When U.S. Secretary of Education Linda McMahon stopped in South Dakota recently, she brought with her a proposal that sounds reasonable on the surface: shift federal education funding to a block grant system, giving states more “flexibility” over how they spend federal dollars.

As a former grant writer who focused specifically on nonprofit childcare – including writing for the 21st Century Community Learning Center federal block grants – I know what Sec. McMahon’s idea would really mean in practice. Fewer guarantees, less accountability, and — historically — less money over time. Don’t be fooled: while education funding might be broken, this is not the way to fix it.

Block Grants Don’t Guarantee Money Reaches the Kids Who Need It Most

Block grants are lump sums of federal money given to states with minimal restrictions on how the money gets spent or the methods they use for distribution. Proponents frame this as empowering local decision-makers. In reality, it means there is no guarantee the money reaches the classrooms, kids, or districts that need it most.

Under the current system, programs like Title I are formula-based: funding is calculated based on actual student need — poverty levels, disability status, English learner populations — and flows directly to qualifying schools. That structure exists for a reason. As the Brookings Institution notes, Title I’s early years in the 1960s saw segregated districts invest the money in all-white schools, which is precisely what led Congress to attach more strings to ensure the law’s “compensatory spirit” was actually followed. Without those protections, a block grant could legally be invested in facilities upgrades or enrichment programs at a district’s wealthiest school — not the ones struggling to keep the lights on.

This is not a hypothetical concern for South Dakota, which is reliant on federal funding for education. According to USAFacts, South Dakota schools received approximately $438.8 million in federal funds during the 2021–22 school year, representing about 21.8% of total public school funding — well above the national average of 13.7%. Our rural and tribal schools are among the most dependent on that federal pipeline. The Oglala Lakota County School District received 71.3% of its funding from federal sources that same year. Block-granting that funding hands the state government enormous discretion over whether those dollars find their way to the communities that need them most — or get absorbed into the general budget, like the once-earmarked education video lottery money.

With block grants, states have discretion not only where the money is spent, but how. Funding might be distributed via a grant process, like the aforementioned 21st Century Learning Center funding. But what kind of districts will have the time and talent resources to apply for a grant, especially one with federal dollars attached (which always means more hurdles to jump through)?

It doesn’t take much to see that bigger, wealthier districts would win. Rural and low-income districts get whatever’s left.

Block Grant Funding – as a Rule – Goes Away

The word “flexibility” in grant policy has historically been a Trojan horse for defunding. We have receipts.

In 1982, the Reagan administration consolidated 28 education programs into a single block grant called Chapter 2, simultaneously cutting funding from $713.9 million to $418 million. That funding was steadily reduced until the program was eliminated entirely in 2008. More broadly, a 2017 study by the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities found that since 2000, funding for the 13 major low-income block grants — covering health, housing, and social services — had fallen by 37% after adjusting for inflation and population growth.

This is not a bug in the design. It’s a feature. Block grants are structurally easier to cut because there is no named constituency standing behind them. There is no “IDEA parent” or “Title I school” to call their senator. There’s just a number in a budget.

Compare that to targeted programs like the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), from which South Dakota received over $18 million from in a recent grant cycle. IDEA comes with enforceable rights for students and parents. It mandates that children with disabilities receive a free and appropriate public education. Block-grant that funding away, and those rights don’t automatically follow. As the National Education Association has noted, states would no longer have to answer to anyone about whether or how they follow the law — and a child’s access to services would depend entirely on which state they happened to be born in.

We already have a preview of what instability looks like for South Dakota schools. In the summer of 2025, the Trump administration froze $25.8 million in federal education funds to the state. The South Dakota Education Association reported that districts were “scrambling” to figure out their budgets, with rural schools at risk of cutting staff, eliminating programs, and, in some cases, potentially closing. Block-granting federal education dollars doesn’t make our schools more stable — it makes them permanently vulnerable to that kind of uncertainty. Is that what we want for our teachers and students?

We Have a Moral and Constitutional Obligation to Educate Every Child Equally

This is not just a policy debate. It is a moral one.

Federal education funding exists precisely because states, left to their own devices, have historically failed to educate all children equally. Prior to federal intervention, students with disabilities were routinely excluded from public schools. Schools in low-income communities received a fraction of the resources of wealthier districts. The achievement gap between students of color and white students was treated as a fact of life rather than a policy failure. Federal programs were not designed to meddle with local control — they were designed to correct for the places where local control had produced injustice. Part of the reason why public school advocates such as myself don’t like spending public dollars on private schools is because private schools don’t have the same obligation to serve every child that public schools do.

The data makes clear that this problem hasn’t gone away. Before the pandemic, school districts serving the largest proportions of Black, Latino, and Native American students already received about $1,800 less per pupil than those serving fewer students of color — a gap driven largely by the United States’ heavy reliance on local property taxes to fund schools. Shifting to block grants, with minimal accountability for how money is spent, would almost certainly deepen that divide.

Former Republican Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings, a George W. Bush appointee, has warned that sudden changes to how we fund public schools will be “costly, complicated, and lead to children falling through the cracks.”

This is not a partisan concern. It is a basic question of whether we believe every child — regardless of zip code, disability status, income level, or tribal affiliation — deserves a real shot at a quality education.

Block-granting federal education dollars away isn’t reform. It’s abandonment.

So What Should We Do Instead?

Criticizing a bad idea is easy. Here’s what good policy actually looks like.

We need to strengthen, not dissolve, accountability structures. Programs like Title I and IDEA work — imperfectly, but they work — because they come with meaningful requirements about who gets served and how. Reform should focus on reducing bureaucratic compliance burdens while keeping equity protections intact.

We should weight funding formulas for actual need. Other states have shown that it’s possible to build funding systems that direct dollars toward the students who need the most support without sacrificing local flexibility. California’s Local Control Funding Formula provides supplemental grants for English learners, foster youth, and low-income students, and concentration grants for districts with the highest need. South Dakota could advocate for federal formulas that similarly protect rural and tribal school districts.

We must invest more, not less. South Dakota teachers are among the lowest-paid in the nation. Our rural districts are stretched thin. Our tribal schools have faced chronic underfunding for generations. The answer to those problems is not block-granting away the federal dollars they currently depend on. It’s fighting for more investment and more stability, not less.

Secretary McMahon’s proposal offers states a shiny new word: flexibility. What it actually offers is a mechanism to quietly reduce funding for the students who have the fewest advocates and the most to lose. South Dakota’s children deserve better than that.

Amanda Potter is a candidate for South Dakota State House of Representatives, District 9. She previously worked as a grant writer for nonprofit childcare organizations. Learn more at potterforsd.com.

Sources

Brookings Institution — “Block granting federal education funds comes with trade-offs” (2025): https://www.brookings.edu/articles/block-granting-federal-education-funds-comes-with-trade-offs/

USAFacts — “What percentage of public school funding in South Dakota comes from the federal government?” (2025): https://usafacts.org/answers/what-percentage-of-public-school-funding-comes-from-the-federal-government/state/south-dakota/

Texas AFT — “‘What Are Block Grants?’: Flexibility at the Expense of Equity”: https://www.texasaft.org/government/tea/what-are-block-grants-flexibility-at-the-expense-of-equity/

Wikipedia — “Block grant” (citing CBPP 2017 study): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Block_grant

State Regs Today — “Federal Contributions to Education Funding in South Dakota”: https://www.stateregstoday.com/education-science-and-technology/education-funding/federal-contributions-to-education-funding-in-south-dakota

National Education Association — “Why Block Grants Are Bad News for Students” (2025): https://www.nea.org/nea-today/all-news-articles/why-block-grants-are-bad-news-students

South Dakota Searchlight — “South Dakota schools left ‘scrambling’ after feds withhold $25.8 million in funding” (July 2025): https://southdakotasearchlight.com/2025/07/16/south-dakota-schools-left-scrambling-after-feds-withhold-25-8-million-in-funding/

Learning Policy Institute — “Leverage More Adequate and Equitable School Funding”: https://restart-reinvent.learningpolicyinstitute.org/leverage-more-adequate-and-equitable-school-funding

Covering stand-up comedy feels like a different kind of assignment altogether. Unlike live music where volume, lighting, and crowd energy can carry moments on their own, comedy is stripped down to timing, presence, and writing. That’s part of what made this show feel like new territory.

Dan Soder isn’t exactly an underground name. With multiple specials across platforms like YouTube, HBO, and Netflix, plus a long-running podcast that’s surpassed 100 episodes, he’s built a steady and loyal following. Still, going in, there was a level of uncertainty. My personal baseline for live comedy leans toward names like Matt Rife, Daniel Tosh, Anthony Jeselnik, and Bo Burnham, each with very distinct styles ranging from crowd work to dark precision to musical introspection.

My first real exposure to Soder came through his appearance on Kill Tony, where his quick instincts and conversational delivery stood out immediately. That same looseness, almost deceptively casual, translates even better in a full-length live setting. There’s a natural rhythm to his delivery that feels less like a performance and more like being pulled into a conversation that just happens to be consistently funny.

Before the show even began, there was already a sense of connection between Soder and the audience. One moment in particular stood out when someone asked me where they’d be able to find photos from the show. It was a small exchange, but it said a lot about the environment.

There’s an ease to how Dan carries himself, a kind of unforced likability that makes the “Golden Retriever” label feel less like a gimmick and more like an accurate read on his comedic persona.

As the night unfolded, that tone of relaxed, engaged, and consistently sharp became the throughline.

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First to get Laughs

Aidan McCluskey opened the night with a style that leaned heavily into long-form storytelling. Aa deliberate contrast to the quick-hit, punchline-driven sets that often dominate opening slots. Instead of rushing to win the room, he took his time, building narratives piece by piece, letting details simmer before landing the payoff.

His material circled familiar territory—family dynamics, lingering dad issues, the quirks of small-town living—but it never felt recycled. There was a specificity to his delivery that gave even the most relatable themes a personal edge. Stories about “dumb friends” didn’t just play as throwaway bits; they became fully realized characters, the kind you could picture instantly, whether you grew up with them or not.

What stood out most was the sense of intimacy. McCluskey didn’t perform at the audience so much as he let them in. The pacing allowed for that as he took pauses that felt intentional, not empty, giving the crowd just enough space to connect the dots before he pulled them to the next beat. It created a rhythm that rewarded attention, especially as threads from earlier in the set quietly lingered in the background.

That patience paid off in his closing moments. A callback that was subtle but effective looped the set back to an earlier joke, tying everything together in a way that felt earned rather than forced. It’s a classic technique, but one that only works when the foundation is strong. Here, it landed clean, giving the set a sense of cohesion that elevated it beyond a typical opener.

In a lineup where he could have easily gone for fast, immediate laughs, McCluskey opted for something more measured and in doing so, set a tone that felt both grounded and quietly confident

Wedged in the Middle was Greg Stone

Greg Stone took on the middle slot with a set that felt deceptively unsteady, but in a good way. There was structure there, but he played with it just enough to keep the audience guessing. A touch of crowd work popped up early, not enough to define the set, but enough to break the fourth wall and make the room feel involved rather than just observant.

From there, he settled into longer-form storytelling, weaving together bits that touched on identity, upbringing, and the kind of offbeat experiences that feel too specific to be made up. His jokes about his Asian and Italian kids leaned into cultural contrasts, but the humor came more from his perspective as their father than from stereotypes. Finding the awkward overlap in expectations, family dynamics, and social situations.

The most interesting move came right at the start. Stone opened with a joke he casually claimed was “usually his closer,” immediately creating a strange kind of tension. It hit like a closer too-tight, polished, and big enough to feel like an ending. But instead of wrapping up, he kept going, almost shrugging as if he’d painted himself into a corner. From that point on, the audience wasn’t just listening, they were tracking. Was that actually his best joke? Did he just burn his closer on purpose? Or was he setting up something bigger?

That question lingered as he moved into one of the more memorable bits of the night. A story about being mistaken for Sal Vulcano from Impractical Jokers. What could’ve been a quick throwaway turned into a layered story about a missed opportunity, specifically, a moment where he could’ve leaned into the confusion and played the role, potentially becoming an unlikely “hero” in someone else’s story. Instead, he let the moment pass, and the humor lived in that hesitation. In the what-could-have-been.

It’s that kind of storytelling that defined his set. Not just punchlines, but moments stretched out long enough to explore the angles of where the joke isn’t just what happened, but what didn’t happen, and how close it came to going differently.

By the time Stone reached his actual closing stretch, the earlier claim about his “usual closer” had done its job. True or not, it kept the audience engaged on a deeper level, turning the set into more than just a sequence of jokes. It became something you followed, not just something you reacted to.

The Man of the Hour: Dan Soder

By the time Dan Soder took the stage, the room was fully dialed in, but whatever expectations were there didn’t last long. Within minutes, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a set you casually observe. It was the kind you try to document and quickly give up on because you’re laughing too hard to keep your hands steady. Any thought of grabbing photos faded fast and were replaced by that involuntary, doubled-over kind of laughter that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

Soder’s set leaned heavily into mid-form storytelling, but unlike a slow burn, his pacing felt alive as it was constantly shifting, layering jokes within jokes. One bit that stood out framed “talking crap” as the dessert of conversation. Not the main course, not something you lead with, but the indulgent finish everyone secretly looks forward to. It was such a simple premise, but the way he built it out with adding examples, and escalating the absurdity, turned it into something much bigger than a throwaway observation.

That same escalation showed up in a recurring thread of “don’t knock it ‘til you try it” jokes, where he pushed the concept into increasingly gross and ridiculous territory. Each example walked right up to the line of being too much, then crossed it just enough to get the reaction he wanted. Half laughter, half disbelief.

And when the audience did react in a softer way, an audible “aww” slipping out during one bit, he pounced. Instantly flipping the tone, he called it out, roasting the crowd for their sudden sympathy and labeling it as hypocritical given everything they’d been laughing at moments earlier. It was sharp, but not mean-spirited, more like a reset, snapping everyone back into the rhythm of the set.

Animals, especially dogs, became another playground. Soder’s affection for dogs came through, but so did his willingness to tear into specific breeds with chihuahuas taking the brunt of it. The jokes weren’t just surface-level digs either; he leaned into the absurdity of their personalities, building them up into these exaggerated, almost cartoonish characters.

What really elevated the material, though, was his use of impressions. Accents and voices weren’t just add-ons, they added depth to the punchlines. Whether it was a Scottish lilt, an old-timey cadence, or a hyper-specific Boston accent, each one sharpened the joke, giving it texture and momentum. It’s one thing to tell a story; it’s another to perform every character in it, and Soder made that feel effortless.

And then there were the quieter observations, like the “rain cloud” family member. The one who carries a constant, low-grade sadness into every room. It was a different kind of joke, less explosive but just as effective, because of how recognizable it felt.

That balance between high-energy absurdity and grounded, observational humor is what carried the set. Soder never stayed in one lane too long. Just when a bit reached its peak, he’d pivot with a new voice, a new angle, a new story, keeping the audience not just laughing, but locked in and wanting more, even when it was over.

Afterglow

For the first time covering a comedy show at Grand Falls Casino and Resort, or anywhere for that matter, this experience landed far beyond expectations. Live stand-up has a different kind of energy than concerts or other events. It’s less about spectacle and more about connection. And in this case, that connection was constant. From the first opener to Dan Soder himself closing out the night, the room felt unified by one thing: laughter that never really let up.

What stood out most wasn’t just how funny the sets were, but how shared the experience felt. Comedy, at its best, turns a room full of strangers into something close to a community, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. Reactions ripple, jokes build on each other, and suddenly you’re not just watching it, you’re part of it.

Trying to capture that through a camera lens adds another layer to it personally. There’s a challenge in balancing the instinct to document with the reality of being pulled into the moment. More than once, the camera had to take a back seat simply because the laughter made it impossible to focus. And honestly, that feels like a success in itself. If the moment is strong enough to interrupt the duty, it’s probably worth more than the photo.

At the same time, being able to preserve even fragments of that energy-the expressions, the reactions, the atmosphere—makes the experience linger a little longer. It turns something fleeting into something you can revisit, even if it never fully captures what it felt like to be there.

That’s the hope with this piece. Not just to recap the night, but to give a sense of what it was like inside that room and to offer a glimpse of the kind of laughter that doesn’t just entertain, but sticks with you long after the show ends.

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There is a certain kind of comedy that does not try to reinvent the wheel. It looks at marriage, kids, exhaustion, bodily fluids, awkward strangers, and the slow disappearance of personal space and says: yes, this is ridiculous, and yes, you are allowed to laugh at it.

That is where Trey Kennedy lives.

Opener: Lucas O’Neil

The night opened with Lucas O’Neil, who had a tough time warming up the crowd right out of the gate but found them within a few minutes. Once he settled in, he got consistent laughs from material about OCD, family, religion, and the strange confidence people have when they misunderstand things completely.

He joked about his family noticing repeated behaviors, like walking across the street, and turning them into evidence of something larger. He moved into religion with bits about the Pope not being allowed to have a girlfriend and thinking being Catholic was basically the same thing as being culturally Jewish.

One of his sharper quick references came after joking that parents do not exist in the real world with adults. “The real world is not Bluey, sometimes Miss Rachel.” It was a small strange line, but one built perfectly for a room full of people who either have children or have had children’s programming slowly erode their adult brain.

Trey Kennedy

By the time Kennedy came out, the room was ready.

Kennedy’s show is built heavily around marriage and parenting, especially the differences between men and women inside a marriage. His wife, Katie, is one of the biggest presences in the set, even though she is not on stage. She becomes less of a punchline and more of a character: the woman he loves, annoys, wants attention from, and says approves the jokes he tells about her.

That approval matters because a lot of the material walks close to the line. Kennedy jokes about trying to get some from his wife, feeling neglected while the kids take over their lives, and the gross physical realities that come with having children. But the jokes do not feel rooted in contempt. They feel rooted in the very specific exhaustion of loving someone while also sharing a home, a bed, children, responsibilities, and no remaining personal dignity.

He is also a very animated performer. He doesn’t simply tell jokes. He acts them out as they unfold. That helped simple premises land harder, like a bit about gifts between spouses. Katie got him swim shorts. He got her a massage chair. The joke is not just the imbalance. It is the whole emotional panic of trying to participate correctly in marriage while having no idea what the rules are anymore.

Kennedy also used music throughout the show, bringing out a keyboardist who later played a guitar too. The musical pieces felt connected to his social media style, especially when paired with videos, including an opening video before he came out and a song about his dad not being able to use iPhones. For some comedians, that kind of multimedia element can feel like filler. For Kennedy, it fits. His live show does not ignore the internet version of him; it expands it.

The funniest song was also the most disgusting. Kennedy sang about how gross his wife has become since having kids—not how she looks, but how she smells, leaks, and forces him to change the bed sheets more often. He belted it out to the emotional scale of Adele’s “The Other Side,” which made the whole thing even more absurd. Written out, it sounds like it should not work. In the room, it did.

That is Kennedy’s trick. A lot of the material sounds harsher in summary than it feels live because he performs it with obvious affection. He is not standing outside family life mocking it. He is inside the house, stepping on toys, trying to flirt with his wife, getting interrupted by a child, and turning the whole mess into a bit before he loses his mind.

Another song shifted into parental discipline, starting from the modern idea of “using words” with his son. His son had made his sister cry, apologized to Kennedy, then immediately assaulted her again. Kennedy built the frustration until he understood his own father better than he probably wanted to. The bit escalated into the old-school threat — if you hit her again, it will be the last thing you ever do — before landing on “I’m gonna beat my kids.”

The joke is not that hitting kids is good. It is that every parent who swore they would be different eventually hears some ancient parental phrase come out of their own mouth and realizes the past was waiting inside them the whole time.

The crowd work produced some of the night’s most unpredictable moments. Kennedy asked one audience member a question, and she asked if he wanted the honest answer. That is usually dangerous for a comedian. Her honest answer was that she had Type 1 diabetes, probably the worst possible response to receive in the middle of light crowd work. She had turned off her glucose monitor alarm to enjoy the show and Kennedy joked that if she passed out, she was not getting a refund.

Then another woman revealed that her kid had almost been mauled to death. At that point, the audience seemed determined to hand Kennedy medical emergencies and childhood trauma instead of normal answers. Really hittin home with the crowd work.

Still, Kennedy handled it well, mostly because those strange turns fit the larger theme of the night. Parenting is funny until it is terrifying, then somehow funny again because that is how adults survive it.

One of his most relatable bits came from strangers touching your baby. Every parent knows the frustration. A baby exists in public, and suddenly people who would never touch another adult feel completely free to reach into a stroller.

From there, he moved into the emotional whiplash of parenthood: meeting nice strangers one minute, then suppressing the desire to hurt someone else’s kid the next because that kid messed with yours. It’s funny because it’s true. Parenthood doesn’t just make you softer. It makes you protective in ways that are ancient, unreasonable, and not fit for public conversation.

Kennedy also found strong material in the loneliness that can happen inside a full house. He joked about his son being all up in his shit, constantly going in for kisses, while his wife is busy and he is not getting much from her — arguably relatable for any parents of young kids, or those who’ve been in the trenches before.

Where the Mess Finally Lands

By the end, Kennedy had turned ordinary domestic frustration into something communal. The show was not edgy in the traditional sense. Its danger zone was marriage, kids, germs, sex, body fluids, discipline, and the quiet humiliation of being needed by everyone in your house while still wanting someone to want you back.

O’Neil got the room moving. Kennedy took it the rest of the way. Together, they gave the crowd a night that was exaggerated but not dishonest.

Because parenting really can be the best and worst thing that ever happens to you at the same time.

And sometimes, if you do not laugh at it, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

For a venue that has stood for more than two decades, it’s a surprising admission that this was my first time stepping inside Myth Live. With a several-thousand-capacity room built for large-scale concerts, the Twin Cities mainstay has hosted both marquee names and rising acts, building a reputation as one of the region’s premier live music destinations.

Located just outside downtown St. Paul, the venue is purpose-built for large-scale concert experiences. Multiple viewing levels offer options for every type of attendee, from those eager to be pressed against the barricade to others preferring a wider vantage point. Private suites, VIP sections, and an abundance of bars round out the amenities. While Myth Live regularly hosts weddings and private events as well, on this night it transformed into a haven for metal.

First Impressions and New Perspectives

Entry into the venue came with a few logistical hiccups, but the staff handled the situation with patience and professionalism. It marked a different experience from a previous visit covering Shaquille O’Neal’s DJ Diesel set months earlier. Once inside, operations ran smoothly, and access for media was handled with care.

This show also marked a personal first in bringing my older brother along as a second shooter. Beyond the practical benefit of capturing multiple angles, it added a new layer to the experience, sharing the rare privilege of a media pass while expanding the visual storytelling through fresh perspectives.

Before the music began, the merchandise tables offered a familiar yet always intriguing preview of the night’s identity. Standard fare of t-shirts, hoodies, and hats lined the booths, but standout items included vinyl records and signed, used drumheads, the latter being a prized collectible for dedicated fans.

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No Signs of Fatigue on the Final Night

As the final stop on Slaughter to Prevail’s 2026 North American spring tour, the question was on everyone’s mind: would the toll of touring show itself on stage? The answer came quickly and emphatically. Not even a little bit. There was no visible exhaustion, only intensity.

Attila Set the Tone

Opening the night was Attila, the Atlanta-based group known for fusing hip-hop swagger with crushing metalcore aggression. Since forming in 2005, the band has carved out a lane that leans as much on attitude as it does on sound, and from the moment they stepped on stage, that identity was impossible to miss.

Their set didn’t build slowly. It detonated. Bass-heavy backing tracks collided with downtuned riffs, creating a sonic blend that felt equal parts club energy and mosh-ready chaos. The crowd responded instantly, with heads nodding and bodies pressing forward before the first full song even settled in. It was less of an introduction and more of a command: get moving or get out of the way.

Chris Fronzak, the frontman who thrives on confrontation as much as connection, worked the stage with a veteran’s confidence, barking out orders, throwing playful jabs, and pushing the audience to match his intensity. His signature irreverence blurred the line between performer and instigator, and the crowd bought in completely. Every callout, every demand for louder screams or bigger movement was met without hesitation.

It didn’t take long for the pit to erupt. What started as a steady push near the barricade quickly expanded into a full-blown swirl of bodies. Attila’s ability to manufacture chaos on command was on full display, and it set a precedent that would carry through the rest of the night.

Musically, the set pulled from across their catalog, highlighting the band’s evolution while staying true to their core formula of bounce-heavy breakdowns and chant-along hooks. Still, for all the energy and crowd-pleasing moments, one omission stood out. “Pizza,” a personal favorite and a staple for many fans, was noticeably absent. It’s a small critique in the grand scheme, but one that left a lingering “what if” for those hoping to hear it live.

Even so, Attila’s role in the night was clear, and they executed it flawlessly. Their high-octane performance didn’t just open the show. It ignited it. By the time they exited the stage, the crowd was no longer settling in; it was fully engaged, adrenaline already surging. In a lineup built on escalation, Attila provided the spark that everything else would build upon.

Whitechapel Delivers Relentless Heaviness

If Attila ignited the crowd, Whitechapel consumed it.

Formed in Tennessee in 2006 and named after the infamous London district tied to Jack the Ripper, Whitechapel have long built a reputation on sheer sonic brutality. Live, that reputation feels almost understated. From the moment they took the stage, the room shifted to less of a concert atmosphere and more a pressure cooker, tightening with every riff and punishing blast beat.

At the center of it all stood Phil Bozeman, whose presence was as intimidating as it was controlled. His vocal delivery wasn’t just heavy. It was surgical. Deep gutturals gave way to piercing highs with an ease that felt almost unnatural, cutting cleanly through the wall of sound behind him. Between songs, he said little, letting the music carry the set, which only amplified the intensity.

Instrumentally, the band operated with a precision that bordered on mechanical. The triple-guitar attack layered dense, churning riffs that never lost clarity, even at their most chaotic. The rhythm section locked in tightly, driving each song forward with a chunk that could be felt as much as heard. It wasn’t just loud, it was immersive, the kind of heaviness that settles in your chest and refuses to let go.

The setlist smartly bridged the band’s evolution, rewarding longtime fans with a track from their debut album The Somatic Defilement while still leaning into the more refined brutality of their later material. That balance gave the performance both nostalgia and momentum, a reminder of how far the band has come without losing the raw edge that has defined them.

By the time their set reached its final moments, the crowd was fully surrendered. Mosh pits churned, bodies collided, and every breakdown hit with amplified impact. Positioned directly before the headliner, Whitechapel didn’t just warm up the room. They elevated it. Their performance served as a decisive turning point in the night, transforming an already energized audience into something feral, primed for what came next.

Slaughter to Prevail Command the Night

By the time Slaughter to Prevail took the stage, anticipation inside the venue had reached a near-breaking point. The energy that had been steadily building throughout the night finally found its release the moment the first notes rang out in an eruption that felt both inevitable and earned.

Formed in 2014, the Russian-born deathcore outfit has cultivated a global following, fueled in no small part by frontman Alex Terrible. Equal parts mystique and menace, his reputation extends far beyond the stage. Whether through viral vocal demonstrations or his unapologetically raw public persona, he has become a central figure in modern extreme metal. But in a live setting, those digital fragments coalesce into something far more imposing. His presence is not just seen or heard, it’s felt, a commanding force that anchors the band’s primal assault.

That presence carried added emotional weight on this particular night. In a recent Instagram Q&A, Alex hinted that this tour could mark a turning point, suggesting a step back from the demands of full-length touring in favor of time at home. Addressing the crowd between songs, he echoed that sentiment, not with finality, but with a reflective gratitude that gave the performance a sense of occasion. It introduced a subtle friction. The possibility that moments like this may soon become less frequent.

However, if there was any notion of restraint on this, the final night of the tour, it never surfaced.

From the outset, the band moved with a precision that approached meticulous. Guitarists Jack Simmons and Dmitriy Mamedov locked into crushing, gut-punching riffs with unwavering symmetry, while bassist Mike Petrov provided a dense low-end foundation that gave each breakdown its heaviness. Behind them, drummer Evgeny Novikov delivered a relentless performance of blast beats and double-kick patterns executed with a level of endurance that never faltered.

Visually, the band operated as a single unit. Headbanging cycles were synchronized, stage movements deliberate, and transitions seamless. What might appear chaotic to an outsider revealed itself, upon closer observation, to be potentially tightly controlled choreography, with each member moving within an unspoken framework that elevated the performance beyond mere aggression.

Several moments punctuated the set. Midway through, Alex stepped back from the microphone and unleashed his infamous guttural scream that carried cleanly across the entire venue, a stark demonstration of both technique and raw power. Later, in a brief shift of tone, a comrade of the band joined the stage and launched t-shirts into the crowd with a t-shirt cannon, an almost understated gesture that still managed to draw a surge of excitement from the fans.

But it was the crowd itself that became an extension of the performance. Circle pits opened and collapsed in rapid succession. A wall of death split the floor with purpose before crashing back together on cue. Waves of synchronized jumps rippled outward from the barricade to the back of the room. It was movement at scale. Volatile, but never directionless.

In the end, the set was a study in contrast: brutality paired with discipline, chaos governed by intent. If this tour does represent a transition point for Alex Terrible and Slaughter to Prevail, they made certain the night would not be remembered as a farewell defined by sentiment, but as a statement of peak form that was unyielding, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

Afterglow

While the lyrical themes may not resonate with every listener, the visceral energy of a live metal show remains undeniable. It exists beyond language or message as something felt more than analyzed. In a room packed shoulder to shoulder, the barriers between strangers dissolve quickly. What begins as individual spectatorship transforms into something collective: bodies moving in unison, voices shouted into the same air, a shared understanding forged in distortion and rhythm.

There is a catharsis in that release. The push and pull of the crowd, the cyclical surge of the pit, and the unspoken rules that govern it all create a space that is paradoxically both hectic and controlled. It’s an environment where intensity becomes a kind of communication. One that doesn’t require translation. For many, it’s less about the specific lyrics and more about the permission to feel something unfiltered, even if only for a set’s duration.

At Myth Live, that energy didn’t simply sustain itself, it escalated. As the night progressed, each performance seemed to stack upon the last, amplifying the atmosphere rather than exhausting it. By the time the final notes rang out, there was no sense of fatigue in the room, only a lingering charge. It felt less like an ending and more like a culmination. An exhale after sustained intensity.

Closing out a tour under those conditions is no small feat. Yet this show managed to do so not by dialing anything back, but by leaning fully into the weight of the moment. It was loud, unrelenting, and at times overwhelming, but that, ultimately, is the point.

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Home Turf, Different Stakes

Being a Sioux Falls local, I’ve been to enough shows at The District that the room doesn’t feel unfamiliar anymore. At roughly 1,500 capacity, it’s one of those venues where you already know how the night can work before the lights even go down. You know where the crowd tends to bunch up, how the floor can feel when the room fills in right, how a strong set can make the whole place feel smaller in the best possible way. This was also my second time getting press access there, which still carries its own little spark. Huge thanks to Pepper Entertainment for helping make that happen. There is something especially nice about covering a show in your own city and not having to burn energy on hotels, long drives, and expense math. You get to keep that attention where it belongs, on the stage. On a bill like this one, that mattered.

The Suffer No Evil US Tour stop in Sioux Falls brought together J.D. Pinkus, Corrosion of Conformity, and Clutch. However you cut up the timelines, this was a lineup carrying well over a century of combined history into one room. That can go one of two ways. Sometimes a package like that feels heavy with its own reputation. Other times it feels locked in, like everyone involved already knows exactly what they do well and has no interest in pretending to be anything else. This night leaned hard toward the second option.

One Man, One Banjo, Plenty of Strange Charm

J.D. Pinkus got things started in a way that did not feel built for convenience and definitely did not feel built for trend-chasing. If you know him from the long and weird orbit around the Butthole Surfers, that history is obviously part of the intrigue, but what landed here was how committed the set felt to its own odd little pocket. It was just him, an electric banjo, looping, and the kind of stage presence that does not need a full band to keep a room watching. The easiest description would be stripped down, but that does not really cover it. It was stripped down in personnel, sure, but not in personality.

The whole thing had a handmade feel to it. Strange, wiry, and a little ragged around the edges in a way that worked. The photos only sharpened that impression. With the banjo catching stage light and his tattooed arms and rough-cut silhouette framed against the room, he looked less like a novelty opener and more like a one-man transmission from some stranger frequency. The set never came across like a gimmick. It felt built from repetition, texture, and instinct. Layer by layer, loop by loop, he turned what could have been a curiosity into something genuinely hypnotic.

There was something almost anti-flashy about it, which made it more interesting. He was not trying to overpower the room. He was shaping it. His recent release, “Grow a Pear”, makes it clear he is still putting new work into the world, and that came through in the performance. He did not carry himself like someone coasting on old legend. He felt like somebody still actively poking at the edges of what a live set can be when the setup is minimal but the character is not.

When a fellow bandmate from Honkie came out for a song, it added just enough chaos and camaraderie to push the set into even more lived-in territory. It never tried to blow the roof off the place. It just made the room a little stranger and a little more awake, which, honestly, is a pretty ideal way to start a night like this.

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The Weight in the Middle of the Bill

Then Corrosion of Conformity came out and reminded everybody that subtlety was no longer on the menu. I knew going in that they had history. I knew going in that they had weight behind the name. What I was not fully ready for was just how heavy they felt in person. Not heavy in the vague, overused sense where people mean loud and call it a day. Heavy in the physical sense. Heavy in the way the riffs seemed to land fully formed. Heavy in the way the room answered them back.

That reaction made sense. With a new album out only weeks earlier, the band walked onstage with fresh material in hand and no need to pretend they were living only in the past. That is always one of the clearest tests for a veteran band. New songs either feel like interruptions or they feel like proof of life. Here, they felt like the latter. Even without breaking the set down song by song, you could feel that tension between seasoned confidence and fresh material still carrying live blood in it. And just as importantly, the crowd was with them.

The visual side of their set hit almost as hard as the sound. The photos show a darker, rougher aura than I was expecting, and that fits what the band felt like in the room. Purple and blue washes rolled across the stage. Orange amps glowed from the side. The giant Corrosion of Conformity backdrop loomed over everything like something torn out of a fever dream and pinned to the wall. Even the silhouettes felt road-worn in the right way. Nothing about it looked polished for polish’s sake. It looked earned.

Sometimes the middle slot on a bill can feel like a holding pattern before the headliner arrives. This did the opposite. Corrosion of Conformity made the entire night feel sturdier. They raised the temperature in the room and made the path to Clutch feel earned rather than merely scheduled.

Clutch Never Stood Still

By the time Clutch took the stage, the room was more than ready for them, and they absolutely knew what to do with that. There are singers who deliver songs well, and then there are singers who treat the entire stage like another instrument. Neil Fallon was the second kind. He was the most animated frontman I have seen in a while, but that undersells it a little. Animated can sound accidental. What he was doing felt deliberate. Physical. Contagious.

He did not just move around a lot. He pressed the songs outward. One second he was pointing into the crowd like he was singling out the room itself, the next he was pulling the mic close and curling into a line like he was trying to force it through the air with his whole body. His hands were constantly doing something. His posture kept changing. His delivery never settled long enough to go still. None of it felt forced. It felt instinctive, like the songs were dragging motion out of him whether he wanted it or not.

And visually, Clutch looked every bit as commanding as they sounded. That huge skull-and-rays backdrop gave the set a kind of industrial sermon feel, half rock show, half warning flare. White beams cut through haze. Reds and greens burned across the stage. Wide shots made the whole thing look enormous, but even the tighter images had the same tension in them. Fallon never looked like he was simply standing inside the production. He looked like he was using it, throwing his voice and gestures through it and keeping the whole room pinned in place.

That contagious quality ended up being the biggest takeaway of their set for me. Clutch hit with melodic rock muscle, sure, but what made them feel so strong live was how much motion there was inside the performance. Fallon gave the songs a physical dimension. He did not just sing them. He launched them. The band around him matched that force by refusing to let anything sag. The result was a set that never felt static, even in moments where another band might have leaned too comfortably on groove and catalog.

What I appreciated most was how cleanly the whole night escalated. Pinkus opened the door with something eccentric and personal. Corrosion of Conformity came in heavier than expected and got one of the strongest crowd reactions of the night. Then Clutch tied the whole thing together with sheer command. Not polished in a sterile way. Not overworked. Just confident, road-tested, and fully alive in the room.

Familiar Faces, Better Focus

There was also something personally nice about getting to shoot this one with the same photographer I covered Journey with. That familiarity changes the rhythm of a night in small but real ways. You settle in faster. You communicate easier. You waste less motion. On a bill with this much movement, lighting, and personality, that kind of comfort matters. It lets you stay locked on the work instead of on your own logistics, which is really what every good show deserves from the people covering it.

And these were the kind of sets that rewarded attention. Fallon’s gestures. The harsh white beams behind the band. Corrosion of Conformity’s darker, underground look. J.D. Pinkus standing there with an electric banjo and somehow making that feel less odd the longer you watched. These were not forgettable visual sets. They had texture. They had identity. They looked like themselves.

What stuck with me most by the end was not one oversized production trick or one dramatic gimmick. It was the sense that every act on the bill knew exactly who they were and leaned into it without apology. Pinkus was weird on purpose. Corrosion of Conformity was heavier than I expected and proud of it. Clutch carried themselves like seasoned lifers who still understand that stage presence is half the spell. The night never felt bloated. It felt built.

Merch That Matched the Bill

The merch tables ended up feeling like a pretty accurate extension of the lineup itself. Clutch’s setup had the kind of variety you would expect from a band with a catalog and fanbase this deep. There were several shirt designs spread across black, white, and red tie-dye options, a hoodie priced at $65, logo hats marked at $45, bandanas and tote bags at $20, and smaller add-ons like patches for $10 and a sticker item at $15. It did not feel thrown together or phoned in. It looked like the kind of table built for a crowd that already knew exactly what name they came wearing on their chest before they even got to the venue.

Corrosion of Conformity’s table had a rougher, more underground feel, which fit them perfectly. Their shirts were marked at $35, and the display leaned into darker artwork and a more road-baked metal aesthetic. There were also signed posters available for $20, which honestly felt like one of the better pickups in the room if you wanted something beyond the standard tee.

Even the merch layouts told their own story. Clutch came in broad and established, with enough variety to cover the casual fan and the diehard alike. Corrosion of Conformity felt darker, rawer, and a little more underground. It is a small detail, sure, but nights like this are made out of small details. Sometimes what is hanging on the wall tells you almost as much about a band as the first riff does.

Afterglow

One of the best parts of being local is that the night does not end with a hotel hallway or a long highway blur. You just step back out into Sioux Falls with your ears still ringing and the room still close enough to feel. That is what this show left behind. Not just the volume, though there was plenty of that. Not just the history, though there was more than enough of that too. It was the feeling of watching three acts from different corners of heavy music prove that experience does not have to mean routine.

Sometimes it means the opposite. Sometimes it means knowing exactly how to make a room yours.

And that was the throughline all night. J.D. Pinkus made the room stranger. Corrosion of Conformity made it heavier. Clutch made it impossible to ignore. By the end, the whole thing felt less like a stacked package tour and more like three different ways of showing what staying power actually looks like when it is still alive onstage.

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Some albums you listen to. Others you step into.

Selwyn Birchwood’s Electric Swamp Funkin’ Blues belongs to the second category—a record that feels tactile from the moment you pick it up. Even the physical presentation sets the tone. The CD packaging leans closer to the vinyl aesthetic collectors crave—sturdy, intentional, a small but telling detail that mirrors the music inside. This isn’t disposable. It’s meant to be held onto.

Across 9 full tracks (plus a brief intro piece), Birchwood stretches into a 46-minute runtime without ever feeling bloated. That’s the trick here—the songs often push past five minutes, but they breathe. Soulful riffs and extended solos don’t interrupt the flow; they are the flow. The band locks in, and time just… loosens.

What unfolds is a record that moves like a lived experience—equal parts faith, frustration, love, pressure, and survival.

Arrival & Declaration

The Eagle Has Landed

The album opens with presence. No rush, no flash—just a grounded arrival. Birchwood steps into the swamp with quiet confidence, letting the groove do the talking. It’s less of an introduction and more of a statement: this is the terrain, and we’re not leaving it.

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Faith, Rewritten

The Church of Electric Swamp Funkin’ Blues

One of the album’s clear standouts, this track reframes music as religion with sharp, clever comparisons. The stage becomes a pulpit, the crowd a congregation, and the groove itself a kind of salvation. It’s playful, but not shallow—Birchwood builds a full philosophy here, one rooted in freedom rather than doctrine.

Self-Worth in the Mud

Damaged Goods

A deeply human pivot. Birchwood wrestles with identity and past mistakes, refusing to let damage define worth. The imagery of scars as a Purple Heart elevates the song from confession to resilience. It’s one of the emotional anchors of the album.

Systems & Control

All Hail the Algorithm

Another standout, and one of the album’s sharpest turns outward. Birchwood critiques our relationship with technology—how we willingly hand over control while thinking we’re in charge. The chant-like chorus feels intentionally unsettling, turning modern dependency into something that sounds eerily like worship.

Love Under Pressure

Labour of Love

This is where the album softens—but not in the way you expect. A ballad grounded in reality, it trades flashy guitar work for something more textured, even incorporating unexpected saxophone elements that deepen the emotional pull. It’s about family, responsibility, and the quiet, exhausting beauty of staying committed when things aren’t easy.

When Everything Goes Wrong

Should’ve Never Gotten Out of Bed

Birchwood taps into classic blues storytelling here—a cascade of bad luck delivered with just enough humor to keep it from collapsing into despair. Bills, work, relationships—it all stacks. It’s relatable in that painfully familiar way where you can’t help but shake your head and laugh through it.

Trust on the Edge

What I’ve Been Accused Of

A standout for its tone and style, this track leans into a Johnny Cash-esque grit—steady, grounded, with a storytelling edge that cuts clean. There’s even a standout piano presence that adds texture beneath the tension. The lyrics walk a fine line between humor and warning, exploring how constant suspicion can warp reality.

Noise & Narrative

Talking Heads

Blunt and unfiltered, Birchwood takes aim at media culture and narrative manipulation. Personality-driven news, repetition as persuasion, and profit-driven messaging all come under fire. It’s not polished, and that’s exactly why it works—it feels like frustration turned into rhythm.

A Moment of Light

Soulmate

Right when the album risks becoming too heavy, Birchwood pulls back and offers something simple: hope. “Soulmate” doesn’t overcomplicate love—it reaffirms it. The message is steady, almost gentle. Don’t give up. Stay open. After everything else, that simplicity feels earned.

The Final Weight

The Struggle Is Real

The closer strips everything down. Birchwood delivers a stark, honest reflection on systemic struggle and lived experience. The line about learning the “color wheel” before numbers lands with quiet devastation. There’s no neat resolution—just truth, and a fragile hope that healing is possible.

Final Verdict

Electric Swamp Funkin’ Blues thrives in its balance.

It stretches long without dragging. It grooves without losing meaning. It critiques without preaching. And thanks to its layered instrumentation—those soulful solos, the space between verses, the willingness to let songs breathe—it never feels like its runtime.

This is blues that understands where it came from—but refuses to stay there.

Birchwood builds something that feels:

• Rooted, but modern

• Personal, but expansive

• Heavy, but still moving

If there’s one thing this album proves, it’s this:

The blues isn’t stuck in the past.
It’s alive, adapting, and still telling the truth—just with a little more electricity running through it now.

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What Railroad Fest?

Another typical April rolled into hometown Amory, Mississippi, and with it came the Amory Railroad Festival for the 45th time. Vendors lined up, food smells drifting around, people walking through town, music somewhere in the mix, and the usual festival traffic moving like a slow train through Main Street. Nothing wrong with it. It is tradition. But this year, it did not feel like the old Thursday nights when the festival almost always brought in some bigger-name past artist and gave folks a real reason to gather around the main stage.

This year, the best music had jumped the track.

The real show was nowhere near the park.

It was down Main.

That is where the night really got rolling, not in the middle of all the festival motion, not where everybody expected it to be, but at the other end of Main in that famous Vinegar Bend, named after a load of vinegar tipped over in that turn years ago. That is the kind of name only a hometown keeps alive. One spill, one story, and next thing you know, it is part of the map forever.

That bend is where The Bend at The Lucky Tap sits, and that is where Leather Rose turned Railroad Fest weekend into something with a little more steam behind it.

Down the Line to Vinegar Bend

The Bend, formerly The Lucky Tap, has recently gone through a revamp of its image and menu, which makes sense with the unstable economic times everybody is trying to work through. Wade and the staff made the kind of change that needed to happen. They simplified things without giving up the service or the smiles, and that is not always easy to do.

It is still a pleasure to stop in, grab a bite, have a cold brew, or order a well drink. Chloe always seems to be coming up with some new idea or twist on things too, which keeps the place feeling alive instead of just another bar trying to hang on. There is something to be said for a local spot that knows when to switch tracks without losing the engine that got people there in the first place.

It is definitely worth the stop if you are in the area.

Great spot tucked away on Main.

That night, with Railroad Fest bringing extra people into town and the park still doing its thing on the other end, The Bend had the better kind of buzz. Not polished. Not planned to death. Just people coming through the door, drinks moving, conversations happening, and that feeling that something better than expected might be about to pull in.

Then Leather Rose took care of the rest.

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Ground Zero Fuel in the Tank

Tonight brought another hometown Leather Rose show, and the boys came in locked and loaded for a big night. They were fresh off their second opening spot at the world-famous Ground Zero Blues Club in Clarksdale, Mississippi, and also their second time opening for Ghost Town Blues Band out of Memphis, Tennessee.

That is not a small thing. You do not get around players like that, open a room like that, and come back home exactly the same. The boys have become good friends with Matt Isbell and the guys in GTBB, and you can tell that being around those kinds of musicians is rubbing off in the right ways. That kind of experience puts a little more coal in the fire.

Leather Rose brought that back to Amory.

The practice and hard work these young guys have been putting in is really starting to show. They are getting tighter as a band, and each one is finding his own style and behavior while performing. That adds a lot to the show. They are not just standing there playing songs anymore. They are starting to look like they understand what they are building.

To truly see what Leather Rose is all about, they need to be seen live.

That is not just something people say to be nice. Some bands can be summed up pretty quick from a recording or a phone video. Leather Rose makes more sense in a room. You need to see how they work off each other, how the songs hit with a crowd in front of them, how the rough edges and the confidence are starting to run on the same rail.

They are still young, but they are moving.

Originals on the First Run

They opened with a full set of originals, and that right there says a lot. It is easy to lean on covers, especially in a hometown room where people want songs they already know. A cover gives the crowd something familiar to grab onto. It makes the room loosen up faster. It is the safe track.

Leather Rose did not take the safe track first.

They came out with their own material, and they have clearly been working on getting those songs dialed in. That is the part that stood out. These did not feel like songs they were still trying to figure out in front of people. They sounded like songs they had worked over, tightened up, and brought out ready to run.

They were on spot tonight with songs like “Raised in Mississippi” and “Righteous Man,” setting the tone for the rest of the night. Those songs fit them because they sound like where they come from. Not in a fake country-radio way, and not in some overdone southern-rock costume either. Just Mississippi boys playing songs that sound like they came from Mississippi boys.

After a couple more, some crowd favorites made the list with “Marijuana Rockstar,” “Mississippi Mud Mansion,” and “Faith and Fear,” a song about exactly what the title says. That is one thing about this band. They are not trying to make everything mysterious. Sometimes the title tells you what you need to know, and then the song just has to prove it.

The crowd was with them, and that is always the test with originals. Friends and regulars might cheer because they know you, but first-timers will tell the truth without saying a word. They will drift outside. They will turn back to their drinks. They will check their phones.

That did not seem to be the case here.

People stayed on board.

Faith, Fear, and Mississippi Smoke

Silas has a couple songs he has written about his faith, and both are in the set. Those songs are a great testimony from this young man. There is something honest about hearing that kind of writing in the middle of a southern rock set. It does not feel forced. It feels like part of who he is.

“Faith and Fear” has that plainspoken title, and it works because it is not trying to hide what it is about. Everybody knows those two things. Everybody has had them sitting across from each other inside their chest at some point. Silas just puts it into the set and lets it speak for itself.

“Ground Zero” is a song they wrote after opening for Ghost Town Blues Band the first time, and it is quickly becoming a staple of their set. That one already feels like it has a story behind it because it does. You can hear the band starting to take real moments from their own journey and turn them into songs, which is exactly what they need to keep doing.

That is how young bands grow into something more than just players. They start writing where they have been. They start turning nights, stages, road trips, lessons, and people into material. “Ground Zero” feels like one of those songs that will keep changing with them the more they play it.

They closed out the first set with the other faith-based song from Silas, “Here I Am.” It is basically about telling God, here I am Lord, what will You have me do? That is the kind of song that could easily be overdone, but Silas keeps it grounded. It comes across like he means it, and that is why it works.

There are plenty of bands that can play loud. There are plenty of bands that can work through a set. But when somebody steps up with something personal and does not make it feel fake, that is where the room can shift a little.

Silver Dollars and Southern Rails

The band took a short break after that, but soon returned with a second set that included a great mix of classic southern rock staples. “Call Me the Breeze” made the list, along with The Allman Brothers Band’s “Midnight Rider.”

Silas will usually hold up a silver dollar on that line if he has one, which has become one of those little stage moments people look for. It is not some big production trick. It is just one of those small things that becomes part of seeing the band. A little move, a little personality, a little something extra for the folks paying attention.

Silas and Carson trading licks was one of the best parts of the night. You can see the chemistry building between them. It is not just two guitar players taking turns. It is more like they are learning how to push each other and answer each other. That kind of thing makes a live show feel alive.

There is a difference between playing beside somebody and playing with somebody. They are getting closer to that second one all the time. You can see it in the way the parts move back and forth, the way one phrase seems to challenge the next, the way the energy does not just sit in one place. When those two get going, it feels like the wheels catching the rail.

Mason had that Mr. Cool thing going on too. Every band needs somebody who looks calm while everything else is moving. He brings that steady presence, and it helps hold the whole thing together. That kind of cool cannot really be faked. Either you have it or you look like you are trying too hard.

Mason had it.

Another staple almost always in their set is “Whitehouse Road,” their cover of the Tyler Childers song. But Leather Rose does not play it like a straight copy. They give it a southern, gritty, dirt-rock swag that honestly blows the original version out of the water for me.

They make it rock.

I have tried to encourage them to release their version, because I believe it would go over really well. There is something in the way they attack it that feels like it belongs to them now. Not because they wrote it, but because they figured out how to make it fit their hands.

The Bend Was the Station

By the time the night was rolling, The Bend was packed. The crowd was great and showed how much they enjoyed the band. With all the extra folks in town for Railroad Fest, and with people out late after everything happening around the park, it made for a great night overall.

There were a lot of first-timers hearing the band, and from what I could tell, most of them stayed until the end once they came inside. That says a lot. People do not stay in a packed room all night just to be polite. They stay because something caught them.

This was the kind of show young bands need and love to be part of. It helps them grow. It lets them see the impact they are having on an audience. That matters, especially for a hometown band still building itself one show at a time.

You could feel that part of it. A hometown show can be tricky because people already think they know you. They know your family, they remember when you started, they have seen the early versions. Sometimes that makes it harder to impress them, not easier.

But Leather Rose had the room.

The place stayed full. The people stayed with them. The first-timers did not all wander off. And by the end of the night, it felt like the band had done exactly what a hometown band should do during a weekend like Railroad Fest. They gave people a reason to walk away talking about something other than the same old festival routine.

They made The Bend feel like the place to be.

One Passenger Who Made It Special

The most special thing of the night was the “special guest,” you could say.

Silas’ dad was able to come see them for the first time.

It was a really great night and a truly special moment.

Some things do not need a big explanation wrapped around them. A father seeing his son play for the first time, in a packed hometown room, with the band sounding better and stronger than ever, says enough on its own. You could tell it mattered. Nights like that do not just belong to the crowd. They belong to the people onstage and the people who helped them get there.

Afterglow

So we all said our goodbyes, gave hugs, talked a little, and headed out on our paths home. That is usually how these nights end. You leave with your ears still ringing a little, thinking back through the set, thinking about the next show, thinking about how far these boys have already come and how much further they can still go.

Railroad Fest had the crowd in town, but Leather Rose had the show that needed to be seen.

Carson and Silas have a few acoustic shows scheduled before the band returns in full force right back here at The Bend at The Lucky Tap. And if this night showed anything, it is that they are worth catching now, while the story is still being written close to home.

Another Railroad Festival came and went in Amory. Same town, same tracks, same yearly pull through April.

But down Main, in Vinegar Bend, Leather Rose had the engine running.

Photos by IRON TRAKKS MEDIA

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Some venues feel functional. You show up, find your place, watch the band, and leave. And then there are rooms like the Val Air Ballroom, where the walls seem to hold onto every note that has ever passed through them. Walking in that night, I could feel it immediately. The place has history in its bones, but it never felt dusty or frozen in time. It felt alive. Restored, yes, but still haunted in the best way, like the past had not been cleared out so much as invited to stay.

That made it the perfect setting for a night with Larkin Poe and Gov’t Mule.

Larkin Poe

There was already a strong crowd in the room by the time Larkin Poe took the stage, and what struck me first was how quickly the room gave itself over to them. Conversations dropped off. The noise of people settling in disappeared. That kind of hush is hard to force and impossible to fake. It only happens when a room decides, almost unconsciously, to listen.

Watching Megan Lovell work through lap steel and Dobro was one of the real pleasures of the set. Some musicians are impressive in a technical sense, but she was something more than that. There was a kind of ease to it, a command that made the whole thing mesmerizing. Rebecca matched that with a presence at the front of the stage that kept everything grounded and sharp. Together they pulled the audience into their orbit without ever looking like they were trying too hard to do it.

When they played “Mockingbird”, the connection with the crowd deepened in a way that was easy to feel. That seemed to be the point where admiration shifted into full investment. This was not the kind of crowd that needed to throw elbows or wave fists in the air to show they were having a good time. It was subtler than that. Heads were moving. Toes were tapping. Bodies were swaying. The whole room seemed to fall into step with the blues-rock pulse coming off the stage. It was steady, warm, and completely in sync.

And maybe that feeling suited the band more than anything louder would have. There is something in Larkin Poe’s sound that feels inherited, something rooted and carried forward. Knowing the band’s name comes from family history, from an ancestor named Larkin Poe who was connected by bloodline to Edgar Allan Poe, only made that feeling stronger. It gave the set a shadowed edge without turning it into theater. Not darkness for the sake of darkness. More like the soft weight of ancestry, of names and stories handed down and still breathing. In a room as old and storied as Val Air, that note landed beautifully.

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The Ballroom and the Blaze

The Val Air Ballroom itself deserves some credit here too. After its restoration, it feels like it has found a way to honor what it has always been while still making room for what live music looks and sounds like now. With its hardwood floor, its history, and that balance between intimacy and energy, it does not feel like one of those blank modern rooms that could be anywhere. It feels specific. It feels like Iowa. It feels like a place where a show can still mean something a little extra.

Then Gov’t Mule took over and the whole night opened wider.

What I loved about their set was how locked in everything felt without becoming stiff. The audience had already been engaged all evening, but Gov’t Mule brought a different kind of force. It was focused, but never rigid. Loose, but never careless. The energy stayed high and constant, and visually, the stage looked incredible. For photography, it was one of those setups that makes you want to keep shooting because every few seconds there is another frame worth chasing. The digital backdrop was vibrant without becoming distracting, and the lighting hit that sweet spot where it felt artistic and dramatic while still letting the performers live inside it.

Then came one of the biggest moments of the night, when Rebecca and Megan from Larkin Poe joined Gov’t Mule onstage. Those are the kinds of collaborations that can sometimes feel like a nice bonus, but this one felt bigger than that. It felt natural. It felt earned. There was no awkwardness to it, no sense of a forced crossover moment. It just clicked. Seeing both acts share the stage turned an already strong show into something more memorable, the kind of thing you replay later because you know not every crowd gets a moment exactly like that.

I also loved the unexpected nod to Beck’s “Loser”. It caught me completely off guard, and maybe that is part of why it worked so well. It added this little flash of surprise to the set, a quick left turn that made the whole night feel even more alive. Not everything has to be monumental to matter. Sometimes a small unexpected choice can make a show feel even more human.

And then there was “Soulshine”.

That was the moment the room changed.

The audience had been with the band all night, no question about it, but there was still a kind of invisible boundary in place, as if everyone had stayed mostly inside their own little square of space. When “Soulshine” hit, that disappeared. Suddenly people who had held back all night were dancing like they had been waiting for permission. The crowd loosened all at once. You could feel it. What had been controlled became joyful. What had been contained became open. And with the stage lit up the way it was, everything about that encore felt amplified. It was one of those endings that does more than close a set. It sends people back out into the night carrying something with them.

The House Pours Its Own Footnotes

The venue even found a way to weave itself into the experience through the bar. Two signature cocktails had been created for the occasion, and of course we had to try them. The “Make It Rain” had more of a spicy kick, with Fireball and ginger ale, while the “Soulshine” leaned smoother with Jack Daniel’s and lemonade. Both were genuinely good, and both felt like a fun touch rather than a lazy gimmick. They fit the night. They fit the bands. They also came with a very rock-and-roll price tag, which, well, felt about right.

By the end of the night, we were back in the car a little after 11:00, stuck in a line of traffic trying to leave the parking lot. Not exactly the most glamorous ending, but honestly, it didn’t matter much. The evening had been strong enough that even sitting there idling felt like part of the afterglow. We spent that time doing what you do after a show really lands: going back over the best parts, comparing notes, reliving little moments. Igor, who normally wants no part of the review side of coverage, even started offering thoughts on what absolutely needed to make it into the article, including the specialty drinks. That alone says a lot.

By the time I got home, I was done for the night. No dramatic epiphany. No staying up until two in the morning trying to force extra thoughts onto the page. Just the simple feeling of having been at something worth remembering.

Afterglow

Maybe that is what stayed with me most. Not just that the performances were strong, though they were. Not just that the lighting was beautiful, or that the crowd was locked in, or that the room itself seemed to hum with its own past. It was the way all of it came together without strain.

An old ballroom with fresh life in it. A band carrying a family name that already sounds like it belongs in candlelight and shadow. Another band seasoned enough to know exactly how to bring a room to full bloom by the end of the night. The surprise of “Loser.” The release of “Soulshine.” The slow crawl out of the parking lot afterward, still talking about what had just happened.

Some nights are easy to summarize and even easier to forget. This was not one of those nights. This one lingered.

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Faith in Focus is a weekly reflection on what God has been teaching me throughout the week regarding my faith. Whether it’s personal interactions, reading, or the Sunday sermon, God speaks through it all, and I hope this helps you focus on His mission.

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Sermon Reflection

Built or Broken: The Resurrection as Our Foundation

In 1 Corinthians 15:12–34, Paul confronts a dangerous idea with eternal consequences: if the resurrection is not real, neither is our hope. But if it is, everything changes.

Based on the sermon by Jonathan Land, Connection Church Sioux Falls, April 19, 2026.

It began with something almost disarming.

Before opening the text, Jonathan took a moment to share his fascination with construction. Massive buildings. Towering structures. The kind of projects that demand precision, patience, and a foundation that can bear the weight over time. There was humor in it too, a childlike joy in cranes and trucks and the process of building something from nothing.

But then came the truth.

Because every structure, no matter how impressive, carries an unavoidable ending. If the foundation fails, the entire thing collapses.

That is where the analogy sharpened. A Jenga tower, piece by piece, can stand tall. But remove the wrong block, and everything falls in an instant. What once seemed stable reveals itself to be fragile.

Paul is making the same argument in 1 Corinthians 15:12–34. Only the stakes are infinitely higher.

Remove the resurrection, and the entire Christian faith collapses.

The World Behind the Text

The church in Corinth was not lacking in passion. They were active, gifted, and engaged. But they were also confused, shaped by a culture that struggled to believe in bodily resurrection.

In the Greco-Roman world, many believed the physical body was a limitation, something to escape rather than something to be restored. Spiritual existence was desirable. Physical resurrection was not.

So when some in Corinth began to question whether believers would be raised from the dead, it may have seemed like a minor theological adjustment.

Paul treats it as a catastrophic error.

Because this is not a side issue. It is the issue.

In 1 Corinthians 15:12, Paul writes that some are saying there is no resurrection of the dead. What follows is not gentle correction but a logical dismantling. He pulls on that one loose block and shows the Corinthians exactly what falls when it is removed.

Walking the Passage

Paul’s argument is relentless.

If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised (1 Corinthians 15:13). And if Christ has not been raised, then preaching and faith are in vain (1 Corinthians 15:14).

It gets worse.

If Christ has not been raised, the apostles are misrepresenting God (1 Corinthians 15:15). Faith is futile. Sin still holds its power. The dead are lost forever (1 Corinthians 15:17–18). And perhaps most strikingly, Christians are to be pitied above all people (1 Corinthians 15:19).

Paul is not softening the implications. He is pressing them into the church. No resurrection means no Gospel.

At the center of this passage is one of the most sobering statements in Scripture: if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins (1 Corinthians 15:17).

That word futile commands attention. It means empty, ineffective, powerless. A faith that cannot save. A belief system that cannot deliver what it promises. Without the resurrection, sin is not defeated. Death is not conquered. Hope is not secured.

But Paul does not leave the church there. He pivots with one of the most important declarations in the New Testament.

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep (1 Corinthians 15:20).

This is not wishful thinking. It is not metaphor. It is a claim rooted in history and witnessed reality. And Paul reaches back into imagery the Corinthians would understand.

Firstfruits.

In the agricultural world, the firstfruits were not the full harvest. They were the beginning of it. The first portion that guaranteed more was coming. They were a sign, not just of what HAD happened, but of what WOULD happen.

Christ’s resurrection is not an isolated event. It is the beginning of something that includes all who belong to him.

Paul then traces the story back even further. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead (1 Corinthians 15:21).

In Adam, all die.

In Christ, all shall be made alive (1 Corinthians 15:22).

This is the language of representation. Adam stands as the head of humanity in sin. Christ stands as the head of a new humanity in life.

Where Adam failed, Christ succeeds. Where Adam brought death, Christ brings life.

This is why the resurrection matters so deeply. It is not just proof that Jesus rose. It is proof that his work was sufficient. That sin was truly dealt with. That death no longer has the final word.

Paul continues by pointing to the ultimate end. Christ reigns until every enemy is defeated, and the last enemy to be destroyed is death (1 Corinthians 15:25–26).

The resurrection is not just about the past. It is about the future. It is about where history is headed.

Then Paul brings the argument into everyday life.

Why would anyone endure suffering, danger, or even death for something that is not true (1 Corinthians 15:30–31)?

If the dead are not raised, then the most logical conclusion is simple: let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die (1 Corinthians 15:32).

In other words, if there is no resurrection, then nothing ultimately matters.

But Paul refuses that conclusion. Instead, he warns the church not to be deceived and calls them back to sober thinking and righteous living (1 Corinthians 15:33–34).

Belief shapes behavior.

And what we believe about the resurrection will shape everything.

A Fair Counter-Reading

Some have argued that Paul is speaking symbolically. That resurrection is not about physical bodies but about spiritual renewal or the continuation of Jesus’ influence.

There is a surface-level appeal to this. It aligns with cultural instincts that are more comfortable with metaphor than miracle. But it does not hold up under the gravity of the text.

Paul’s entire argument collapses if the resurrection is not real AND physical. His logic depends on a historical event. If Christ has not actually been raised, then everything he says about faith being futile still stands.

A symbolic resurrection cannot defeat real death. A metaphor cannot conquer the grave.

Paul is not offering inspiration. He is making a claim about reality.

The Turn

The Jenga tower is helpful because it exposes how we often think about faith. We treat doctrines like interchangeable pieces. Remove one, adjust another, and the structure still stands.

Paul disagrees.

The resurrection is not one piece among many. It is the foundation beneath all of them. Remove it, and nothing remains. But if it is true, then everything holds.

This is where the passage becomes deeply personal.

Because the resurrection is not just a theological idea to agree with. It is a reality to build your life upon.

If Christ is raised, then your sin is not the end of your story.

If Christ is raised, then death is not the final word over your life or the lives of those you love.

If Christ is raised, then your suffering is not meaningless.

If Christ is raised, then what you do with your life matters eternally.

The difference between despair and hope is not found in changing circumstances. It is found in whether the resurrection is true.

And Paul insists that it is.

Song of the Week: Testimony - Terrian

Terrian’s song “Testimony” lands with a kind of quiet force. Less about spectacle and more about recognition. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t just ask to be heard; it asks to be reflected in. For me, that reflection feels deeply personal, but its reach extends far beyond any one story. Its message is broad enough to meet listeners wherever they are in their walk of faith.

At its core, “Testimony” operates as a reminder of something easy to forget in the middle of ordinary life or difficult seasons: when God feels distant, the evidence of His work is often closest at hand. Not in grand displays, but in the steady transformation of a life over time. The song’s structure mirrors this idea. One moment it points inward toward personal change and growth, and the next it lifts the focus outward, toward the character of God and the scope of His work. In doing so, it bridges the gap between biblical history and present-day experience, suggesting that the miraculous is not confined to scripture alone.

That tension between what has been written and what is still unfolding sits at the heart of the song. Scripture is filled with accounts of God moving in powerful ways, but “Testimony” gently insists that those stories didn’t end there. They continue, quietly, in the lives of believers. In that sense, the song gives a different perspective of identity: not just as observers of faith, but as participants in it.

There’s also an honesty woven into the message. Faith, as the song acknowledges, is not insulated from hardship. Suffering, doubt, and opposition remain part of the experience. Yet even here, the narrative doesn’t stall. Instead, it echoes a familiar biblical theme that what is meant for harm can be repurposed for good. It’s a perspective that doesn’t erase pain but places it within a larger story. “Oh, the enemy did what he could, but the Lord he has used it for good.”

Another lyric also stands out: the idea that hope doesn’t run dry when it is rooted in God, “I never run out of hope when I run to the God of miracles.” It’s a simple line, but it carries significance, especially in moments when hope feels most fragile. It reinforces the song’s central claim that a life shaped by faith becomes, in itself, evidence. Not perfect, not without struggle, but undeniably changed.

Whether someone is at the beginning of their faith journey or years into it, “Testimony” offers a steady reminder that the story isn’t finished. And more importantly, it’s not just something to read about but it’s something being lived.

Carry It Into the Week

There is a quiet temptation to treat the resurrection as something reserved for Easter. Something to celebrate once a year and then move past.

Paul will not allow that.

The resurrection is not an event to visit. It is a foundation to live on. It shapes how you view your sin. Not as something you must carry alone, but as something already dealt with through Christ’s finished work.

It shapes how you endure suffering. Not as pointless pain, but as something held within a larger story that ends in restoration.

It shapes how you live. With purpose, urgency, and hope.

And it shapes how you face death. Not with denial, but with confidence that it has been defeated.

So the question becomes simple, even if it is not easy.

What are you building your life on?

Because every foundation will eventually be tested.

And only one will stand.

Week in Reflection

Six months ago, I hesitated before publishing the first of these faith-centered reflections as I was unsure of the reception, uncertain of the consistency, but compelled to begin. Now, six months later, that initial step has grown into something steady and meaningful. Whether these words have reached a wide audience or quietly passed by remains unseen, but their impact on my own walk with God is undeniable. Each post has served as both reflection and accountability, deepening my understanding of my own faith week by week. And as that milestone settles in, there’s a growing anticipation for what God might continue to build from here.

This past week unfolded at a relentless pace, marking one of the busiest stretches in recent memory. Six photography contracts in seven days, paired with more than 18 hours on the road, turned a side pursuit into something that felt closer to a calling. The opportunities in front of me, doors that once seemed firmly closed, have opened in ways I can’t fully explain. The work behind the lens continues to feel like a gift, one I’m still learning how to steward well. My hope remains simple: that every image captured, every story told, ultimately points back to God. There’s also a growing desire to step further into spaces centered around Christian artists, to document moments that align more deeply with both my craft and my faith.

Yet, even in a week defined by professional momentum, the most meaningful moments came off the clock. An eight-hour round trip, shared meals, and time in a hotel offered something far more significant than another completed assignment and it created space for connection with my older brother in a way we rarely get to experience. It was, in many ways, the most intentional one-on-one time we’ve ever had.

Faith, for him, remains unsettled territory. We share the same foundation, the same upbringing, but his path has taken a different direction. From where I stand, it feels like he knows the truth of who Jesus is, yet continues to wrestle with fully stepping into that reality. That tension is difficult to witness. There’s a deep desire in me to see him come to the same clarity and conviction I’ve found but I’m learning that faith journeys don’t unfold on identical timelines.

What I can do is show grace, remain present, and trust that God is working in ways I cannot see. If nothing else, I hope the time we spent together planted something small but lasting. A seed that, in time, might grow and bloom. For now, that’s enough to hold onto: the belief that God meets each of us where we are, and that no moment of connection is ever wasted.

And remember, God loves you, and so do I.

Connection Church in Sioux Falls is a gospel-centered community committed to helping people follow Jesus through authentic relationships, biblical teaching, and everyday mission. Rooted in historic Christian belief and aligned with gospel renewal movements, the church exists to see lives transformed by Jesus. Learn more: https://siouxfallsconnection.com/who-we-are

This Isn’t Socialism

A more equitable and financially balanced society does not require socialism. Calls for greater fairness in wealth distribution, reduced poverty, and broader access to opportunity are often labeled as socialist demands, but that framing obscures important distinctions. Socialism is often defined—particularly in its classical form—as collective or state ownership of the means of production, centralized planning, and limits on private capital accumulation. Yet in modern political discourse, the term is used far more loosely, frequently applied to policies that leave the core structure of capitalism intact.

In reality, many efforts to create a more equitable society emerge not from socialism, but from reformed capitalist systems that preserve private property, competitive markets, and individual incentives. These systems do not seek to replace capitalism’s engine, but to tune it—ensuring that opportunity is broader and outcomes are not dictated solely by circumstance at birth.

The distinction matters because public debate is often framed as a stark choice between tolerating high inequality or expanding state control over the economy. This binary is misleading. A financially balanced society can raise the floor—through universal education, accessible healthcare, progressive taxation, and broader access to capital—without imposing a ceiling on achievement. Individuals remain free to build businesses, invest, innovate, and accumulate wealth. The core drivers of prosperity—competition, ambition, and the profit motive—are not eliminated but preserved.

Raising the Floor Without Capping the Ceiling

An egalitarian approach within capitalism does not eliminate personal wealth or the desire to strive for more. Critics often argue that redistribution undermines motivation, asking why individuals would work harder if gains are partially shared. This concern assumes a zero-sum tradeoff between supporting the bottom and rewarding the top. In practice, well-designed policies aim to reduce extreme deprivation while maintaining strong incentives for success. They seek to better equalize starting conditions—through education, healthcare, and opportunity—without guaranteeing equal outcomes. Those who innovate, take risks, or work longer hours can still achieve significant financial rewards; the difference is that fewer people are locked out of the race before it begins.

What the Real-World Evidence Shows

History offers real-world examples of this balance. Market-based welfare states demonstrate that high levels of economic security can coexist with strong incentives for growth. In several Northern European economies, billionaires and successful entrepreneurs exist alongside relatively low poverty rates and higher levels of social mobility than seen in more unequal systems. These outcomes are not without trade-offs, including higher overall tax burdens and ongoing debates about efficiency and sustainability. Still, they illustrate that capitalism can be structured to distribute opportunity more broadly without dismantling its foundational incentives.

Policies that expand ownership can reinforce this dynamic. Employee stock ownership plans, citizen investment funds, and inheritance-funded endowments give more people a direct stake in economic growth. Rather than dampening ambition, such approaches can deepen engagement with the market system itself. When individuals see a tangible connection between collective growth and personal benefit, participation often increases rather than declines.

Why Central Planning Falls Short

By contrast, centrally planned socialist economies in the 20th century frequently struggled with stagnant growth, resource misallocation, and persistent shortages. These systems often weakened the link between effort and reward, reducing incentives for innovation and productivity. At the same time, some achieved gains in literacy, industrialization, and basic healthcare, underscoring that outcomes depended heavily on political structure and implementation. Even so, the broader pattern suggests that removing market signals and private incentives at scale carries significant economic costs.

An egalitarian form of capitalism avoids these pitfalls by keeping markets and private incentives central while addressing clear market failures, particularly unequal access to education, healthcare, and capital. In this framework, equity does not replace capitalism—it stabilizes and strengthens it.

Why Americans Keep Calling It Socialism

In the United States, the reflexive labeling of such policies as “socialism” reflects a deeply rooted cultural and historical narrative. The country’s founding emphasized resistance to centralized authority and celebrated individual initiative. During the Cold War, political rhetoric further cemented the association between expanded government involvement and authoritarian communism. That legacy continues to shape public discourse today. At the same time, concerns about taxation, government overreach, and economic efficiency also play a significant role in shaping skepticism toward redistributive policy. Together, these forces create a political environment where nuanced reforms are often reduced to ideological slogans.

Capitalism After Automation

Looking ahead, the need for pragmatic, market-compatible reforms may become more urgent. Advances in artificial intelligence and automation are already reshaping the nature of work, and there is growing concern that large segments of the workforce could face long-term displacement. Entire categories of labor—from transportation to routine administrative work—may shrink or disappear, not as part of a temporary shift but as a structural change. If enough workers lose stable access to income, the consequences could extend beyond individual hardship to reduced consumer demand and broader economic instability.

In response, policymakers are increasingly exploring ways to preserve both economic dynamism and social stability. Proposals such as universal basic income, expanded earned-income tax credits, or citizen dividends funded through taxation or sovereign wealth funds aim to provide a baseline level of security while maintaining incentives for innovation. Economists continue to debate the long-term effects of these policies, particularly regarding cost and labor participation. Even so, they reflect a broader recognition that capitalism must adapt to structural change if it is to remain resilient.

Such measures do not eliminate ambition. Instead, they may redirect it. With a more stable foundation, individuals are better positioned to pursue education, entrepreneurship, caregiving, or new forms of work that emerge alongside technological change. The goal is not to guarantee identical outcomes, but to ensure that talent and effort are not wasted due to systemic barriers or economic displacement.

In that sense, the future debate may be less about choosing between capitalism and socialism, and more about whether capitalism can evolve quickly enough to meet the realities of a changing world. A system that raises the floor while preserving the ceiling is not a contradiction. It is, increasingly, a necessity.

A Venue Recast for the Night

Just outside Sioux Falls, Grand Falls Casino & Resort operates as a multifaceted destination with equal parts casino, hotel, and leisure complex, complete with dining, a spa, and an 18-hole golf course. On this night, however, the focus shifted squarely to its Event Center, where a capacity crowd gathered with a singular purpose: to close out the weekend with a band that has spent more than three decades defining its place in heavy music. A huge shout out to Mike and Isabel from Grand Falls for collaborating with us on this epic event and for their hospitality. It’s helpful venue staff that makes these types of events flow smoothly and relieves a little of the nerves prior to the lights going out.

A Catalog That Still Carries Weight

That band was Sevendust. Since emerging in the early 1990s, the group has built a catalog spanning 14 studio albums, with a 15th, One, set for release on May 1, 2026. Their longevity is not accidental. Tracks like “Waffle,” “Black,” “Decay,” “Face to Face,” and “Angel’s Son” have anchored a career that continues to resonate across generations of listeners.

For longtime fans, the connection runs deep. Having followed the band since the 1990s, this marked a sixth time seeing them live. Though notably, the first with full professional access. That shift in perspective does change the experience. The familiar energy of the crowd remains, but the vantage point is different, bringing with it both opportunity and pressure.

An Intimate Format With Higher Expectations

The format of the evening added another layer of anticipation. With no supporting acts, the set carried a more intimate structure, offering space for deeper cuts and less predictable selections with moments that often fall outside the constraints of a standard touring setlist.

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A Band Locked In

When the lights dropped, the transition was immediate. The low hum of conversation gave way to a surge of noise, and the room tightened its focus toward the stage. For those in the photo pit, the opening stretch unfolded at a rapid pace. Three songs, the industry standard, offered a narrow window to document the performance, demanding precision in the middle of controlled chaos.

At the center of it all was frontman Lajon Witherspoon, whose stage presence remains as commanding as ever. His ability to move seamlessly between melodic delivery and heavier vocals to crowd engagement set the tone early. Behind him, Morgan Rose provided both the rhythmic backbone on the drums and the band’s signature more aggressive vocals, delivering each with consistency and force.

Guitarists Clint Lowery and John Connolly, alongside bassist Vince Hornsby, completed the lineup which has been unchanged since the band’s formation. That continuity translated directly to the stage, where timing, transitions, and interplay felt instinctive rather than rehearsed.

A Crowd Bigger Than the Room

Despite being only the third stop on the current tour, there was no indication of a band easing into its run. The performance carried a sustained intensity from start to finish, absent of the fatigue that can surface later in extended tours. Each song landed with a punch, maintaining a pace that kept the crowd fully engaged.

Inside a venue with a capacity just over 1,100, the atmosphere felt amplified beyond its size. The response from the audience of constant movement, raised voices, and unrelenting energy gave the room the presence of something much larger. The crowd itself reflected the band’s reach: longtime followers stood alongside a younger wave of fans, evidence of a catalog that continues to find new listeners.

That connection became tangible midway through the set, when a young fan holding a sign was invited forward to meet the band and a promise of any merch they wanted. A small but meaningful moment that underscored the group’s ongoing relationship with its audience.

From the Pit to a First-Time Pass

The night also marked a milestone from a media standpoint. Approval for multiple photographers created an opportunity to share the experience with someone stepping into their first show in that role. As is often the case, it didn’t take long for the appeal to take hold with the combination of proximity, adrenaline, and the challenge of capturing fleeting moments proving immediately compelling.

Afterglow

By the end of the night, the takeaway was clear. Sevendust continues to operate with the urgency and cohesion of a band far from finished. With new material on the horizon and a tour just beginning to build momentum, their presence in the rock landscape remains firmly intact with no signs of slowing down in sight.

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Walking into The B-Side Bar for Cheshire Grin’s 30th anniversary show, I could tell right away this was going to be different. The place was packed, absolutely wall to wall, and usually in a room that full you expect the mood to get rough around the edges. Instead, it felt a little like slipping down the rabbit hole into something bigger than just another show.

It never happened.

Instead, the whole place stayed upbeat. Security was welcoming, the sound crew was on point, and the bartenders were hustling all night keeping drinks moving and people happy. That probably did more for the energy in the room than people realize. In a packed house like that, things can either stay fun or fall apart fast, and this one stayed fun.

That also matched what the night really was. This wasn’t just a band playing a set. It felt like a reunion, a celebration, and a room full of memories all happening at once. Cheshire Grin weren’t just playing songs. They were bringing years of history back into the room with them.

Down the Rabbit Hole

From the start, the thing that stood out wasn’t just the music. It was how personal the whole night felt. Between songs, the band kept dropping into these “Remember the time…” stories, the kind that only work when a band has actually lived enough life together to have a treasury of them. They pointed out people in the front who had been coming to shows for the full 30 years. Not five. Not ten. Thirty. In a music scene that eats trends for breakfast and forgets names by dinner, that kind of loyalty feels almost fictional.

But there it was, standing right in front of them.

The night kept expanding from there. Friends came up. Former players came up. Guys who had shared stages with them in different eras climbed aboard to jam. It didn’t feel rehearsed into some polished anniversary package. It felt messy in the best way, like a reunion that had been waiting all year to get loud enough to deserve itself. The stage stopped feeling like a border and started feeling like an invitation.

That was the pulse of the night. Not nostalgia in the cheap sense. Not a museum piece. Not a band trying to embalm its own past in applause. It felt more like a long table in Wonderland where every chair had a story attached to it, and every story kept finding another voice to finish the sentence.

The setlist itself read like a map through decades of hard rock memory, scribbled in shorthand and sweat. “Bubble.” “Poly.” “Remedy.” “Electric.” “High.” “I Don’t Know.” “Angry.” “Blame.” “Contagious.” “Keep.” “Jesus.” Then deeper into the night, “Stink Fist,” “Sinner,” “Bodies,” “Prince,” “Kid Rock,” “Bulls,” “Crazy,” “Linkin P,” “Orgy,” “Sober”, “Smack,” “Psycho,” “Last Resort”, “Madness,” “Mouth,” “Down With the Sickness”, and “Killing.” On paper it looks almost like code. On stage it landed like shared language.

One of the sharpest moments of the night came when original member Jason Mathews jumped in for a guest spot during “Angry Chair”. It fit so naturally it didn’t feel like a stunt or a detour. It felt like the song had been waiting for one more set of hands.

And then there was “Stinkfist”.

If you wanted the exact point where the whole room seemed to lose its remaining restraint, that was it. The biggest reaction of the night, no question. The place didn’t just cheer. It detonated. You could feel it ripple front to back, the kind of response that reminds you some songs never really age out of a room like this. They just wait for the right band, the right crowd, and the right amount of accumulated history to hit the gas.

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The Tea Table Backstage

Backstage, the mood was somehow even more revealing. The room carried that strange anniversary-show electricity where everyone seems to be smiling with their whole face. Not just because the show is going well, but because the years themselves have shown up. The history in that room was thick enough to trip over.

I sat down with founders Pat Bressman and Troy Tompkins, along with Mark Marquez, to ask the obvious question first: where did this all start, and how in the world are we here 30 years later?

Pat took it back to the beginning in a way that instantly stripped the legend down to its bones. “The history was me and Troy getting together with Jason Mathews and a drummer named Matt. We were looking to do something that wasn't just another classic rock cover band.” Then he laughed at the way time trims a story down and thickens it at once. “Matt was one of the early casualties—over the years, lives get in the way and people move on. But the current version with Kevin Boukal on drums and Mark Marquez on guitar is the longest steady lineup we’ve ever had.”

Thirty years is long enough for myths to start hardening around a band. You hear that number and assume there must be some grand secret, some hidden machinery, some contract written in blood or stubbornness. Troy’s answer was much simpler than that, which probably means it was true. “I think we’re more brothers than we were band-mates. It’s easy to spend a year without talking and then still pick up and be brothers the next day. It goes back to family. That’s what it is.”

That word kept coming up. Family. Not branding. Not chemistry in the polished, industry-approved sense. Family in the real sense, the complicated one, the durable one.

Pat put flesh on that idea. “Most of us have known each other in some capacity longer than the band exists. It helps that we don’t play as often as we used to, so the burnout factor didn’t happen. We all have other ways to express our creativity, so it’s not so all-consuming. But when we’re together, it’s like we just did it last week.”

That, more than anything, explained the feeling in the room. Not just why the crowd was so invested, but why the whole night had that loose, intimate, impossible-to-fake warmth. Cheshire Grin didn’t look like men performing an anniversary. They looked like men stepping back into a language they never really forgot.

The Cards on the Table

I asked about 1998, the year that apparently looms over the band’s history like one of those giant Wonderland cards looming over the croquet lawn. What actually happened that made that year feel so pivotal?

Pat didn’t hesitate. “That was when we added Mark Marquez on guitar and Mark Rotherman on drums. That’s when we started writing together. We won that radio contest to open for Mötley Crüe at the old Civic Auditorium. We played to 4,000 people, and then we invited all of them to the Ranch Bowl. The Ranch Bowl only held 400, but we didn’t have a slow night again for a long time.”

That’s the kind of local-scene folklore that would sound exaggerated if it weren’t delivered so matter-of-factly.

Troy, meanwhile, remembered the texture of it. “I remember Tommy Lee was right there, banging his head while we were playing Tool. Nikki Sixx didn’t hang out because they were mad we were a cover band, but Tommy didn’t give a shit. He was into it.”

That line tells you almost everything you need to know about the band’s approach. They have never sounded embarrassed by being a cover band, never apologized for loving the material, never tried to frame it like a lesser form. And honestly, good. Too many people talk about cover bands like they’re somehow disqualified from meaning anything. Nights like this kill that idea dead.

Because what Cheshire Grin are really covering, after all these years, is not just songs. They’re covering eras of people’s lives. They’re covering first drinks, bad breakups, old friends, vanished clubs, younger faces, dead-end jobs, glorious dumb decisions, the years when every weekend felt like a dare. That’s why a room explodes for a song like “Stinkfist.” That’s why a guest spot during “Angry Chair” lands so hard. The songs are not just songs anymore. They are keys.

Through the Looking Glass

I asked how a band survives grunge, the post-grunge years, the 2000s, the digital flattening of everything, and still sounds like itself.

Pat’s answer was refreshingly unromantic. “We’re lucky because we actually like the music we play. We were fans of grunge, and as that turned into modern rock, we stayed fans. We’re all deep music fans—classical piano, Steely Dan, hip hop—but we love this genre. It isn’t fun when you don’t like the music.”

There it is. No theory. No desperate bid for relevance. Just actual affection for the songs and the sound.

That explains why the set never felt like cosplay. Even when the band moved through songs associated with acts as different as Tool, Alice in Chains, Papa Roach, and Disturbed, the throughline stayed intact. The material lived inside their wheelhouse because they still sound like believers.

When I asked if this run felt like a victory lap, Pat swatted the phrase away gently. “I wouldn’t call it a victory lap. It’s just surprising to us that 30 years has gone by. I’m not even that old!” Then he turned serious again. “But so much life has happened in the time of this band. There’s a certain pride when the house is packed early... or your kids are out there in the crowd.”

That line stayed with me.

Maybe because it reframed the whole night. This wasn’t just about survival. It was about inheritance. About the strange moment when the people who once built their identities around the band now bring their children into the room and watch them catch the same spark. A club show becomes a time machine, then a family archive, then a living thing again.

Troy put the point on it with less poetry and more punch. “Everybody’s out there. It’s just a giant celebration. It kind of proved that there’s a reason it lasted 30 years: it’s because we’re good at what we do.”

Blunt. Clean. Hard to argue with.

And when I asked what people should know about a Cheshire Grin show in 2026, Pat gave the mission statement: “We came to play. We came to kick ass and have a good time. You can celebrate rock and roll.”

Mark Marquez, wisely, didn’t overcomplicate it. “Amen.”

Afterglow

By the end of the night, what stayed with me wasn’t just the size of the crowd or the roar that met “Stinkfist,” or even the pleasure of hearing all those shorthand setlist fragments turn back into full-body songs. It was the grin of the thing. The part that lingers after the body disappears.

That’s the real Cheshire trick, isn’t it?

Not vanishing, exactly. More like refusing to vanish completely.

Thirty years in, this band still knows how to turn a crowded room into a shared memory while it’s happening. They still know how to make a local bar feel like the center of its own universe for a couple of hours. They still know that the best rock shows are not just about volume or precision or how many songs you can cram into a night. They’re about recognition. About looking up and seeing old faces, new faces, kids in the crowd, former players on the stage, bartenders keeping the spell alive, security helping the whole thing hold its shape, and realizing this isn’t some fading photograph people are trying to reenact.

It’s still here.

Maybe that’s why the whole evening felt less like looking back and more like stumbling into some crooked little Wonderland where the clocks have all melted, the stories keep interrupting the songs, and the songs keep proving why they were worth carrying this far in the first place.

And when Cheshire Grin smiled, the room smiled back.

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Faith in Focus is a weekly reflection on what God has been teaching me throughout the week regarding my faith. Whether it’s personal interactions, reading, or the Sunday sermon, God speaks through it all, and I hope this helps you focus on His mission.

Follow Ben, and subscribe to Intellectual Dissatisfaction to receive next week’s edition.

Sermon Reflection

Based on the sermon by Jake Peterson, Connection Church Sioux Falls, April 12, 2026.

Singing in the Cave: Learning to Trust God in the Dark

It was a brief detour from 1 Corinthians, but it felt anything but incidental. A guest pastor, Jake Peterson, stepped in from River City Church in Fargo and opened Psalm 57, calling it “A Song from the Cave.” Before the text even began, one line stood out: we are all on Team Jesus.

In a moment when denominational lines and stylistic differences often feel louder than our shared confession, that reminder cut through the noise. Churches across cities, states, and traditions may look different, but at the center should stand the same person. Jesus Christ. The mission is not competitive. It’s meant to be unified.

That unity matters because Psalm 57 is not written from a platform of comfort. It is written from confinement. And if the church is going to speak meaningfully into the lives of people walking through darkness, it must first remember that it is standing on the same ground, under the same Lord, and carrying the same hope.

The World Behind the Text

Psalm 57 is traditionally connected to David’s flight from Saul, likely during the events described in 1 Samuel 22:1–5. David is not in a palace. He is not leading armies. He is hiding in a cave.

That historical context matters. This is not abstract theology. This is lived. David is a fugitive, pursued unjustly, cut off from stability, and surrounded by uncertainty. The cave is not just a setting. It is a symbol of fear, limitation, and waiting.

Yet the psalm does not read like despair alone. It carries a surprising tone of confidence. That tension is the key to understanding it. David is not denying his circumstances. He is redefining them in light of who God is.

This is where interpretation must be careful. Psalm 57 is not promising immediate escape from hardship. It is not suggesting that faith eliminates difficulty. Instead, it demonstrates that trust in God can coexist with distress.

Walking the Passage

David opens with a plea that is both urgent and grounded. “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by,” (Psalm 57:1).

There is no attempt to appear strong. No effort to mask need. The request is direct for God to be merciful. The reasoning is relational when David professes that in God his soul takes refuge. The hope is anchored knowing that the storms will pass.

That last phrase is critical. David does not say “if” the storms pass. He says till they pass. His confidence is not in the absence of storms but in their temporary nature under God’s sovereignty.

As the psalm continues, David names his current reality, “My soul is in the midst of lions; I lie down amid fiery beasts, the children of man, whose teeth are spears and arrows, whose tongues are sharp swords.” (Psalm 57:4)

This is not poetic exaggeration detached from reality. It is an honest description of danger. The people pursuing him are violent and relentless. The cave is not just isolating. It is protective.

Yet in the middle of that description comes a shift, “Be exalted, O God, above the heavens. Let your glory be over all the earth.” (Psalm 57:5)

This is the turning point. David lifts his eyes. Not because his situation has changed, but because his perspective has.

Later, the psalm crescendos into praise, “My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast. I will sing and make melody.” (Psalm 57:7)

This is where the psalm confronts modern instincts. Praise is often treated as a response to deliverance. David treats it as a discipline within distress. He does not wait for the cave to open. He sings inside it.

This same pattern appears in Acts 16:25, where Paul and Silas, imprisoned and beaten, are found praying and singing hymns to God in the middle of the night. The setting is different but the principle is the same. Worship is not postponed until circumstances improve.

A Fair Counter-Reading

It is important to acknowledge that not every reader experiences Psalm 57 this way. Some may argue that emphasizing praise in suffering risks minimizing real pain or creating pressure to feel spiritually strong when one feels anything but.

That concern deserves weight. Scripture itself gives voice to lament without immediate resolution. Psalms like Psalm 13 or Psalm 88 dwell longer in unresolved tension. The Bible does not demand emotional performance.

However, Psalm 57 does not erase pain. It includes it. David names fear, danger, and vulnerability. The call to praise is not a denial of those realities but a response within them. In other words, this is not about pretending everything is fine. It is about choosing where to anchor when everything is not.

The Turn

The turning point of the message was not just David’s song, but the posture that makes that song possible. Dependence on God.

Jesus echoes this in Matthew 18:3, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Children are marked by need. They do not operate under the illusion of self-sufficiency. They ask. They rely on. They trust.

To come to God needy and humble is not a weakness. It is a requirement of the kingdom.

This changes how we approach the cave. The instinct is often to endure quietly or to fix the situation independently. But Psalm 57 and Matthew 18:3 point in a different direction. They call for movement toward God, not away from Him.

This is where John 1:9–14 enters the conversation. The passage describes Jesus as the true light that gives light to everyone. The light is not distant. It is present. The challenge is not locating it but turning toward it.

And here is the tension many experience. Darkness can become familiar. Even when it is painful, it is predictable. Stepping toward the light requires trust, vulnerability, and change. But the Gospel insists that we are not moving toward an abstract idea. We are moving toward a person. Jesus is not waiting at the end of the cave. He is present with us within it.

Song of the Week: idk - Allison Eide

Emerging artist Allison Eide may feel like a new name to some listeners, but her presence in the Christian music space is quickly gaining traction. After appearing on tour alongside another song of the week alum, Seph Schlueter, Eide has stepped into her own spotlight with a headlining run, introducing audiences to a voice that blends vulnerability with conviction. If the tour is heading to a town near you I would recommend catching a show.

Her song that we are focusing on, “idk,” centers on a theme that resonates universally: Uncertainty. From questions about the future to relationships, identity, and purpose, the song captures the tension of living without clear answers. Rather than offering easy resolutions, Eide leans into that ambiguity, framing it through a lens of faith.

The track’s most compelling moments arrive in its chorus and bridge, where uncertainty meets assurance. Lyrics point to a steady presence amid confusion, emphasizing trust over control. One line underscores this perspective by reminding listeners that even in chaos, there is a larger plan unfolding beyond immediate understanding.

A notable biblical reference draws from the account in Gospel of Matthew 8:28–34, where demons recognize the authority and ultimate victory of Jesus. By invoking this moment, the song reinforces its central message that even forces opposed to God acknowledge the inevitable outcome, providing a striking contrast to human doubt.

“idk” ultimately positions faith not as the absence of questions, but as the response to them. In a culture often driven by certainty and control, Eide’s approach offers a counter-narrative, one that invites listeners to rest in what is known about God rather than what remains unknown about life.

Carry It Into the Week

What does it look like to live Psalm 57 today?

First, it means naming your cave. Not every struggle looks the same. For some, it is anxiety. For others, it is temptation, loneliness, uncertainty, or grief. Ignoring it does not make it disappear.

Second, it means choosing dependence over self-reliance. This is not passive resignation. It is active trust. It is bringing needs to God in prayer, not as a last resort but as a first response.

Third, it means practicing praise before circumstances change. This is where the example of David, Paul, and Silas becomes firm. Singing in the cave may feel unnatural, even forced. But over time, it reshapes the heart.

Fourth, it means remembering that you are not alone. The idea of being on Team Jesus is more than a slogan. It is a theological reality. The church is a community bound not by preference but by the Gospel. That means others are walking through their own caves at the same time.

Finally, it means trusting that the storm will pass. Not necessarily on your timeline. Not necessarily in the way you expect. But under God’s authority, it is never permanent.

Week in Reflection

This week felt like a fight.

For the first time in a while, my schedule slowed down. The nights that had once been filled were suddenly open, and with that extra time came a different kind of challenge. In the quiet, temptation had more room to move, and it didn’t hesitate to take advantage.

In the past, weeks like this would leave me discouraged and stuck there. That feeling hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it no longer defines the outcome. Instead of lingering in it, I’ve learned to reformat the moment. The very presence of that struggle has become, in a way, a signal. It reminds me that I’m not drifting aimlessly, but moving in a direction that matters. Toward Christ.

There is a growing belief that if I weren’t pursuing a deeper walk with the Lord, I might not even recognize these moments for what they are. That perspective has changed how I endure them. What once felt like defeat now carries a measure of purpose.

There is also hope in how the story ends. Whether these battles fade over time as faith deepens, or ultimately cease when Christ returns and makes all things new, the outcome is not uncertain. Evil does not win.

Until then, the work continues. The difficult moments are not exceptions to the journey, they are part of it. And in them, there is a steady reminder that no struggle exists beyond what God can handle, and no season comes without the opportunity to draw closer to Him.

And remember, God loves you, and so do I.

Connection Church in Sioux Falls is a gospel-centered community committed to helping people follow Jesus through authentic relationships, biblical teaching, and everyday mission. Rooted in historic Christian belief and aligned with gospel renewal movements, the church exists to see lives transformed by Jesus. Learn more: https://siouxfallsconnection.com/who-we-are

In a time when American politics feels more divided than ever, it’s refreshing to imagine a “purple” approach—one that rejects the rigid red-vs-blue binary and instead borrows the strongest, most practical ideas from both Republican and Democratic platforms.

Purple politics isn’t about splitting the difference for its own sake; it’s about putting the best of both worlds to work for the benefit of everyday Americans, their families, and the long-term strength of the country. It prioritizes results over ideology, people over partisanship, and common-sense governance over endless culture-war shouting matches.

A recent video essay titled How Do You Share a Country With People Who Reject Reality? by Cy Canterel captures exactly why this purple mindset matters right now.

Using the tragic Renee Good case as a starting point, the video shows how the same piece of video evidence can produce two completely opposite “realities” for different groups of viewers.

It argues that the real fault line in America isn’t simply left versus right, but between people who can tolerate ambiguity and complexity versus those who crave simple hierarchies, clear rules, and us-versus-them certainty. The speaker invokes philosopher Karl Popper’s “paradox of tolerance”: a free society cannot tolerate movements that actively seek to destroy pluralism. At the same time, the video urges compassion and “exit ramps” for those trapped in authoritarian thinking—offering legal guardrails, better education in nuance, and non-humiliating ways to step back from extremism.

These ideas line up perfectly with purple politics: protect democratic norms and shared facts without demonizing fellow citizens, and design policies that actually bring people together instead of driving them further apart.

With that spirit in mind, here’s what a purple platform could look like—starting with foreign affairs, then turning to the domestic priorities that would actually rebuild the country. This of course is not an all-inclusive set of ideas, just some highlights to suggest a more moderate, middle, and “purple” path.

Foreign Policy Agenda

• End the post-World War II web of treaty commitments and alliances by accelerating real-world outcomes: either broker lasting peace with potential aggressors or render them incapable of hostile action. For example, bring U.S. forces home from Japan and South Korea, help those nations shift to fully professional militaries, and support them in applying intense diplomatic and economic pressure on North Korea until the regime collapses or is forced to negotiate.

• Stop sending billions in foreign aid to build infrastructure or “plant democratic values” in cultures where those ideas may simply not take root. Redirect every dollar to American roads, bridges, schools, and water systems instead.

• Bring all U.S. troops currently stationed abroad back home to defend our own borders and coastal waters. In the future, any American military operation outside the Western Hemisphere should only happen at the invitation of a host nation—and only if that nation pays its fair share.

• Withdraw from the current version of globalism, which has mostly enriched multinational corporations while flattening wages for American workers and offering little real benefit to people in developing nations. Replace it with a global economy that puts consumers and workers first.

• Reduce or cancel the portion of U.S. debt held by China; they lack the military power or global reach to force collection.

• Push for a Unified Western Hemisphere alliance that includes every nation from the Arctic to Antarctica, each keeping its own government but working together on defense, resource development, and economic growth—led by American military strength and know-how. Leave the United Nations and focus on this resource-rich Americas-first bloc instead.

• Restrict non-American traffic through the Panama Canal, charge high user fees, and impose taxes on goods routed around Tierra del Fuego. America and the Americas come first.

These foreign-policy shifts would free up enormous resources while reducing entanglement in distant conflicts that rarely serve ordinary Americans.

Domestic Policy Agenda

The money saved from smarter foreign spending would then flow straight into rebuilding America at home. Use the U.S. military’s construction and engineering units to clear abandoned, blighted sections of cities—giving troops valuable training while opening space for civilian contractors to rebuild infrastructure.

Congress should formally assign border security to the Department of Defense, removing any Posse Comitatus complications and treating the southern border as a national-defense priority rather than a law-enforcement afterthought.

To handle migration humanely and effectively, work with Mexico to create a U.S. “Embassy Annex” on Mexico’s southern border. All migrants would be screened there—on what is legally U.S. territory—so asylum claims and other applications could be processed safely, far from cartels and desert dangers. This single facility, staffed with judges, security, and support personnel, could dramatically slow the current uncontrolled flow until the entire hemisphere stabilizes.Additional domestic reforms would strengthen democracy and accountability:

• Create a national biometric ID card that securely holds multiple federal credentials (Social Security, passport data, veterans’ benefits, etc.).

• Reform the Electoral College so presidential candidates must win the popular vote in each congressional district within a state to earn those electoral votes—forcing candidates to campaign everywhere, not just swing states.

• Ban or severely restrict campaign donations; replace them with a publicly funded pool financed by candidate filing fees and a small payroll deduction from elected officials’ salaries. If private donations remain, limit them to donors or corporations physically based in the representative’s district or senator’s state.

• Pass a constitutional amendment setting one eight-year term for president, vice president, representatives, and senators—with no consecutive second terms. Anyone could run again after sitting out eight years.

• End the practice of using must-pass appropriations bills to strong-arm states into policy changes (the old “55 mph speed limit or lose highway funds” trick). Laws should be made through actual statutes, not budget riders.

• Set a 10-year maximum career limit in any single federal department or agency so bureaucrats can’t entrench themselves forever.

• Regulate lobbyists: require each to be formally sponsored by a member of Congress from their home district or state, and cap the total number at a reasonable multiple of the 535 members of Congress.

• Amend HIPAA to make it illegal for law enforcement, prosecutors, or courts to access anyone’s reproductive-health records—even with a warrant—protecting medical privacy across the board.

Taken together, these ideas form a coherent, people-first agenda. They draw fiscal conservatism and strong defense from the right, while embracing pragmatic humanitarianism and institutional reform from the left.

The video’s call for pluralism with guardrails reminds us that purple politics isn’t naïve compromise—it’s the realistic path to keeping a shared country intact when realities are diverging. It’s about building a nation where facts still matter, opportunity is real, and government works for the many rather than the few. In short, a purple platform that never was could still become the one that actually works.

Not being any type of medical professional myself, only having a masters degree in psychology (Addictions counseling)—I list, in retrospect, some of my wife's past medical history that may well have been “road signs” indicating the growth of her now-known glioblastoma.

My wife is 56 years old now, and over the last ten years she has experienced a series of seemingly unrelated medical issues that, when viewed together in the context of her current diagnosis, paint a clear picture of an emerging tumor in the left cerebral hemisphere. The pathology report confirms a classic primary IDH-wildtype glioblastoma with a full molecular profile that includes TERT promoter mutation C260T, EGFR mutations p.A269V and p.V774M, PTEN mutation p.F21Lfs*3, TP53 mutation p.R262W, CDK4 copy number amplification (13 copies), 7p/7q region copy number gain (3 copies), CDKN2A hemizygous copy number loss, and copy number losses in the 6q, 10q, and 14q regions. MGMT promoter methylation was negative by allele-specific PCR, meaning the tumor is unmethylated and therefore more resistant to temozolomide (Temodar), the chemotherapy commonly used to prevent cancer cells from repairing DNA damage after radiation.

I know, that's a lot of medi-speak, but I want to establish—short of posting all of my wife's info—that this is a real experience we are going through.

Backwards Gazing

The first noticeable signs appeared as general “arthritic pain” in her right shoulder and right knee, with no specific injury or trauma to explain it. Because the tumor sits in the left hemisphere—which controls the right side of the body—these right-sided complaints may have been early motor or sensory disruptions caused by the slowly expanding mass and surrounding edema. At the time, however, they were dismissed as ordinary age-related wear and tear.

Next came a total hysterectomy prompted by a non-malignant mass that had grown on her right ovary. Not long afterward, she required gallbladder removal—not because of stones, the usual culprit, but because the gallbladder was “working too fast,” a hyperkinetic state that may have reflected subtle autonomic imbalance from left-hemisphere irritation.

Her gait began to lose its smooth rhythm, and she noticed a very slight change in the strength of her left leg and foot. Although the left hemisphere primarily affects the right side, early mass effect and edema can sometimes produce subtler or compensatory symptoms. Doctors examined her and found nothing conclusive.

As an ESL speaker whose first language is Korean, she also developed a very slight stutter, especially noticeable when speaking English. Many patients with left-sided glioblastomas retain better fluency in their native language than in a second language they have spoken proficiently for years; the tumor’s location in language-dominant areas selectively taxed her English word recall and articulation while sparing Korean more effectively.

Mentally and emotionally, she has taken medication for mild general anxiety for many years—the effects of being a long time 'Army wife' and mother of 3 children. In the past few years, however, we observed a significant drop in the effectiveness of her anxiety meds along with worsening sleep problems. We now understand these as may having been classic manifestations of cerebral edema surrounding the glioblastoma, which increases intracranial pressure and disrupts normal neurotransmitter balance and sleep regulation. What looked like “just more anxiety” was, in reality, the tumor’s growing footprint inside her skull.

None of these issues, when they appeared one by one over a decade, would have prompted any physician—including a psychiatrist who is also a licensed neurologist—to order a head CT or MRI. Each symptom on its own was explainable by common, benign conditions. Only when viewed retrospectively, against the backdrop of the confirmed molecular diagnosis, do they line up like road signs pointing straight to the left-hemisphere mass.

I have not been able to find anything in medical journals or generally available information that “connects the dots” between a person’s past medical history, cognitive behavior, or mental-health changes and the eventual diagnosis of this specific type of glioblastoma. The tumor’s molecular drivers are considered sporadic, arising from random somatic mutations in neural stem cells rather than from any single environmental or inherited trigger.

Why tell all of you? Because glioblastoma is still widely considered a health issue of usually elderly persons, yet my wife is not elderly. At 56 she is over 50, but not as old as the typical patient. Medical information shows a growing group of people from their mid-30s to mid-60s being diagnosed with the same aggressive type of tumor as my wife’s—a non-methylated, IDH-wildtype glioblastoma. Its DNA profile makes it resistant to temozolomide, the drug used to help prevent cancer cells from repairing themselves after radiation. This makes the tumor much harder to treat. (It is important to keep in mind that no cancer is truly “curable” once you have it; you always live with the knowledge that it could return.)

It probably would not have mattered much if the tumor had been found earlier, other than possibly reducing the current severity of her symptoms. It may have been slightly more operable, but only a little. Operating on a left-sided tumor carries real risks of affecting speech and the ability to walk or move normally.

And maybe the scariest part is that it is not caused by anything known to science. No healthy habits would have prevented it. Whatever is driving this silent increase in cases among people in industrialized nations—particularly in the broad mid-30 to mid-60 age group—is neither clearly identified nor preventable at present. It is something common to both the United States and South Korea, where my wife and I grew up. One memory that comes to mind is us as kids chasing the “smoke truck” driving through our neighborhoods spraying for mosquitoes. They did that in Korea as well. But no one knows for sure, and medical research tends to focus far more on developing new treatments than on investigating possible sources.

I have looked into cell phone use, not that I ever thought it would be the cause—which has been extensively researched, and there is no established causation or correlation with glioblastoma. Besides, my wife never even used a cell phone until about 18 months ago, and even then she used it only for apps, never holding it to her head for calls.

I share our story in the hope that it helps other families and caregivers recognize that a constellation of otherwise ordinary complaints—right-sided pain, unexplained visceral surgeries, gait changes, language quirks in a bilingual speaker, and suddenly refractory anxiety—can occasionally be the quiet heralds of a left-hemisphere glioblastoma. In an era when we have advanced molecular profiling and adaptive platform trials at cancer research centers, earlier awareness might translate into earlier intervention and better symptom management, even if the disease itself remains sporadic and difficult to prevent. Much like early detection and intervention is done for children being found early on with learning disabilities or autism spectrum disorders.

Be willing to advocate for yourself with urgency. If something feels wrong and no one is connecting the dots, say so plainly, document the symptoms, and press for further testing or another opinion. It is better to risk sounding insistent than to let a serious problem go unexplored.

My wife’s journey is still unfolding. The unmethylated MGMT status and the DNA composition of her tumor mean standard chemoradiation offers more limited benefit, yet the precision of her tumor’s genetic map also opens doors to biomarker-driven trials targeting very specific pathways to the tumor that are known to neuro-oncologists. We remain grateful for the science that has given us this detailed roadmap and hopeful that sharing our experience contributes, in some small way, to greater understanding and support for others walking this same difficult path, even if only ONE READER comes away from this essay and gets a tumor detected and treated early, I will call it “victory”, with unrequited love, even if I never know you.

Editors note: Please consider donating to the GoFundMe Ted set up to help cover travel and other expenses they’ve accrued during this difficult time for their family.

Ted has also provided his Cashapp where direct donations can be sent: $TEDAGENS

There are shows you plan for. Tickets, parking, timing, all of it mapped out like a quiet contract between you and the night. And then there are the ones that move like rumor—passed hand to hand, friend to friend, until suddenly you’re not deciding to go anymore. You’re already on your way.

That’s how it started.

An Instagram post. A rooftop. A “special guest.” And buried in the background like a wink you weren’t supposed to miss, a familiar sound. Weezer, humming through the noise like a code word. It didn’t take long for people to catch on. The kind of recognition that spreads faster than logic. Somebody heard it, told somebody, who told somebody else. By the time it reached me, it wasn’t even information anymore—it was momentum.

And Hinanos, near the Venice Pier, Venice Beach, for a moment, became a magnet.

The Crowd That Built Itself

By the time I got down near the pier, the street didn’t look like a street anymore. It looked constructed. Not with barriers or staging, but with people. Thousands of them. Maybe 2,000, maybe more. Hard to tell when bodies blur into one moving wall.

You could feel it before you could hear anything. That low-frequency buzz of anticipation, the kind that presses against your ribs. People craning their necks, phones held high, conversations overlapping into one long, restless hum.

I tried to push through from the beach side. No chance. The crowd had sealed itself shut. Somewhere above us, on a rooftop I couldn’t yet see clearly, Weezer was already playing. And the strangest part? You could barely hear them.

The speakers weren’t built for this. Not for a crowd that size, not for a moment that had outgrown its own infrastructure in under an hour. What drifted down was mostly fragments—guitar lines dissolving into chatter, vocals swallowed by wind and distance. A roar without a source.

It would’ve been easy to give up right there. Call it a near-miss and walk away with the story instead of the experience.

But something about nights like this doesn’t let you settle for that.

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The Long Way Around

So I went around.

Grabbed my skateboard and cut through the edges of the chaos, tracing the perimeter instead of trying to break through the center. Venice Beach has a way of rewarding that kind of movement—side streets, alleys, unexpected openings if you know how to look.

That’s how I found the back of the building.

An alley. Dimmer, quieter, but not empty. Security was there, positioned with that specific kind of alert calm that tells you something real is happening just out of sight. They weren’t there for show. They were there to move people safely when the moment ended.

I didn’t linger. Just passed through, catching a glimpse of the machine behind the magic, then looped back toward the front.

And somehow, that angle changed everything.

I found a pocket. Not wide open, not comfortable, but just enough. A place where the sound could finally land.

When the Songs Broke Through

It wasn’t perfect audio. Still a little thin, still competing with the noise of the crowd. But now it was music. Recognizable. Alive.

And once you could hear it, you could feel what was actually happening.

Weezer, stripped down to acoustic, perched above a street that had accidentally become a venue. No massive stage production, no towering lights. Just guitars, voices, and a city that decided to listen all at once.

You could pick out the songs as they came. Not every note clean, not every lyric sharp, but enough. Enough to trigger memory. Enough for the crowd to fill in the gaps.

Because that’s what happened next.

People started singing.

Not organized. Not prompted. Just instinct. Lines carried from one group to another, drifting upward and back down again. A chorus built out of recognition rather than direction. It felt less like a concert and more like a campfire someone had dropped into the middle of an intersection.

Acoustic versions have a way of doing that—pulling songs back to their skeleton, letting the crowd do some of the work. And here, in the open air, with imperfect sound and no clear sightline for most of us, it somehow made the whole thing more intimate.

You weren’t just watching Weezer.

You were part of the noise they were playing into.

I caught maybe six or seven songs I could clearly recognize. The kind that live on the radio, the kind that sneak into your memory whether you think of yourself as a fan or not.

And somewhere in the middle of that realization, I had to admit something.

I knew more of the words than I expected.

A Short Set, A Full Moment

It didn’t last long.

No drawn-out goodbye, no encore tease. Just a natural ending that arrived faster than anyone wanted. One moment they were playing, the next they were standing.

Guitars came off. Passed back to stage hands. A shift in posture that told you it was over before anyone said it out loud.

And then that last look.

The frontman—reading the crowd in real time, catching that flicker of disappointment that comes when something good ends too quickly—gave one final gesture. A fist bump aimed outward, toward all of us packed into that street.

It was small. Simple. But it landed.

The crowd answered immediately. Cheers, louder than anything that had come before. Not angry, not frustrated—just charged. Grateful and a little hungry for more at the same time.

Yeah, we would’ve taken another hour. Easy.

But that’s not what this was.

And maybe that’s why it worked.

The Exit Nobody Rushed

They disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived.

Escorted out through the back, just like the setup had hinted. The rooftop emptied. The sound cut. And for a second, the street just held onto the silence, like it wasn’t sure what to do next.

Then something strange happened.

Nobody panicked. Nobody surged for the exits.

The crowd loosened instead of collapsing. People drifted. Conversations picked back up. Some headed toward nearby spots for drinks, others just wandered, letting the adrenaline settle into something quieter.

About ten minutes later, the sky changed.

Helicopters.

Police choppers cutting circles overhead, fast and deliberate. The kind of presence that raises questions even if no one answers them. Maybe permits were an issue. Maybe the venue—what looked like a legendary Venice Beach bar or café—had pushed things a little too far, a little too quickly.

Or maybe the band just knew when to leave before the night complicated itself.

Either way, the timing felt almost too perfect.

They were gone.

And then the city showed up.

The Morning After Realization

The next day is when it really hit.

That delayed clarity you only get after something unplanned. When the noise is gone and you’re left with the shape of what happened.

I saw Weezer.

Not in a stadium. Not through a ticketed gate. But on a rooftop, in the middle of Venice Beach, because a social media hint turned into a real-world moment faster than anyone could organize it.

And more than that, it shifted something.

I walked away more of a fan than I expected to be.

Not just because of the songs—I already knew those, even if I didn’t fully claim them—but because of the gesture. The decision to show up like that. To strip things down, take over a corner of the city, and give people something unfiltered and fleeting.

There’s a kind of respect in that.

Not polished. Not monetized to death. Just… there.

Afterglow

Some shows echo because they were perfect. Others because they weren’t supposed to happen at all.

This one lives somewhere in between.

A rooftop you couldn’t quite see. Speakers that barely kept up. A crowd that built itself faster than the system could handle. And a band that leaned into all of it anyway, turning chaos into something that, for a few minutes, felt strangely unified.

You don’t get to hold onto nights like that for long. They slip. They scatter. They turn into stories almost immediately.

But every once in a while, one sticks just enough to remind you why you chase live music in the first place.

Not for the plan.

For the moment when the plan disappears—and something better takes its place.

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In my interview with Amanda Potter, Democratic candidate for South Dakota House District 9, we talked not just about policy, but about the personal experiences that shaped why she’s running.

Potter moved to Sioux Falls from North Dakota in 2005 and has now spent more than 20 years building her life in South Dakota. She is raising a son, works in health care, and has experience as a nonprofit grant writer focused on child care and education. That background came through clearly in our conversation, especially as she spoke about the pressures facing working families and the need for government to be more responsive to everyday people.

A major focus of her campaign is affordability. Potter pointed to rising property taxes, grocery bills, gas prices and child care costs as some of the biggest burdens facing households in District 9. She argued that when the state has a surplus, residents should actually feel the benefit of it, especially in areas like education and child care that directly affect families and workforce stability.

Education was one of the clearest through-lines in our discussion. Drawing on her grant-writing experience, Potter criticized block grant-style funding approaches that can leave smaller communities at a disadvantage and create uncertainty for schools and child care providers. She also pushed back on what she sees as political overreach into curriculum, saying education policy should be shaped by teachers, experts and people with real experience in the field.

We also talked about her broader message of transparency, bipartisanship and public trust. Potter said she wants government to focus less on division and more on practical, win-win solutions. That included discussion of voting access, gun violence as a public health issue, and the need for accountability when it comes to hyper-scale data center development in South Dakota.

One of the more personal points she made is that she does not see politics as a lifelong career path. She said she wants to serve for a limited time, keep her day job, stay close to family life, and remain grounded in the same realities her constituents face.

At the center of her campaign is a simple idea: people in District 9 deserve to feel heard, respected and represented.

Special thanks to the IBEW 426 for allowing us to use their space.

Faith in Focus is a weekly reflection on what God has been teaching me throughout the week regarding my faith. Whether it’s personal interactions, reading, or the Sunday sermon, God speaks through it all, and I hope this helps you focus on His mission.

Follow Ben, and subscribe to Intellectual Dissatisfaction to receive next week’s edition.

Sermon Reflection

Based on the sermon by Jonathan Land, Connection Church Sioux Falls, April 5, 2026.

Of First Importance: Why the Resurrection Changes Everything

On Easter morning, Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 15 call the church back to what matters most. The resurrection is not one doctrine among many, but the foundation from which everything else flows.

There are moments when timing feels almost too precise to be coincidence. Easter Sunday and 1 Corinthians 15:1–11 is one of those moments. The resurrection account does not simply align with the day, it defines it. Paul opens with a line that is both pastoral and corrective. “Now I would remind you, brothers, of the Gospel I preached to you” (1 Corinthians 15:1 ESV). This is not new information. It is a call to remember.

Paul is not introducing a deeper teaching but returning to the foundation. The issue in Corinth is not ignorance. It is forgetfulness. This same drift happens today. Faith can slowly shift from Christ to self, from grace to performance, from the Gospel to everything built around it.

Paul understands something critical. When the foundation is forgotten, everything built on top begins to fracture.

The World Behind the Text

The church in Corinth was marked by division, pride, and confusion. Across fourteen chapters, Paul addresses issues ranging from leadership factions to misuse of spiritual gifts. Beneath all of it lies a deeper problem.

They had lost sight of what mattered most.

Corinth was a status-driven culture. Honor, recognition, and personal advancement shaped how people lived and related to one another. That mindset had quietly worked its way into the church. Spiritual gifts became tools for self-elevation. Freedom became self-indulgence. Worship became disorderly.

The Corinthians did not reject the Gospel outright. They simply allowed it to move from the center to the margins. The danger for any church is not always abandoning the Gospel. It is assuming it. When the gospel becomes background noise, other things take its place.

Paul responds not by adding more instruction, but by bringing them back to the core.

Walking the Passage

Paul states the heart of the message with unmistakable force:

“For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures” (1 Corinthians 15:3–4 ESV).

Of first importance.

Paul is establishing priority, not dismissing other truths but ordering them. Everything else in the Christian life flows from this reality. Without the resurrection, there is no church, no salvation, no hope. The Gospel is not the entry point into Christianity. It is the entire path. As Tim Keller states, t is not the ABCs. It is A to Z.

Paul then provides a list of witnesses. Cephas (Who is the apostle Peter). The twelve. More than five hundred at one time. James. All the apostles. And finally, Paul himself (1 Corinthians 15:5–8 ESV).

This is not abstract theology. It is rooted in eyewitness testimony.

Paul is anchoring belief in historical reality. The resurrection is not presented as metaphor or myth, but as an event that occurred in time and space. Faith in the resurrection is not blind. It is trust grounded in testimony.

Paul even notes that many of the five hundred witnesses were still alive (1 Corinthians 15:6 ESV). The implication is clear. This claim is verifiable.

A Fair Counter-Reading

Some argue that the resurrection accounts were fabricated or exaggerated over time. Others suggest that the disciples experienced visions or collective psychological phenomena rather than a physical resurrection.

These perspectives attempt to account for the rapid growth of early Christianity without affirming the supernatural. However, there are significant challenges to these views.

First, the consistency of the resurrection claim appears early and widely. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians is one of the earliest New Testament writings, and it already contains a structured summary of the Gospel.

Second, the willingness of the apostles to suffer and die for this claim raises difficult questions. People may die for what they believe is true. They do not typically die for what they know to be false.

Third, the inclusion of multiple witnesses and specific names invites scrutiny rather than avoiding it.

While alternative explanations exist, they often struggle to account for the totality of the evidence presented in the text. The resurrection calls for a response. It cannot remain a neutral idea.

The Turn

Paul’s tone shifts as he begins to speak personally.

“Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me” (1 Corinthians 15:8 ESV).

Paul does not present himself as a hero of the faith. He identifies as the least of the apostles, unworthy because he persecuted the church (1 Corinthians 15:9 ESV).

Then comes one of the most defining statements in the passage:

“But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain” (1 Corinthians 15:10 ESV).

Paul attributes everything to grace. His transformation, his calling, his labor. None of it originates from himself. Grace is not something to achieve. It is something to receive. And once received, it does not diminish over time.

Paul goes further. He acknowledges his labor, but immediately clarifies its source. “Though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me” (1 Corinthians 15:10 ESV).

This is the paradox of the Christian life. Effort is real, but it is empowered by grace. The same grace that saves is the grace that sustains.

Song of the Week: Resurrection Story - Phil Wickham

In the week following Easter, I hope reflection lingers a little longer. For many, the celebration doesn’t end on Sunday morning as it carries into the days after, shaping how the story is remembered and lived out. In that spirit, this week’s selection turns toward resurrection not just as a historical event, but as a personal reality. Resurrection Story by Phil Wickham fits that frame perfectly.

The song opens not in triumph, but in confession. A choice that grounds its message in humility. Wickham draws on biblical imagery, likening himself to the thief on the cross, while also invoking the stories of those healed during Jesus’ ministry. These references aren’t incidental; they build a throughline that points to a singular cause behind each transformation. The change wasn’t earned or manufactured but happened because He arrived. As the lyric puts it, “One word, one touch, one encounter with the King.” The implication is direct: transformation begins with encounter.

While the verses lean inward, the chorus widens the lens. The resurrection is no longer just personal but historical, anchored in the defining moment of the Christian faith. “One cross, three days, then You rolled the stone away,” Wickham sings, tying individual renewal to the events at the center of Easter. The theology is straightforward but weighty. Through Jesus’ death and resurrection, access to grace is no longer distant, but immediate. Redemption, once out of reach, is now offered freely.

What makes the song resonate in a post-Easter context is its ability to hold both truths at once. It acknowledges the historical reality of the resurrection while inviting listeners to see their own lives reflected in it. The empty tomb is not just a past event. It becomes a present invitation.

A week removed from Easter Sunday, as the significance of that day begins to settle, “Resurrection Story” offers a refrain worth returning to, “You alone get the glory, in my resurrection story.” It’s both a conclusion and a response. One that echoes beyond a single Sunday and into the rhythms of everyday faith.

Carry It Into the Week

Easter is not simply a day of remembrance. It is a call to re-center.

The message Paul delivers is not complicated, but it is comprehensive. Christ died for our sins. He was buried and was raised on the third day (1 Corinthians 15:3–4 ESV).

This is the core of the gospel. It addresses sin, death, and hope. Every part of life is shaped by this reality. Identity, purpose, community, mission.

Within the framework of gospel, community, and mission, this passage speaks clearly.

Gospel: The resurrection confirms that the work of Christ is finished and sufficient.
Community: The shared belief in the risen Christ forms a people centered not on status but on grace and love.
Mission: The reality of the resurrection compels proclamation. If Christ is risen, it must be told.

Grace is not something you move beyond. It is something you grow deeper into.

So the invitation is simple. Remember.

Remember that Christ came.
Remember that He lived without sin.
Remember that He died in your place.
Remember that He was buried.
Remember that He was raised on the third day.
Remember that He reigns.

And remember that this grace is given freely, not earned.

Week in Reflection

This week unfolded as a series of moments that intertwined faith, vocation, and personal reflection with each offering its own sense of purpose and perspective.

It began Monday with a notable professional opportunity: receiving press credentials to cover Journey at my local arena. For someone working at the intersection of media and faith, moments like these feel significant. Not just as career milestones, but as reminders of doors opening in unexpected ways. There’s a growing sense that these opportunities are part of a larger trajectory still taking shape and I can’t wait to see what God does with it.

That sense of purpose carried into the workplace throughout the week, where conversations about faith surfaced in practical and sometimes challenging ways. One such moment came in discussing how to handle a financial gift received from my family following the passing of my uncle. The conversation turned to tithing. Specifically, whether that money should be given to the church or used for personal wants.

It became an opportunity to articulate a deeply held conviction: that all resources, whether earned or given, are ultimately entrusted by God. From that perspective, giving back is not just an obligation but an act of stewardship. It was a moment that underscored a broader belief that faith is not meant to be compartmentalized, but lived out openly, even in everyday workplace dialogue.

The week concluded on a more personal and celebratory note. A close friend’s wedding provided a meaningful reminder of faith lived out in community. Having met nearly four years ago through a Bible class at Celebrate Church, our shared spiritual journey has grown into a lasting friendship. Standing alongside him as a groomsman marked not just a milestone in his life, but a reflection of that shared foundation.

The ceremony itself was centered on faith, with the couple openly expressing their commitment to building a marriage grounded in Christ. For those who have witnessed that journey from its early stages, it served as a powerful testament to growth, once separate, not joined.

Still, the week was not without its challenges. Moments of envy, pride, and distraction surfaced as reminders that spiritual growth is rarely linear. Yet even in those struggles, there remains a steady call to trust in something greater: that timing, provision, and direction are ultimately not self-determined, but guided by His larger plan.

Taken together, the week reflects a balance familiar to many. Opportunity and uncertainty, conviction and challenge, celebration and introspection. And within that balance, a continued effort to trust that each step, however small, is part of something more enduring.

And remember, God loves you, and so do I.

Connection Church in Sioux Falls is a gospel-centered community committed to helping people follow Jesus through authentic relationships, biblical teaching, and everyday mission. Rooted in historic Christian belief and aligned with gospel renewal movements, the church exists to see lives transformed by Jesus. Learn more: https://siouxfallsconnection.com/who-we-are

By the time 8 p.m. rolled around at The Dock in Council Bluffs, it was already clear this wasn’t going to be a casual dip into nostalgia. The room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, that low hum of anticipation buzzing like static before a signal locks in. No openers, no slow build—just M-80 stepping straight into the fire with a set built on the bones of the ‘70s and ‘80s, but delivered like it still had something to prove.

And from the first hit of the kick drum, you felt it.

Not heard. Felt.

The Floor as an Instrument

The sound in the room wasn’t polite. It was physical. The kind of punchy, floor-shaking mix that makes your legs part of the rhythm section whether you signed up for it or not. Every kick drum landed like a heartbeat you couldn’t ignore, pushing through the floorboards and into your chest.

Vocals cut clean through it all, but not in some polished, overly pristine way. There was grit there. Texture. A little bit of gravel that made the whole thing feel lived-in instead of rehearsed to death. It matched the material—songs that weren’t built to sit still in the first place.

And the singer didn’t let them.

He was everywhere. Front to back, side to side, never settling, never coasting. Dancing, pacing, working the edges of the stage like he was trying to keep the energy from spilling over the sides. It wasn’t choreographed. It was instinct. The kind of movement that only works when the band behind you is locked tight enough to let you roam.

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Red, Green, and a Little Bit of Chaos

Visually, the night leaned into simplicity, but it worked because the room did the rest. Heavy washes of red and green light cut through a thick haze that never quite lifted. Everything felt slightly blurred at the edges, like you were watching the night through memory while it was still happening.

It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about atmosphere.

And that atmosphere gave the band room to do what they do best—play off each other.

You could see it most clearly during the solos. The guitarist and bassist would drift toward each other, leaning in like they were sharing a secret mid-song. No big gestures, no forced showmanship. Just that quiet kind of chemistry that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind you catch in photos later and realize it was happening all night.

A Room That Knew the Words Before They Started

The setlist leaned hard into crowd recognition, but never felt like it was coasting on it. When they dropped into Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town,” the reaction wasn’t just loud—it was immediate. No hesitation, no warming up. The crowd snapped into it like muscle memory, voices rising before the first chorus even had a chance to land.

Same thing when they hit “Cars” by **—that synth-driven pulse somehow translating perfectly into the band’s heavier, more physical live sound. The floor didn’t just move. It surged. People jumping, shouting, bodies shifting in waves that felt just on the edge of spilling over into something less controlled.

But it never crossed that line.

That’s what made the crowd interesting. Packed and rowdy, sure. Loud enough to carry half the choruses on their own. But there was a respect underneath it. No chaos for chaos’ sake. Just people fully bought into the moment.

And then came the moment that sealed it.

The Toast That Turned a Crowd into a Room

Mid-set, the singer pulled it back just enough to say what needed to be said.

“It’s tradition to have a drink with everyone… let’s get this fucking party started!”

Simple. Direct. No theatrics.

But it hit.

Glasses went up. So did hands. And in that second, whatever separation was left between stage and floor disappeared. It wasn’t a band playing to a crowd anymore. It was one room, one pulse, one shared agreement about what the rest of the night was going to be.

You could feel the shift.

After that, everything landed harder. The singalongs got louder. The movement got looser. The band leaned in a little more, and the crowd met them there without hesitation.

That toast didn’t just hype the room. It unified it.

Motion, Momentum, and the Space Between Notes

What carried the rest of the set wasn’t just the songs themselves—it was how little dead space there was between them. No dragging transitions, no awkward resets. Just momentum. One track feeding into the next, energy stacking instead of resetting.

The singer kept moving. The rhythm section kept driving. And those moments where the guitarist and bassist locked in during solos became little anchors throughout the night—reminders that underneath all the movement, everything was tight.

Even when they pulled things back for a second, it never felt like a drop. Just a breath before the next push forward.

That’s a hard balance to hit, especially with a catalog built from songs that people already have strong attachments to. But M-80 didn’t treat them like museum pieces. They treated them like tools.

And the room responded accordingly.

Afterglow

Walking out, your ears still ringing just enough to remind you where you’d been, it wasn’t one song or one moment that stuck—it was the feeling of the room locking in together.

The red lights still hanging in your vision. The echo of that toast. The way the floor seemed to breathe under your feet when everything clicked at once.

Some shows you remember for precision. Some for spectacle.

This one lingers because, for a couple hours, nothing felt separate. Not the band. Not the crowd. Not the noise, the movement, or the moment it all tipped from good into something you didn’t want to end.

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The Call You Wait For

Some shows are just dates on a calendar until they aren’t. Then they become something else entirely. A pressure point. A promise you make to yourself before anyone else.

The moment I saw that Gary Numan had a Midwest stop on his 2026 run, I knew I had to be there. Not casually. Not “if it works out.” This was locked in from the jump. I reached out for press coverage, cleared time off work months in advance, and then sat in that familiar industry purgatory where everything depends on an answer no one is in a hurry to give you.

It came late. Monday, March 30, at 5:02 p.m. Less than a day before doors.

We were in.

Sort of.

The approval split us. Igor got cleared for pit photography. I got written coverage review ticket. That kind of news lands sideways. You’re grateful, but it doesn’t feel complete. Not for a show like this. Not for an artist like this. I needed to be at the front. Needed it in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve carried an artist with you for years. I literally have Gary’s signature tattooed on my arm.

Then the night flipped again.

We showed up at First Avenue with our cameras, credentials pending, expectations carefully managed. And just like that, both of us were granted photo passes. No buildup. No ceremony. Just a door opening that wasn’t supposed to.

We grabbed the passes, went back to the car after the long drive, and I finally let it hit me.

I cried.

Happy tears. Relief. The kind of emotional release that only comes when something you’ve been holding tight finally lets go.

That was before a single note was played.

Before the show, there was a quick detour.

We wandered the block and ducked into Tom’s Watch Bar, one of those places that looks expensive because it is. Packed, loud, alive. Not exactly my price range, but sometimes you lean into the night instead of resisting it.

We both ordered the Blue Crush. Don Q Limón Rum, lemon-lime soda, blue raspberry, lime, cherry. Bright, almost electric. It tasted exactly like it looked. Worth it.

It felt like the right kind of prelude. A little artificial. A little indulgent. A little surreal.

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The Room

There are venues, and then there are places like First Avenue.

Opened in 1970, stamped into music history by sheer persistence and myth, it doesn’t need to try to feel important. It just does. The black exterior, the white stars, the Prince legacy humming in the walls — all of it adds up to a room that makes everything feel a little bigger the moment you walk in.

The Mainroom holds around 1,550 people, but it rarely feels like a number. It feels like compression. Energy stacked on top of itself, waiting to be released.

Tremours Set the Temperature

When Tremours took the stage, they didn’t try to win the room with something easy.

They leaned into atmosphere.

The Los Angeles duo builds their sound out of tension. Shoegaze textures, post-punk edges, emotional distance stretched into something almost physical. It’s not about hooks so much as weight. Not about immediate connection, but slow immersion.

And it worked.

They didn’t feel like an opener in the disposable sense. They felt like a necessary dimming of the lights before the main event. A reminder that mood matters. That you don’t just walk into a Gary Numan set clean. You get pulled into it first.

Even for a crowd clearly there for the headliner, Tremours carved out space. Not by demanding attention, but by reshaping the air in the room.

Gary Numan, Still Burning

You can list the facts if you want.

Gary Numan. Born Gary Anthony James Webb. Pioneer of electronic music. The voice behind “Cars” and “Are ‘Friends’ Electric?”. A figure whose influence has long since outgrown his own catalog.

He’s 68.

None of that explains what actually happens when he steps on stage.

Because this wasn’t preservation. This wasn’t legacy maintenance. This wasn’t a careful, respectful revisiting of something that mattered once.

This was alive.

Gary doesn’t perform like someone holding onto relevance. He performs like someone still actively inside it. There’s movement, aggression, control, intensity. The kind of physical commitment that makes you forget the math of age entirely.

And then there’s the way he uses the stage.

Numan getting up on his platform isn’t a gimmick. It’s part of the language of his performance. A recurring visual that turns the set into something cinematic. It creates distance and closeness at the same time. Elevation without separation. You don’t just watch it. You feel the shift when it happens.

It hits.

And what stood out most wasn’t nostalgia. It was forward motion. He didn’t have to say anything about new material. He didn’t have to announce anything. You could feel it in the set itself. The weight of newer songs, the way they carried through the performance, the way they sat alongside the classics without feeling like filler.

No speeches. No explanations.

Just evidence.

That’s the difference between an artist still creating and one just revisiting.

Then came the encore, and with it, a realization I hadn’t expected.

Though “The Gift” has long been a personal favorite from the Intruder era, I’d never quite categorized it as an encore-worthy anthem until that night. The moment the first notes hit, something shifted. Looking out across the packed general floor, the room didn’t just move. It breathed in unison.

A sea of raised fists. Bodies swaying harder than they had all night. Movement turning into something shared, something collective, something bigger than the song itself.

What had always been a quieter, more personal appreciation suddenly cracked open into something electric.

That’s when it clicked.

Some songs don’t reveal what they really are until you’re standing inside them.

For me, standing there wasn’t about checking a box. It wasn’t even about finally seeing a favorite artist live. It was about watching someone who shaped part of my internal world refuse to become static.

That lands harder than hype ever could.

Igor walked away blown away by the full experience, and that mattered. Because it confirmed what I was feeling wasn’t just fandom talking. This wasn’t bias. This was reality in the room.

Gary Numan is still a force.

The Walk Back Down First Avenue

After the lights came up, the night didn’t end all at once. It unraveled.

Walking back toward the parking garage, Igor and I might as well have been in two different scenes. He was buzzing. Fully energized. Ready to keep exploring downtown Minneapolis, camera still in hand, chasing whatever came next.

I wasn’t.

I was quieter. A little heavy. That strange emotional drop you get when something you’ve been building toward actually happens and your body doesn’t know where to go after it.

He was still expanding into the night.

I was already in the aftermath.

And somehow, that contrast felt right.

Because everything about this night had been extremes. The waiting. The uncertainty. The split approval. The last-second shift. The emotional release. The pre-show drink. The room. The performance. The comedown.

Nothing about it sat in the middle.

Afterglow

I never want to see Gary Numan stop touring.

That’s the truth that cuts through everything else.

Because there are artists who perform, and there are artists who become something else entirely when they step on stage. Gary still feels like one of those rare ones. Like the stage isn’t where he visits, but where he fully exists.

It’s written all over him.

He doesn’t just perform.

He thrives.

And maybe that’s why this one hit so hard. Not just because I got to cover it. Not just because everything fell into place at the last possible second. But because the person I had built up in my head over years didn’t shrink under the weight of reality.

He expanded past it.

That doesn’t happen often.

When it does, it stays with you.

Long after the walk back to the car.

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