Editor’s note: This is the photo essay from Photographer Tim Greenway, who spent time with the Maine-based Mallett Brothers Band. View the documentary photographs, here.
It’s Dec. 6, 2025. I’m six rows deep in a sea of fans at the State Theatre, surrounded by the energy that fills a room just before the lights dim, eagerly awaiting the Mallett Brothers Band. I’d liked their latest album but wasn’t deeply familiar with their music.
Their first song was “Portland Town,” a cover of the Schooner Fare classic. It’s a song woven into the very fabric of Maine, perfectly capturing the feeling of returning home, when the first lights appear across Casco Bay and you know you’re almost there.
The chorus sings:
I see the light across the bay
I see the light not far away
And I hear music all around
I’m gettin’ close to Portland Town
So, Mother, won’t you make my bed
I see the light of Portland Head
I see the light, I’m comin’ ‘round
I’m comin’ home to Portland Town
In a few weeks, I’d be flying back to Minnesota for Christmas, my first Christmas without my dad, who had died six months earlier.
As the band launched into a rocking rendition of “Portland Town,” my thoughts drifted from the stage to everything awaiting me that Christmas season, to Portland, and to what the city had come to mean to me after 23 years. Tears came unexpectedly, beginning in sadness but slowly giving way to gratitude and an overwhelming sense of joy and belonging. For a few minutes, standing in that crowd, everything felt exactly as it should.
That’s what I love about live music. Every once in a while, the right song finds you at exactly the right moment. The band, the crowd, the venue and whatever you’re carrying in your own life come together for a few magical minutes. You can’t plan for it, and you can’t recreate it. It just happens.
Standing there in the State Theatre, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.
When the lights came up, I walked out into the cold December night as a Mallett Brothers Band fan.
The lights of ‘Portland Town’
In the weeks that followed, I listened often to the band’s live recording of “Portland Town.” It reminded me of that night and how unexpectedly meaningful it had been.
My twenties were a restless blur in Wisconsin. I spent five years taking solo road trips across the country, camping, visiting national parks and searching for a place that felt like home. One thing I knew for sure: wherever I landed, it had to be near the ocean.
During one of those trips, I spent a single day in Portland. That was all it took. By the time I left that evening and headed west, I knew I needed to move here.
Labor Day marks 23 years since I took that leap. My love for Maine continues to deepen as I discover more of its land, waterways, and people. The stories I create are born from that affection.
Whenever I fly back to Maine, I always book a window seat to watch the familiar lights of Casco Bay. On my late-night flight back to Portland after Christmas, I listened to “Portland Town” as the plane arced over the ocean before making a sharp left turn toward the bay. To my left, the beams from Portland Head Light, Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse and Bug Light cut through the darkness. To my right lay the city lights.
Looking out at the lights, the grief was still there, but it no longer filled the entire view. Sadness had been joined by a sense of closure and peace. As tears blurred the view outside my window, I thought how comforting it was to see those lights again.
I was home.
A conversation opens a door
Two months after the State Theatre concert, I made the trip to the Camden Opera House to see the band again.
Before the show, I struck up a conversation with a band associate known as Hotdog, who was working the merchandise table. I mentioned that I had photographed the band a decade earlier when they performed with their father, singer-songwriter David Mallett, at an L.L.Bean concert. For many years, I photographed Bean’s concerts and events, and I asked if they might like the photos.
Without hesitation, Hotdog pulled out his phone and texted the band to get the correct email address. It seems like a small thing, but it wasn’t.
I almost let shyness prevent me from approaching him. Without a camera in my hand, I can be reserved. If Hotdog hadn’t been so welcoming, I probably would have thanked him, walked away, and this story would have ended before it began. I’ve told the band, and others, that this story exists because of his welcoming conversation. So bands, take note: have kind people working your merchandise table. You never know which conversation might open a door.
After the show, I saw Will Mallett standing near the merch table, still talking with fans as people slowly filtered out of the opera house. I debated whether to introduce myself. Then, finally mustering the confidence, I walked over, shook his hand, and told him I was the guy with the photos of the band performing with his dad.
Then I told him the rest. I told him about the State Theatre. About “Portland Town.” About losing my dad. About listening to their music on the flight back to Portland while the lights of Casco Bay came into view. About that feeling that, for one night, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
When I finished, Will smiled and shared something they hadn’t announced yet.
The band had recently recorded their own version of “Portland Town.”
Struggle, success
Two days later, on Super Bowl Sunday morning, I was sitting in my car at Fort Williams Park near the small rocky beach at Ship Cove, reviewing photos from a client shoot. The winter wind pushed against the car as I looked out toward Ram Island Ledge Light.
I wasn’t getting much work done.
Despite my best efforts to focus, my mind kept drifting back to the concert. I thought about what it takes to make a living as a full-time band today. The uncertainty. Like any creative career, it’s rewarding, but it asks for a lot in return.
As a photographer, I’ve always been drawn to people who choose that path anyway. The ambition. The passion. The willingness to keep creating because they can’t imagine doing anything else. Maybe that’s because I understand that dream. The hours people don’t see. The desire to chase an idea, create something meaningful, and hope someone else sees the value in it.
Sitting there looking out over Casco Bay, I realized there was a story worth telling not just about a band, but about the struggle, success and determination behind it.
I set aside the client photos and began writing my story pitch for this Mainebiz Fact Book. I sent it to both Mainebiz and the band, hoping they’d both say yes.
They did.
Now it’s July 11, the final night of the band’s two-show run at Live at Madrid’s in Portland. It’s also my last night photographing them for this story.
Once again, I’m standing in the middle of the crowd. This time, though, I have cameras hanging from both shoulders. I’m documenting the same people who, months earlier, gave me a moment I didn’t know I needed.
As the band closes the night with “Portland Town,” I find myself thinking back to that December evening at the State Theatre, Christmas, my father, and those lights on Casco Bay. It’s funny how life works sometimes.
I bought a ticket to see a band I barely knew. That ticket took me from Portland Town to Mallettville.
