Cat’s Cradle Carrboro, NC
Contact: jake@luckybirdmedia.com
Web: lizlongley.com
Players: Liz Longley, guitar, piano, vocals
Just when you thought the ‘60s were firmly in the rearview—your tie-dye retired, incense sticks buried in a drawer, and your Eve of Destruction vinyl surrendered to the local donation bin—you realize you did keep that worn copy of “The Times They Are A-Changin’.” Maybe, just maybe, you knew this moment was coming.
So light one up, cue the nostalgia, and if you still believe a song can save a soul—say “Boy Howdy” to the irrepressible Liz Longley: a child of the ‘60s in spirit, sired in the ‘90s, and slinging heartache, humor, and hooks off the stage in the Back Room at Cat’s Cradle in 2025.
Let’s get this out of the way: the “singer-songwriter” label is heavy. It can feel like running a mile in tight shoes—claustrophobic, overused, and vaguely apologetic. But if you’ve lived in it long enough, worn it threadbare, and kept the soul intact, it becomes something else entirely. And Liz Longley? She’s wearing it like it was tailored.
Longley took the stage to a packed room of 50-somethings and wide-eyed newcomers alike—salt-and-pepper veterans of life’s long haul, drawn in by word-of-mouth and whispers of something real. What they got was a masterclass in less-is-more. Tall, blonde, and mildly dangerous with a capo, Liz didn’t come to shred—she came to connect.
Armed with a guitar, some open tunings, and a voice that could knock the wind out of you, Longley delivered songs that were unmistakably hers—but also, eerily, yours. Her opener “100x” slid effortlessly into “Camaro,” then “Trouble,” all from her gut-punch of a new record, Funeral for My Past. It was personal, powerful, and pristine—like opening a love letter you forgot you wrote to yourself.
Liz Longley’s show was an echo of the greats—Bobby Zimmerman, Phil Ochs, Dave Van Ronk, and yes, a touch of Nina Simone—but everything came filtered through her own groove-blender.
What made this evening unforgettable was its emotional aftershock. Longley leaves space in her songs—for you, your story, your grief, your joy. It’s not background music. It’s not sonic wallpaper. This was a transmission. It lingered in the room, and in the crowd, long after the last note.
This wasn’t just another folk night in a college town back room. This was a surgical strike to the soul—with melody as scalpel, lyrics as salve.
