Claire Ozmun, poolblood, Amelia Cry Til I Die
House Show (West Philly)
Philadelphia
Jan. 19, 2026
On a cold night, the streets and sidewalks still slick and treacherous from ice and snow, dozens of people densely packed into the living room of a West Philly rowhome for a three-act bill, with two songwriters from out of town: Maryam Said, aka poolblood, from Toronto; Claire Ozmun, based in Brooklyn but originally from Ohio, on tour with Said; and Philly’s own Amelia Cry Til I Die, the band fronted by Amelia Swain. Opening the front door when I arrived, I was instantly in view of the focused faces of the gathered crowd. This was a shoes-off show; when I walked in, poolblood had just started and was seated by the front window, while shoes were splayed everywhere before me in the purpley dark. My white socks glowed on the slightly damp floor. Little room to spare, I squatted among the shoes for the duration of Said’s set.
Playing guitar and singing without a microphone, Said commanded rapt attention and pindrop silence, singing softly, the songs stripped down to their bare essentials compared to their fleshed-out, full-band studio versions. Arpeggiating the descending chords of “Resin,” the vocal melody floated above the chromatic fray underneath, Said singing the chorus, repeating the phrase “the only way out is through," like a mantra and a reminder, with an air of resignation. Earlier in the set, they enlisted friends for a jovial take on Lucinda Williams’ immortal “I Lost It,” sung in three-part harmony, strummy and communal: “I just wanna live the life I please / I don't want no enemies / I don't want nothing if I have to fake it.”
Ozmun took their place next, joined sometimes by Said and Sophia Bondi, singing delicate harmonies. (Full disclosure, Ozmun is a pal, and they’ve got an album coming soon that I contributed to, playing banjo on a couple songs.) Ozmun is a gripping singer and economic songwriter, packing their songs with unexpected turns of phrase and colorful harmonic pivots, a musical world-building where emotions and moods can turn on a time without sacrificing subtlety, just as a chord that’s a little wrong can be made to feel right; an image like the “ferris wheel out in the rain” will stand in perfectly for a song’s frame of mind. Ozmun last played in Philly at Launderette Records a couple years back, in full-band rock mode, and it’s a treat to hear their songs unadorned. They sang and played so quietly you could hear the house humming to heat itself. Listening to Ozmun cover Neil Young’s “Borrowed Tune” (a song that is openly cognizant of its own debts) I thought of Young’s lines – “I'm singin' this borrowed tune I took from the Rolling Stones / Alone in this empty room, too wasted to write my own” – and marveled at its migration, moving into this space, Ozmun wielding it as as an opening, a we’ve-all-been-there admission that found us in a shared here-and-now moment, where alone and together can coexist without contradiction.
“House shows forever,” Claire Ozmun said sweetly between songs, addressing the crowd, an outpouring of gratitude for the it’s-a-big-deal-actually grace of opening homes to artists and strangers, another cold night made markedly less so.
