.
“Dang,” I thought.
I was under the impression that people would follow the rules. The festival website said guests weren’t allowed to line up until two hours before the show. I took my spot in line and researched the capacity of the venue as I estimated how many people stood before me. The show was the first official set of the festival, and it was first-come first-serve. After concluding there were roughly 300 people ahead of me, my shoulders relaxed. I would definitely get to see the concert I had flown to Barcelona to attend.
Fans traveled far and wide to see Cameron Winter and Geese play on the same day. This double-header was a rare occasion, and had only happened once before at the Newport Folk Festival in 2025. Regardless, I was surprised by how many Americans flew to Europe to see them.
I chatted with people in line. Two of them were a couple from North Carolina and they were freshly in love (I could tell because the Boyfriend spoke to his Girlfriend a full octave higher than he spoke to everyone else). They didn’t fly to Barcelona for Cameron Winter or Geese; their loyalty lay with The Cure. They liked Winter’s music, but they were far from obsessed. Even still, they camped outside the Auditori for hours. Their dedication bewildered me. “How long would they have waited in line for Robert Smith?” I wondered. As the Boyfriend lamented that nobody seemed to care about his career in big law, a security guard marched down the line of fans and yelled, “Single Day Passes, move to the left.” I didn’t budge.
“Isn’t that you?” the Girlfriend asked.
“Yes…” I dragged out.
I didn’t want to go. How could I forfeit my spot in line now, less than 15 minutes before doors? I asked security multiple times if moving would impact my chance of getting into the show. They said no, but I was suspicious. Everything felt eerie and disordered. Alas, I relented, and I recalculated my chances of getting a seat as late-additions straggled their way to the front of the line. “More rule breakers,” I thought, certain that security would set them straight. But the stragglers weren’t shooed away. They lingered. Before I could rationalize why, people started to run.
“Are we committing a crime?” I thought as I trotted forward, convinced fans had trampled the barriers and/or an innocent Ticket Taker. Once I noticed the gates were open and entry was a free-for-all, I broke into a sprint. Never had I ever been so proud to live in Brooklyn. If you can weave through the morning commuters in Atlantic Terminal, you can get through anything. I squeezed between people’s shoulders and lowered my center of gravity. Fans shamelessly cut each other off, and one man shoved me aside on a staircase. The madness didn’t settle once we entered the venue. We still had to find a good seat.
“A perfect 45-degree angle,” I thought as I sat in the right wing 10 rows back. I wanted to sit in the front, but when I texted my husband a picture of my view, his enthusiasm reminded me to be grateful.
“YOOOOO THAT’S SICK,” he texted back. And then Cameron Winter took the stage.
Winter trudged toward the piano without acknowledging the audience. His unbrushed hair dangled in front of his vacant eyes as he inspected the structural integrity of the piano bench before sitting down. The crowd loved it. His back was to the audience for the entire set, and he didn’t say anything between songs. A woman shouted, “TE AMO, CAMERON!” from the crowd and Winter smooched his lips against the microphone. That was the biggest nod we ever received.
He slammed the keys and bellowed and wailed, serving a beautifully crude distillation of the music we knew and loved. He matched his raw lyrics with a stripped production and prioritized emotion over perfection. As his voice faded into a mumble during “Drinking Age,” the piano halted and the room fell silent. The song devastated me just as much as I anticipated.
Surprisingly, nobody sang along. We had an unspoken agreement that the music was meant to be untouched. The show was a gift as much as it was a responsibility. Despite our elbows and shoves and “sorry, not sorry” attitudes amidst the stampede, we formed a tribe once we secured our seats. We knew how important the show was to us, and above all else, mutual obsessions must be respected.
Months later, a question haunts me: What did we think would happen if we didn’t get into the show? That we would spontaneously combust? That we’d never feel love again? Perhaps Winter’s fans knew this was the only way to be a part of his life. Witnessing his set briefly transformed the one-way mirror into a window. If you clapped or cried, he would hear you. If you blew him a kiss, he might send one back.
On October 1, 2026, Cameron Winter and Paul Thomas Anderson introduced their concert film at the New York Film Festival 30 minutes away from my house. I didn’t go. I didn’t even try to get tickets. After the show in Barcelona, I decided that caring is a dangerous hobby—it’s impossible to emerge unscathed (especially if stampedes are involved). Despite this, I couldn’t stop myself from seeing Geese at Forest Hills Stadium that weekend. Only a fool would pass up the opportunity to see them play in their hometown.
“I think I’m over him,” I told my friend Alison as we waited in line.
“Who?” she asked. “Cameron,” I said.
Alison snorted. “Yeah, okay. Then why are we in line two hours before doors?”
As I tried to bullshit an answer, I overheard a group of teenagers playing Geese’s “Taxes” on their phone. They sang along as if they were practicing for the show later that night. Like they didn’t want to let their heroes down. I smiled and stopped defending my unconvincing argument. It felt good to know that this show meant as much to them as it did to me.
