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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

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.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

There’s a certain kind of gratitude that hits before a single note is played. The kind that sits in your chest a little heavier than excitement. Standing inside the Denny Sanford PREMIER Center, knowing full well that Journey doesn’t always hand out coverage lightly, and knowing this Final Frontier Tour may well be one of the last chances to catch them on a run like this, it felt earned just to be in the room. Huge thanks to Doria with the PREMIER Center and Journey team for approving us. Some nights feel like assignments. This one felt like a privilege.

And maybe that’s the right word for Journey in 2026. Not just a band. Not just a legacy act. A privilege to witness while it’s still here.

With room for roughly 12,000, the house was packed and buzzing long before the band took the stage. I hadn’t been in my seat long before a countdown timer popped up on the screen, and that alone told the story. This production was sharp. No dragging start time, no vague “sometime soon” energy, no wandering around the edge of anticipation. When the clock hit zero, they were there. Exactly on time. And they came out strong.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Photographers Viewpoint: Ben Glanzer

Entering the venue that evening felt bigger than just another show. It was my first time being approved to cover a concert at my local arena—something that, for a local creative, carries a certain weight. That alone would have been enough to make the night memorable. But the artist on the bill made it something else entirely. Journey. A band whose music has long outlived any single era, now out on a farewell run.

That combination—first credential, legendary act, final tour—brought a level of anticipation I hadn’t quite felt before. And a fair amount of nerves too.

When I arrived, I was met by Doria, the venue’s Director of Marketing, who greeted me with an ease that immediately cut through some of that tension. There’s something grounding about being welcomed into a space like that, especially when you’re still trying to prove you belong in it. She walked me through the logistics, made sure I was set up, and for a moment, everything felt seamless.

Then came the reality check.

I asked where I should go after the photo window closed, hoping to take in the rest of the show from somewhere in the building. Her expression shifted slightly. Not harsh, just matter-of-fact. Without a second approved credential, I’d need to leave the venue once my contracted time was up. It wasn’t personal. It was policy.

Still, it stung.

I nodded, told her I understood, and meant it. Access is a privilege in this line of work, not a guarantee. Even so, there was a quiet disappointment in knowing the night would end just as the music really began. I pushed it aside, focused on the task at hand, and prepared to make the most of the opportunity I did have.

But just as quickly as that door seemed to close, another opened.

As the arena filled and the energy in the room began to build, Doria returned—same calm presence, same steady tone—and handed me a ticket.

Row 7.

For a second, I didn’t quite process it. Then it hit. Not only had she gone out of her way to secure additional access—something she absolutely didn’t have to do—but she made sure it was an experience I wouldn’t forget.

Moments like that don’t just elevate an assignment. They redefine it.

In a field where so much revolves around credentials, restrictions, and timing, it’s easy to view the experience through a transactional lens. You’re there to do a job. You get in, you get the shots, you move on. But every once in a while, someone reminds you that there’s still a human side to all of it. That people notice effort. That they care enough to go a step further.

That’s what stayed with me long after the lights went down.

The Machine Starts Moving

The opening stretch made that clear in a hurry. “Be Good to Yourself,” “Stone in Love,” “Just the Same Way,” “Girl Can’t Help It,” and “Only the Young” hit with the kind of muscle that instantly snapped the room to attention. It was a strong opening run, the kind that reminds you Journey has never really needed to ease into anything. They know how to take command of an arena, and they did.

What stood out right away was how polished the whole thing looked. The production quality on this tour is top notch, with effects shifting from song to song instead of recycling the same visual trick all night. Lighting changed with the mood. Screen work kept pace with the music. The whole show had that rare feeling of being expensive, yes, but also thoughtfully built. Nothing felt tossed in just because it could be.

They slowed it down with “When You Love a Woman,” which they announced was for all the ladies there that night. It changed the temperature in the building immediately. The power of a Journey set has never just been about the big choruses or the air-punching hooks. It’s the balance. They know when to hit hard and when to let a song breathe.

Back to San Francisco, Then Forward Again

From there they reached back into their roots with “Lights,” introduced with a nod back to San Francisco in the ’70s, and then dug even deeper with “Of a Lifetime,” a first-album reminder that Journey’s story did not begin as the slick, arena-sized singalong machine most people now remember. Before the mass-radio dominance, before the immortal hooks became cultural furniture, there was a band built on musicianship, movement, and a willingness to keep changing shape.

That shape-shifting has always been the heart of Journey’s story.

So when the middle of the show moved through “La Do Da,” “Chain Reaction,” “Suzanne,” a piano solo, “Who’s Crying Now,” “Ask the Lonely,” and “Dead or Alive,” it never felt like a random pile of selections. It felt like a band walking through its own long shadow and still finding fresh angles inside it.

Then came “Wheel in the Sky.”

That one hit me in a different place entirely.

This song means a lot to me because my aunt Cinda fought a battle with lung cancer, only to be hit with pneumonia afterward. With her lungs already compromised, she couldn’t fight it off. “Wheel in the Sky” was the song she requested at her funeral. So hearing it live in that room didn’t land as just another classic in the setlist. It came with memory attached. With grief attached. With love attached. And in a strange, beautiful way, hearing thousands of people sing along to a song that has lived in such a personal corner of my life made it feel even larger. Not less personal. More. Like the song had enough room to hold all of it.

The Voice Question—Answered

And while we’re being honest, there’s no way to talk about modern Journey without talking about the voice. That question hangs over every show whether anyone says it out loud or not.

It’s crazy how close Arnel Pineda’s lead vocal sounds to the legendary Steve Perry.

Not in a hollow imitation way. Not in some tribute-band approximation. There are moments where the resemblance is genuinely startling, where the phrasing and lift hit with a familiarity that makes the room collectively lean in. But what makes it work is that he doesn’t come off like someone trying to erase the past. He comes off like someone who understands the burden of carrying it. That’s a very different thing, and it’s the reason this version of Journey still works.

The Stretch Run

The stretch run of the show was built for maximum impact. “Feeling That Way,” “Faithfully,” “Anytime,” “I’ll Be Alright Without You,” and “Open Arms” kept the emotional current running strong, while the drum solo reminded everyone that beneath the polish and sentiment, this band is still rooted in players who know exactly how to drive a big room.

Then came “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” and “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart),” and you could feel the crowd shifting from admiration into full-throated ownership. That’s the moment in a legacy-act show where the line disappears. It’s no longer performer and audience. It’s one big shared muscle memory.

And then, of course, the ending everyone was waiting for.

“Any Way You Want It.”

“Don’t Stop Believin’.”

The Price of Memory

Before the lights dropped and the first chord cut through the room, there was another kind of ritual happening out in the concourse.

The merch wall.

Lined end to end with black tees, neon prints, tour dates, and that unmistakable winged Journey iconography, it looked less like a sales table and more like a timeline you could wear home. Designs pulled from different eras, different albums, different identities of the band all sitting side by side. You could almost trace their evolution just by walking from left to right.

But like everything else tied to a legacy act of this size, it came with a price tag that made you pause.

Most shirts hovered around $50, hoodies sat at $80-$120, and bundle packages climbed even higher. It’s the modern reality of touring—where the ticket gets you in the door, but the merch is where fans decide how much of the night they want to physically take with them.

And people were buying.

Stacks of folded shirts moved steadily. Sizes disappeared and got restocked. You could see fans holding up designs, debating between eras, between colors, between which version of Journey meant the most to them. It wasn’t just shopping. It was choosing a memory.

That’s the thing about merch at a show like this. It’s not just branding. It’s proof you were there. A wearable timestamp from a band that, for a lot of people in that building, has been part of their lives for decades.

The Band That Refused to Stay Still

To understand why this still works, you have to zoom out for a second.

Journey was never supposed to be this band.

They started as a jazz-rock experiment in 1973, built by musicians who valued complexity over accessibility. Neal Schon and Gregg Rolie, fresh off Santana, weren’t chasing radio hits—they were chasing musicianship. Early records proved they had the talent, but not the reach.

Then Steve Perry walked in.

And everything changed.

Suddenly the songs had hooks. Emotion cut deeper. The band had a center. Albums like Infinity, Evolution, and Departure didn’t just elevate them—they redefined them.

By the time Escape and Frontiers hit, Journey wasn’t just successful. They were everywhere. “Don’t Stop Believin’,” “Open Arms,” “Separate Ways,” “Faithfully”—these weren’t just hits. They were cultural anchors.

Then came the fractures. The burnout. The breakup.

Reunions that almost worked.

Replacements that almost fit.

And then, in one of the strangest, most perfect twists in rock history, Neal Schon found Arnel Pineda on YouTube.

A cover singer from the Philippines.

And suddenly, the band had a future again.

That’s the real story of Journey. Not stability. Not consistency. Survival. Reinvention. Tension between what they were, what they became, and what they needed to be to keep going.

Without Neal Schon, there is no Journey.

Without Steve Perry, there is no legend.

Without Arnel Pineda, there is no present.

Afterglow

When the lights came up and the crowd started to spill out into the South Dakota night, it didn’t feel like the end of a concert. It felt like stepping out of something larger than the room itself.

A timeline.

A memory bank.

A reminder.

Journey has spent decades shifting shapes, breaking apart, rebuilding, chasing something just out of reach—and somehow, against all odds, keeping it alive.

And standing there, watching thousands of people walk out still humming the same songs their parents once played, it hit in a quiet, undeniable way.

They didn’t just keep the lights on.

They became the light people carry with them.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

The Journey Begins

A rainy stretch just past Oxford sets the tone. Windshield wipers keeping time, headlights cutting through that soft Southern haze, and somewhere between conversations and road noise, the night already feels like it’s leaning toward something memorable.

By the time Batesville comes into view, the storm has settled into more of a backdrop than a problem. Honestly, the only real downside to the drive was the weather itself. Inside the car, Carson and his ever-present sidekick Landen turned the trip into its own kind of pre-show, the kind of back-and-forth that makes the miles disappear faster than they should. Shows don’t just start at the venue. They start in moments like that.

And tonight had a little extra continuity baked in. Less than 24 hours removed from catching Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ tear through Tupelo, the band was already resetting the board, ready to do it again in a different room, for a different crowd, under a different kind of ceiling.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

A Room That Knows Its Weight

Walking into the Batesville Civic Center, there’s an immediate realization. This place understands scale without needing excess. It’s not trying to compete with the massive 18,000-seat arenas. It doesn’t have to.

There’s a balance here. Just over 8,000 capacity, a 45,000-square-foot floor, and a layout that can flex between intimate and expansive without losing its shape. Since opening in 2005, it’s built a reputation as one of North Mississippi’s most versatile venues, hosting everything from concerts to rodeos to expos, pulling in well over 100 event days a year. It’s the kind of place that quietly proves you don’t need a major metro zip code to deliver a major experience.

That versatility shows up in the stories the building holds. Professional Bull Riding. Arenacross. Community gatherings that fill the space with something closer to hometown pride than spectacle. Even the O’Reilly Indoor Kart Nationals, the largest indoor kart racing event in the world, have made this floor their playground. That’s the thing about this venue. It adapts. It stretches. It meets whatever walks through its doors.

And at the center of it all is Director Rodney Holley, a seasoned hand who knows how to run a room like this without letting it feel corporate or distant. There’s a warmth to the operation. A sense that you’re not just attending an event, you’re being welcomed into it.

Tonight, that room belonged to guitars, grit, and a catalog that refuses to age.

Drivin’ n’ Cryin’: No Drop-Off, No Mercy

They hit the stage with purpose. Shorter set than Tupelo, sure, but not one ounce of restraint. When your window is smaller, you don’t pace yourself. You swing harder.

From the jump, they leaned into that urgency. The newer cut “Why Don’t You Just Go Around” slid into the set with that distinctly Atlanta flavor baked into its bones. It’s one of those songs that lands a little differently depending on how well you know the city. If you know, you know.

Then came “Fly Me Courageous,” and just like that, the timeline bends. You can feel it in the room. Heads tilt. Smiles widen. A few people drift somewhere between who they were then and who they are now. It’s not nostalgia in a cheap sense. It’s recognition. A shared memory hitting all at once.

“Crushing Flowers,” the title track from their latest release, carries that same thread forward. It’s newer, but it doesn’t feel like an outsider in the set. It holds its own. Breathes in the same air as the older material.

And then the closer.

“Straight to Hell.”

You don’t need to overthink it. It’s a sing-along built for rooms exactly like this. Catchy, sharp, and just a little defiant in that way Southern rock does best. Voices come up from the crowd, not perfectly in sync, not polished, but real. The kind of chorus that belongs to everyone once it starts.

What stands out most is the consistency. No visible fatigue. No sense of coasting. If you didn’t know they had played the night before, you wouldn’t guess it. It’s just another reminder that some bands don’t measure themselves by schedule. They measure themselves by the moment in front of them.

And then the lights shift.

There’s a different kind of anticipation when ZZ Top takes the stage. It’s not about wondering what they’ll do. It’s about knowing exactly what they’re capable of and waiting for it to unfold anyway.

From the first notes, the arena changes temperature.

Flashy, colorful, and dialed in, the band doesn’t ease into anything. They arrive fully formed. Decades of music compressed into a set that wastes no time getting to the good stuff.

“Gimme All Your Lovin’” hits like it always does. Tight, confident, instantly recognizable. “Pearl Necklace” slides in with that unmistakable groove. Then the staples. The “Waitin’ for the Bus” into “Jesus Just Left Chicago” pairing, a sequence that feels less like two songs and more like a ritual at this point. You don’t question it. You let it happen.

Somewhere in the middle of it all comes a curveball that lands perfectly. “Sixteen Tons,” delivered with that unmistakable Billy Gibbons touch. It’s not just a cover. It’s a reinterpretation, filtered through decades of tone, swagger, and instinct.

And then the visual payoff.

The white fuzzy guitars come out.

It’s one of those moments that borders on myth at this point. You’ve seen it in photos, maybe on screens, maybe in clips, but in person it still hits. The transition into “Sharp Dressed Man” and “Legs” feels inevitable and earned all at once. The crowd leans in. Phones come up. But more importantly, people are locked in. Watching. Singing. Moving.

Then comes the final strike.

“La Grange.”

One of the most recognizable riffs in rock music, dropped into the room like it’s brand new. It never feels dated. It just feels right.

There’s history on that stage, but it’s not stuck in the past. Billy Gibbons still moves with that signature ease, throwing out gestures and lines that feel as much like conversation as performance. Elwood Francis, stepping into the role left by Dusty Hill, holds the low end with a steady confidence that honors what came before without trying to imitate it outright. And John Douglas, filling in behind the kit while Frank Beard focuses on his health, keeps everything locked in, tight and unshaken.

It’s not a tribute act to themselves. It’s a continuation.

Afterglow

The rain is still there when the night lets go of you.

Not as heavy. Not as urgent. Just enough to remind you of where the evening started. The parking lot glows under scattered lights, reflections stretching across wet pavement like echoes of the show still hanging in the air.

There’s something fitting about it. A night that began in motion ends the same way. Back on the road. Conversations picking up where they left off. A few riffs still looping somewhere in your head, refusing to fade just yet.

Some shows feel like events.

Others feel like chapters.

This one felt like both.

Photo credit: Richard Williams | IronTrakksMedia

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Big thanks to Brian, Meredith, Cid, and Brent for the hookup on this one.

A Room Learning How to Roar

In a town still trying to remember exactly how loud it used to be, nights like this feel less like entertainment and more like proof of life.

I’m already getting attached to Backline Music Hall. There is something about a small room that either exposes a band or glorifies them, and this place seems built for the second outcome. It is intimate without feeling cramped, casual without feeling careless, and the whole setup has enough personality to keep it from becoming just another rectangle with a stage in it. Even the kitchen matters. Bleu Collar Toasties, with its off-center take on grilled cheese, feels exactly like the kind of detail a room like this ought to have. I still have yet to try one, which is beginning to feel less like a scheduling issue and more like a moral failure on my part. That will be corrected soon enough. Check out thier Facebook

What Backline has done right out of the gate deserves saying plainly. Two sold-out shows in four days is no small thing for a relatively new venue, and it says something about both the booking and the appetite. Tupelo does not need borrowed excitement. It needs places willing to bet that live music can still matter here, and so far this room looks like it understands the assignment. Their events calendar already suggests this wasn’t a lucky stumble but a real intention to build something.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Road Dust Before Downbeat

Before Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ even hit the stage, the night had already picked up some road grit. Just outside Tupelo, the band’s trailer blew a tire. It is the kind of thing that sounds small in retrospect and feels enormous when you are living inside it, one of those mechanical interruptions that can throw a whole night sideways if it lands wrong. But it was handled quickly, the band got back on the road, and by the time the lights came up there was no trace of panic left in the room.

Later, talking at the merch table, I was told it had been a long time since they had dealt with a blown tire. Thankfully, it did not interfere with the show at all. If anything, it only added another layer to the mythology of a touring rock band still doing it the old way, still hauling songs town to town and letting the wheels test their faith.

Songs That Still Know the Way Home

They opened with “Space Eyes,” which immediately gave the set a sense of lift. There was no overworked buildup, no dramatic throat-clearing. They came out playing like a band that knows exactly what kind of room it is in and exactly how much they can wring out of it. On a small stage, a huge set can either feel ambitious or excessive, but Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ made it feel natural. They moved through more than twenty songs without ever letting the night sag under its own length.

One of the night’s real pleasures was hearing “Crushing Flowers” live. The song comes from their recent release of the same name, and in a set full of songs with long shadows behind them, it did not feel like filler or obligation. It belonged. That mattered. Legacy acts can sometimes treat newer material like paperwork. This did not feel like that. “Crushing Flowers” landed with the confidence of something meant to stand shoulder to shoulder with older staples.

That thread stretched in multiple directions all night. The set pulled from fan favorites, deep cuts, and at least a couple songs that have not shown up on any album yet, including “Dirty”. That mix gave the room a little extra charge. You could feel the push and pull between recognition and curiosity.

When “Dead End Road,” “Straight to Hell,” and “Toy Never Played With” rolled through, the crowd answered the way a crowd answers songs that have lived with them for years. Not politely. Not nostalgically. They answered like those songs still have weight.

And then came the moment that probably got the biggest reaction of the night. Kevn Kinney broke into “Crazy Train” in tribute to Ozzy, and the room jumped on it instantly. It worked because it was quick, affectionate, and perfectly timed. The crowd loved it, and that surge of recognition carried straight into “Fly Me Courageous,” taking the whole room back to 1985 without ever feeling stuck there.

The Long Cable

Kevn eventually moved out into the crowd for the next couple songs, which on paper sounds like one of those standard frontman maneuvers and in practice felt a lot more personal than that. In a room like Backline, there is barely any mythology separating stage and floor to begin with, so when he stepped down into the audience it did not register as spectacle. It registered as trust.

He even had to come back for the mic stand before finishing the run. That whole sequence had the kind of loose, unplanned charm you cannot fake. It also delivered the funniest line of the night. When Kevn headed out onto the floor, their tech turned to me and said, “I guess that’s why we have that long ass cable, we’ve never used it before!” That one line captured the mood perfectly.

The band eventually closed by returning to “Space Eyes,” which gave the set a neat circular feel without making it feel staged. By then the room had loosened into that happy post-show state where people are smiling a little too much, hanging around a little too long.

A Small Stage, A Bigger Future

What impressed me most was not just that the band sounded good. It was that the band and crew carried themselves like people who still understand the compact. Touring is exhausting, glamorous only to people who have never done it, and full of small disasters that never make the poster. Blow a tire outside Tupelo, get it fixed, roll into town, play over twenty songs on a small stage, spend time talking at the merch table, and leave the audience feeling like they got more than they paid for.

And for Tupelo, that matters too. The city has lived through enough starts and stalls to know better than to crown a comeback too early, but nights like this make the argument anyway. There is a resurging music scene here, or at least the bones of one, and it needs places like Backline Music Hall to keep feeding it. Not with hype alone, but with consistency.

So far, Backline is two for two in my book. Two strong shows, two reminders that intimacy can beat scale when the right band hits the right room, and two reasons to keep an eye on what they do next. Looking at their upcoming events, I do not think I will stay away for long.

Afterglow

The best rooms do not just host music. They alter the air around it. Friday night, Backline Music Hall felt like the kind of place where a long cable becomes a punchline, a blown tire becomes pre-show folklore, and a veteran band can still make an old song hit like it just pulled into town with fresh dust on it.

If this is what Tupelo’s next chapter sounds like, then the city might be closer than it thinks to hearing itself fully wake back up.

And next time, I’m finally getting that grilled cheese.

Photo credit: Richard Williams | IronTrakksMedia

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Back to the music

It had been a while since I’d stepped into a room built for live music. Not just attended, but covered—really sat with it, listened for the details, watched how a night unfolds. So yeah, this one felt different before it even started. A little dust getting shaken off. A little spark coming back.

And not just any night to return. This was BJ Barham, one of the finest storytellers walking around with a guitar and something to say.

He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t need to.

Every line lands.

The Road Back In

The drive over to Tupelo was short, about twenty-five minutes, the kind that lets your mind wander just enough. Sun cutting across the windshield, traffic behaving for once, and me running through that mental checklist you don’t realize you’ve missed until it comes back. Where to stand. What to watch. How to listen.

Pulling into Backline Music Hall, there was already a hum in the air. Not loud, not chaotic—just that steady undercurrent of anticipation. The kind you only get when people know they’re about to see something worth their time.

Met up with Carson Loden from Leather Rose Music along with Susan and Ricky, and we settled in, grabbing a table and letting the room fill around us. Familiar faces drifted through. One of those was Ben Foy, who I’d met back at the Oxford show in December—still just as laid back, still doing killer work behind the lens. The kind of guy who sees the moments most people miss.

It felt less like arriving at a venue and more like stepping into a community that’s still figuring itself out in real time.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

A Room That Gets It Right

I’d been wanting to check out Backline Music Hall since it opened, and it didn’t take long to see why people were already talking about it.

It’s intimate without feeling cramped. The stage sits at just the right height where you’re close enough to read expressions, not just silhouettes. Sound carries clean. Lights don’t overdo it. Everything feels intentional without feeling forced.

And then there’s the layout. Sofas tucked into corners. Tables spaced just enough to breathe. It’s not trying to be a big venue—it’s leaning hard into being a good one.

Even the drink system stands out. Poker chips instead of the usual back-and-forth at the bar. Small touch, but it adds to the experience in a way that feels oddly personal.

The staff sealed it. Cid, Brian, Meredith, Brent—every interaction easy, welcoming, like they actually want you there. That matters more than people think.

Tupelo’s been needing rooms like this. Places willing to take the chance on bringing in artists who deserve more than background noise. Alongside spots like Blue Canoe and Romie’s Grocery, this is the kind of venue that builds a scene instead of just hosting one.

The Last Night of the Road

This wasn’t just another stop.

This was the final night of BJ Barham’s solo run.

If you know him from American Aquarium, you know what he brings to a full band setting—big sound, full storytelling, songs that stretch out and hit hard. But solo, it’s different.

More exposed.

More honest.

More dangerous in the best way.

He mentioned during the night that this would be their last stretch of shows before the band heads back out briefly, then gears up for a new album dropping this summer. You could feel that looming on the horizon, like everything is about to shift again.

But for tonight, it was just him.

And us.

Where the Stories Lead

He took the stage at 7:30 sharp. No theatrics. No buildup.

Just walked out, settled in, and started talking.

That’s the thing about BJ—he doesn’t separate the stories from the songs. They bleed into each other. One sets up the other. You don’t just hear the music, you understand where it came from.

And sometimes, you laugh before you realize why it matters.

We got stories about Cherokee Purple heirloom tomatoes—yes, really—and somehow it worked. Stories about why they don’t play weddings. Family stories that made you wish you’d known Uncle Benny yourself. Bits about pecans, about growing up without the internet, about time moving faster than it used to.

And always, circling back to his daughter.

That thread ran through everything.

It grounded the humor. Gave weight to the quieter moments. Made the room feel smaller in the best possible way.

You could look around and see it landing differently on different people. The over-40 crowd catching references that hit a little deeper. Younger folks leaning in, realizing they were hearing something real, not rehearsed.

The Songs That Carry It

The set moved like a conversation.

Opening with “Unfortunate Kind,” he eased the room into his rhythm, letting the tone settle before digging deeper. From there, it unfolded naturally—never rushed, never dragging.

“Cherokee Purple” landed exactly where it needed to, tied tightly to the story that introduced it. “Favorite Hello” carried that bittersweet weight he does so well. And then there was “Lonely Ain’t Easy,” which, for me, hit like a quiet punch to the chest.

That one sticks.

“Wolves” brought a little edge back into the room, a reminder of the full-band energy he’s known for, even stripped down to just voice and guitar. “The Curse of Growing Old” did what the title promises—made you sit with it.

And then “Chicamacomico.”

The saddest song of the night, no question. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention but takes it anyway. The room didn’t move much during that one. You could feel people holding onto it, not quite ready to let it pass.

A few new songs made their way into the set too. No big announcement, no spotlight on them—just slipped in like they belonged. And honestly, they did.

That’s how you know they’re ready.

Sold Out and Fully In It

The room was packed.

Sold out.

And more importantly, present.

No constant chatter. No phones lighting up every two seconds. People were listening. Laughing when it called for it. Sitting still when it mattered more.

That kind of crowd doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s earned.

And Backline pulling off back-to-back sold-out shows this early into its run—especially with Drivin’ n Cryin’ up next—isn’t just impressive. It’s a signal.

Something is building here.

Afterglow

By the time it wrapped, there wasn’t some explosive finish or dramatic sendoff. It didn’t need one.

It just… settled.

People sat for a minute longer than usual. Conversations started softer. You could see it in their faces—something had shifted, even if they couldn’t quite name it yet.

That’s what BJ Barham does at his best.

He doesn’t just play songs. He hands you pieces of his life and trusts you to find your own reflection in them.

And on a night where I was just happy to be back in the room, to feel that rhythm again, it landed exactly how it needed to.

Home by 10, sure.

But carrying a little more with me than I walked in with.

Big thanks to the team at Backline Music Hall and to BJ for a night that didn’t try to be anything more than honest—and ended up being something a whole lot bigger because of it.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Before anything else, a quick thank you. Kate from First Fleet Concerts made access to this night possible, and the San Holo Discord admins I spoke with helped bridge the gap in a way that felt genuine, not transactional. That kind of coordination doesn’t always get seen, but it matters. This coverage doesn’t happen without it.

The Room That Makes It Possible

Wooly’s doesn’t pretend to be bigger than it is. That’s the point. Since 2012, it’s carved out its place by staying exactly what it is: a tight room that can hold roughly seven hundred people and still feel like it might burst. That size matters more than people realize. It’s the difference between a tour stopping here or skipping the state entirely. Under First Fleet Concerts, the calendar fills with artists who don’t share much on paper—Joyce Manor, KennyHoopla, The Word Alive, Hank Williams III—different crowds, same room, same proximity.

I used to come here whenever I could. You don’t stand in the back at Wooly’s. You’re in it whether you want to be or not. The walls hold just enough wear to keep it from feeling polished. It’s not trying to impress you. It just works, and because it works, people keep coming back.

Already Behind

Doors opened at six. Music at seven. At 6:32, I was still across town. That kind of delay changes your whole mindset. I wasn’t easing into the night. I was chasing it. Map open, rerouting, watching the minutes stack up. Parking didn’t help—I went around the block a few times and came up empty before settling on the garage a block south. Cheap, close, done.

Inside, there was no slowdown. QR codes scanned, lines split across multiple doors, staff moving people through without hesitation. No pile-up, no dead air. I stepped straight into sound.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Getting Everyone on the Same Page

Cheese was already deep into his set when I walked in. He wasn’t trying to steal the night—he was building it. I could feel the room tightening up, attention pulling inward, people settling into the same rhythm. That matters more than people think. If the first set misses, the whole night feels off. DJ Stillwater followed without a reset. No silence, no break, just a continuous push that kept everyone locked in.

By then, the space was filling fast. I could feel it in how I had to move—less room, more bodies, more heat. Social feeds had already called it sold out, and standing there, it didn’t feel like a number. It felt like pressure.

Pressure, But Not Darkness

KLAXX stepped into a room that had no space left to give and met it head-on. There’s a version of this kind of set that leans too far into aggression, but he never crossed that line. The energy stayed heavy, controlled—enough to push people out of their heads without losing them completely.

What stood out was his timing. He let moments breathe just long enough before snapping them open, and you could watch the reaction move through the crowd in waves. A large portion of his set leaned into newer material—tracks like “Starlight” and “Can’t Come Down” landing back-to-back in a way that made it obvious he’s deep into a new era of his catalog without ever having to spell it out. The transitions stayed clean the entire way through. By the end, I wasn’t watching anymore. I was in it with everyone else.

No Delay

The pause between sets barely registered. Lights out, then the stage snapped into yellow and black. I’d seen that color scheme all over San Holo’s YouTube leading up to this, but seeing it fill the room felt different. It wasn’t branding—it felt like a signal. The tour name “wholesome riddim” could have come off as a joke somewhere else. Standing there, it didn’t. It matched the feeling in the room.

Where He’s Different

He opened with tracks from San Holo on Spotify, pulling from the “bb u ok?” era that pushed him into a wider spotlight. The set moved between remixes and originals—“Every Time We Touch” and “Sweater Weather” gave people something familiar to grab onto, and the crowd responded immediately. But when he shifted back into his own work, something changed.

At one point, he stepped up onto his platform—something fans have come to expect, but it never lands the same way twice. It’s a regular part of his set, but seeing it in person, in that room, it carried a kind of cinematic weight that’s hard to replicate anywhere else. Guitar in hand, he leaned into those moments without forcing them, letting the emotion build naturally instead of announcing it. It didn’t feel like a highlight—it felt like a release.

I found myself watching his face more than anything else. Every movement carried something real. Not exaggerated, not performed—just there. That’s the part most artists avoid. He didn’t.

No Distance Left

There’s always a balance when I’m on assignment—take everything in, stay clear enough to write it later. That balance didn’t hold here. Not completely. At some point, I stopped tracking the show and started feeling it instead, and that doesn’t happen just because the music is good. It happens when someone is willing to put something real on the line in front of a room full of strangers. He did.

Afterglow

Earlier in the night, I was circling blocks, trying not to miss the start. By the end, that didn’t matter anymore. The room emptied out the way it always does—slow at first, then all at once, people spilling back into the street. I stood there for a second longer than I needed to. Nothing specific stuck. No single track, no single moment. Just the feeling that, for a little while, everything lined up the way it’s supposed to. If this tour comes through your city, don’t wait on it. I wouldn’t.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Editor’s Note: Press Access & Thanks to our Sponsor

A heartfelt thank you to Beyond Media Entertainment and Ain’t Life Grand Photography for sponsoring the evening and covering the costs that helped make this article possible. Support like that means a great deal, and it allows nights like this to be documented with the care they deserve.

We also want to thank xBk Live for their help with the press pass and for being so welcoming throughout the evening. Their kindness and professionalism made the experience that much better.

It takes a team behind the curtain to make coverage like this happen, and we’re truly grateful to all of them.

The Room Before the Music

The moment you step into xBk Live, you realize it isn’t trying to be loud about what it is. It’s a 250-cap room that understands restraint, a listening room disguised as a bar where the sound doesn’t just reach you, it sits with you. There’s no distance between stage and crowd, no ego in the acoustics, just clarity and intent. The booking reflects that same philosophy. One night hip-hop, the next folk, the next something that refuses a label altogether.

Parking still fights you a little—it always does—but luck showed up this time. We landed a spot less than half a block away. Inside, the usual orbit forms. Bill near the front, Brian Dodson already locked in behind the board. That booth has quietly become our anchor point, a place to drop gear, pick up knowledge, and occasionally score a bourbon and a cookie. The crowd filled in slow and wide—kids, college, lifers. Not one type, not one age. A quiet reminder that blues isn’t fading, it’s circulating.

The Opening Set

Samuel Locke Ward doesn’t perform like someone trying to win you over. He performs like someone who already knows he has you. A veteran of the avant-pop underground with a catalog that borders on excessive, his output alone suggests unpredictability—sixty-plus records and counting.

Sonically, the set leaned folk-indie, stripped down and almost grounded. But visually, nothing about it stayed still. A shoestring guitar strap hanging like an afterthought, flipped-up shades, a head bobbing in a rhythm that didn’t quite match anything else in the room. Then the faces—rolling eyes, exaggerated expressions, moments that felt like performance art colliding with sincerity. You don’t watch him casually. You either commit or you miss it.

Then came “Try Cannibalism.” No warning, no soft entry—just a hard turn into absurdity: “Try cannibalism, try something new / Put some adventure into your life / Put some quality into your diet.” It shouldn’t land, but it does. The crowd didn’t hesitate. They surged into it, fully. Sometimes the strangest thing in the room is also the most alive.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Walking in Blind

I went into this night knowing absolutely nothing about Charlie Parr. No prep, no research, no safety net—just an assignment and a blank slate. That kind of ignorance is rare, and powerful. When something hits, it hits clean.

The first notes came through and it was immediate. Grit, depth, something old and heavy moving through the room. It didn’t take long to realize this wasn’t someone dabbling in a style. This was someone living inside it.

A Lineage You Can Hear

If you want to understand Charlie Parr, you don’t start with genres—you start with lineage. The ghosts are present. You can hear them in the structure, the tone, the way the songs move. Echoes of Charlie Patton, Bukka White, Reverend Gary Davis, Mississippi John Hurt, Dave Van Ronk. And then there’s his compass point, Spider John Koerner, less an influence than a direction.

That history isn’t referenced, it’s embodied. Resonator guitars ring with metallic bite, twelve-string passages stretch wider than they should, and a fretless banjo feels more like a voice than an instrument. It’s technical, deeply so, but never feels like a demonstration. It feels necessary.

The Songs That Stayed

When he moved into “Spread It Around,” the room shifted. Not politely, not subtly—you could feel recognition ripple outward. Then “Falcon,” quieter but sharper, a song that doesn’t need volume to land, just attention. Somewhere between those moments, it locked in. I walked in with nothing. I wasn’t leaving that way.

Red Flannel, Old Stories

He stood there in an oversized red flannel, hanging off him like it had its own history. Before “Old Dog Blue,” he paused and explained the song’s arc—simple, nice, then confusing. Maybe for him. For me, it felt clear. A dog, a hunt, a meal, and eventually loss. A life told plainly, without needing complexity to matter.

Then came “A Soul is a Soul,” and the room leaned in. A quiet argument for the equality of life itself, human and animal separated less than we pretend. Heavy ideas, delivered gently. That balance is rare.

The Encore That Didn’t Need Amplification

When he returned, it wasn’t a continuation—it was a shift. A blues-folk reset that the crowd felt before the first note landed. Then the closer: “Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down.” No instruments, no backing, just voice.

And for a moment, the room stopped being a venue. It became still. The kind of stillness that only happens when everyone decides, together, to listen all the way through.

The Spaces Between the Music

There’s always more happening than what’s on stage. Brian Dodson behind the board, making everything feel effortless, bourbon shots appearing, homemade cookies making the rounds. Conversation drifts toward the Iowa Musicianship project, a snapshot of the local scene through Mark Lage’s lens.

And then the small resets—Blackberry Beer, a Modelo, Rosy Cheeks with just enough rose water to feel different. After a weekend of constant motion, that first drink lands like a pause button.

The Interview That Didn’t Happen

We came expecting a conversation. It was planned, Igor ready to lead it. But shows don’t always leave space for plans. Charlie moved between stage, merch table, and clusters of people, always occupied, always present somewhere. Characteristics of a great artist!

And if you know that rhythm, you don’t interrupt it. So we didn’t. Next time.

Afterglow

I expected relief when it was over. A long weekend, back-to-back shows, the kind of stretch that usually drains you. That’s not what happened. Instead, there was energy, the kind that lingers just long enough to make you wish for one more song, one more hour.

Walking out, it hit quick. Not exhaustion—something closer to loss. The quiet after the sound, the distance after connection, the drive home filled with just enough conversation to keep the night from slipping away too fast.

You walked in knowing nothing.

And somehow, that made it mean everything.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

The Build Before the Drop

There’s always a promise when Excision comes back around. Not subtle, not quiet. It’s loud before the first note even hits. The Kia Forum leaned into that promise hard, advertising this as their biggest production experience yet. And if you’ve ever stood in the blast radius of an Excision set, you already know that’s not marketing fluff. That’s a warning label.

Five openers cycled through before the man himself touched the decks, but the difference was obvious. The setup was intentionally restrained, almost like the venue was holding its breath. Basic lighting. Standard speakers. Functional, but clearly not the full arsenal. Everything felt like it was waiting for Jeff Abel to flip the switch.

The Gamble of the Seats

The Forum is built like a controlled explosion. Open floor chaos below, then layers of seating rising above it. I took the gamble on 100-level seats, and I’ll be honest, there was hesitation.

Seats can feel isolating. You’re boxed into your section. You’re not in the swarm. And usually, that comes with a weird trade-off where you’re paying more to feel less connected.

But this wasn’t a usual crowd.

Almost immediately, that idea of isolation collapsed. The people around me didn’t stay strangers. They didn’t sit quietly in their own bubbles. They leaned in, talked, laughed, moved. There’s something different about Excision fans. They don’t treat concerts like individual experiences. They treat them like shared missions.

You’re not just attending. You’re participating.

And that shift turned a potentially lonely seat into something communal. Something alive.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Openers, Missed Moments, and Unexpected Hits

The night didn’t unfold cleanly. It never does.

I missed part of Tisoki’s set thanks to the maze of entrances and the gravitational pull of parking lot pregame conversations. That’s part of the culture too. You show up for the music, but you stay for the people.

Cyclops, though, made sure I locked in.

There was no easing into it. The set opened with a full West Coast nod, Tupac reimagined as this wild, almost absurd animated character. Egg-shaped, blunt in hand, cruising in a lowrider. It shouldn’t have worked. It absolutely did. Pacstep was a vibe for a moment or two

Pacstep hit like a hybrid memory. Familiar sounds twisted through riddim basslines, with pieces of Snoop Dogg woven into the mix. The crowd didn’t question it. They embraced it.

And honestly, Cyclops overdelivered. I came in with zero expectations and left impressed. The sound was complete. Not hollow, not experimental for the sake of it. It had weight, direction, identity.

Smoakland followed with a more laid-back energy. Enjoyable, but not commanding. It felt like a breather rather than a takeover.

Then Riot Ten snapped everything back into focus. Aggressive. Sharp. Exactly what you expect. The kind of set that should trigger chaos. I kept scanning the crowd for mosh pits, for that eruption. It never fully happened.

And then the curveball.

Adventure Club bailed.

No buildup. No explanation in the moment. Just absence.

Mersiv stepped in and didn’t try to replicate what was lost. Instead, he reshaped the energy. Highs and lows. A more hypnotic, entrancing arc.

When the System Wakes Up

There’s a moment before Excision comes on where everything shifts.

The techs were still calibrating. Tracks played in the background. But something changed.

The bass deepened.

Not louder. Deeper.

You could feel it first in your chest, then your legs, then somewhere harder to name. The sound stopped being external and started becoming physical.

The lighting followed. Angles you didn’t notice before suddenly mattered. Corners lit up. Beams cut through space in ways that made the venue feel larger than it actually was.

And then it clicked.

This was the full system waking up.

Controlled Chaos, Perfect Release

The first real drop hit and everything snapped into alignment.

It had been a few years since I saw Excision, but holy cow, everything about me remembered being there before in the midst of the bass, the alarming noises, the gangster rhythm and attitudes mixed with aggression rock headbanging sensations. All of a sudden, I was busting out sweet EDM dance moves while headbanging. Sometimes a whole group of 5 or more of us would face the same spot and headbang and rage into the space.

The visuals carried weight. Massive, destructive characters filled the screen, moving with the music like the sound was animating them in real time.

And underneath it all was release. Real release. Stress, tension, whatever you walked in with, it had somewhere to go.

Lasers, Harambe, and the Unexpected Emotional Punch

The light show pushed into territory I hadn’t seen before.

Lasers didn’t just project outward. They fired back at the screen, simulating impact. One sequence hit especially hard, a barrage of light aimed at a massive Harambe, King Kong-style figure.

It wasn’t just spectacle. It hit emotionally.

The lighting extended into the seating sections too. Fixtures right in front of us. Colors shifting from deep tones to full-spectrum bursts. You weren’t watching the show.

You were inside it.

Strangers, Family, and the Real Headliner

The real headline wasn’t on stage.

It was the people.

Strangers became teammates. We caught each other, shared water, held space. There was an unspoken agreement that we were all getting through the night together.

And the diversity in that room was real. Different cultures, different backgrounds, all locked into the same moment.

Growing up, that kind of unity felt theoretical. Here, it was normal.

No tension. No division. Just connection.

Afterglow

Walking out, ears ringing, neck stiff, body spent, there was clarity.

The night promised scale. And it delivered.

But the real takeaway wasn’t the production.

It was the people.

I left thinking about Beyond Wonderland, Electric Forest, Dancefestopia, and Lost Lands. Not just for the music, but for that same shared energy.

Because in the middle of all that chaos, something simple held it together.

People choosing to connect.

And that might be the heaviest drop of all.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Editor’s Note: Press Access & Thanks to our Sponsor

A heartfelt thank you to Beyond Media Entertainment and Ain’t Life Grand Photography for sponsoring the evening and covering the costs that helped make this article possible. Support like that means a great deal, and it allows nights like this to be documented with the care they deserve.

We also want to thank xBk Live for their help with the press pass and for being so welcoming throughout the evening. Their kindness and professionalism made the experience that much better.

It takes a team behind the curtain to make coverage like this happen, and we’re truly grateful to all of them.

The Room Before the First Note

At xBk Live, the room is small in the best way, close and breathable, the kind of venue where a performer does not need to conquer the space so much as fill it honestly. The Des Moines listening room, located at 1159 24th Street and built around a 250-person capacity, has developed a reputation for hosting local and national acts in a setting where sound actually matters and the atmosphere never feels stiff or overblown.

That intimacy fit Tinsley Ellis perfectly. Ellis, the Atlanta blues-rock guitarist and songwriter who has spent decades carving out a place as one of the genre’s most durable road warriors, did not treat the night like an acoustic set stripped of force. He treated it like a conversation. A raw one. A funny one. A wise one. Sometimes a wicked one. One man, one guitar, and a room quiet enough to catch every bit of gravel in his voice and every sting in the strings. His official bio still frames him as a major live blues presence, and that checked out immediately. Nothing about him read as legacy-act autopilot. He still played like the song had something to prove.

This was not just a concert. It was story time, but the kind where the storyteller has lived enough life to make even the punchlines sound road-worn and earned.

Getting In, Settling Down, Getting Lucky

xBk is one of those venues that rewards planning and laughs at it anyway. Parking around there can be annoying, mostly street-side, the usual little urban scavenger hunt. Still, luck was with us, and we found a spot in a small lot less than a block away. That small victory already had the night leaning in a friendly direction.

The bigger surprise came at the door. We had arrived without full press approval, which is usually the sort of detail that can turn a smooth evening into administrative soup. Instead, after some pleasant conversation and a quick check with Ellis himself, credentials were approved. Just like that. We had free rein of the venue, which for a correspondent is somewhere between professional privilege and cartoon-level fantasy.

That set the tone for everything that followed. Our friend and production engineer Brian Dodson was working sound for Ellis that night, which meant we had a cozy place to post up in the sound booth, store gear, and orbit in and out of the room without feeling like we were constantly in somebody’s way. Seeing Brian is always a pleasure, and the whole evening took on the feel of a social gathering that just happened to include world-class blues guitar. There are worse jobs on this earth. Plenty worse.

Before the performance, the venue’s wall-sized projector cycled through advertisements for upcoming shows, and that little pre-show detail created one of the stranger and sweeter moments of the night. Up on the wall, bright and impossible to ignore, was a plug for an upcoming booking through Beyond Media Entertainment, including Minneapolis shock-rock act Caster Volor with local acts Parabola and Psycho X. I had worked that booking with the xBk talent buyer, and seeing that logo blazing huge across the wall stopped me dead for a second. Not in a grand, self-important way. More in a holy-hell-that’s-mine kind of way. I was giddy. I took the photo. Of course I took the photo.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Cocktails, Fire Poles, and the xBk Ecosystem

There are venues where the drinks feel like an afterthought. xBk is not one of them. Their cocktail menu tends to have its own personality, and this night was no exception. I had the “Rosy Cheeks,” a sweet vodka drink built with rose water, while Igor went for the “Honey Spiced Old Fashioned.” Later, we shared a blueberry lager. All three got an enthusiastic approval from me. Two thumbs up, no hesitation. Sometimes a review needs one tiny moment of unashamed simplicity, and there it is.

The evening also doubled as my first in-person meeting with Bill, the xBk talent buyer, after recently making my first booking with him. We had a number of genuinely enjoyable conversations throughout the night, the kind that make the machinery behind live music feel human instead of transactional. At one point Igor and I slipped away with Bill to check out the newer sister venue next door, the xBk Annex, which has become a home for open mics and emerging local acts. The building used to be a firehouse, and yes, the original fire pole is still there. It is the sort of architectural relic that makes a place feel like it has memory baked into its walls.

That little detour mattered because it sharpened what xBk as a whole seems to be doing. It is not just hosting shows. It is building a local ecology, one room for polished listening, another for emergence, risk, and local growth. A venue can book talent. A venue can also become part of the bloodstream. The good ones do the second thing.

Tinsley Ellis Turns a Listening Room Into a Front Porch

Once Ellis began, the room settled into a hush that never felt forced. The audience skewed older, and they were notably respectful, but not lifeless. This was not the dead-eyed politeness of people waiting for the parking lot to clear. They were locked in. You could see it in the smiles, the nodding heads, the shoulders moving just enough to admit they were feeling it. The energy was gentle but present, less eruption than absorption.

That turned out to be the perfect crowd for Ellis, because the evening depended as much on timing and personality as it did on musicianship. He delivered songs as if each one arrived with a shadow attached, and then he would step sideways into a story, a memory, a joke, some half-mischievous sermon from the long road. He clearly enjoyed himself in that role. The guitar did not vanish when he spoke. It just waited, like another character in the conversation.

During intermission, audience members lined up to buy vinyl and merch directly from Ellis, and he signed every item. Every single one. Igor and I joined the line to chat and take pictures, and the first impression was immediate. He came off friendly and humble, approachable without that oily fake-humble stagecraft some performers never quite wash off. The crowd favorites seemed plain enough in the room. “Hell or High Water” landed hard, and “One Last Ride” had that unmistakable pull of a song people were already carrying around with them before they walked in.

That personal warmth only made the performance stronger. When somebody plays the blues with authority, there is always the danger of reverence calcifying into museum glass. Ellis never let that happen. He kept things alive, conversational, cracked open.

Stories With Teeth

The most memorable moments of the night came when Ellis threaded songs into stories and stories back into songs. During “A Quitter Never Wins,” a song already full of grit and emotional stubbornness, he paused to tell one of the evening’s standout tales. Years ago, just before taking the stage, a young boy knocked on his dressing-room door. Ellis let him in. The kid turned out to be a then-unknown Jonny Lang. Lang would later cover “A Quitter Never Wins,” helping push the song to a much larger audience. On paper, it is a nice bit of musical trivia. In the room, told by the man who lived it, it felt like a little hinge in blues history swinging quietly open.

Then there was the Allman Brothers story, which supplied the evening with one of its cleanest jokes. According to Ellis, they taught him two rules: no drinking during the gospel numbers, and no gospel numbers. That deadpan rhythm tells you a lot about his comic instincts. He likes the laugh that arrives half a second late, after the sentence has already walked by.

He returned from break and called the crowd “all-nighters,” joking about whether they would even be able to get up the next morning. This at around 8:30 p.m., which made the jab hit even better. When Igor shouted, “Sick note,” Ellis shot back, “I’ll sign the note!” It got a genuine laugh, mine included. Not a courtesy laugh. A real one.

Just as importantly, he knew how to court the room by honoring its local memory. He mentioned the lost Des Moines spots Blues on Grand, which closed in October 2010, and Connie’s Lounge, another name from the city’s older live-music map. For a crowd like this one, that was not just banter. That was a recognition signal. It told them he knew enough to know what was gone.

The Legends Behind the Legend

One of the most revealing stories Ellis told was about being, in his own framing, the annoying kid who followed blues legends around asking questions. There was no vanity in it. He presented it like apprenticeship by pestering, which frankly is one of the more honorable ways to learn anything. He referenced names like Cream and Johnny Winter as part of that long line of influence and obsession, then shared the story of being pointed toward a B.B. King performance at a Miami hotel bar called the Swingers Lounge in the early 1970s.

Ellis sat right up front. B.B. King, he said, was the man. More than that, B.B. spoke to him in the lobby afterward with humility and kindness. The detail lands because it mirrors something visible in Ellis himself. You could hear in the telling that B.B. was not just a hero because he could play. He was a hero because he carried greatness without turning into a jerk about it. That kind of lesson sticks harder than a guitar lick. A version of that story also appears in public materials about Ellis, including the detail that a young Ellis met B.B. after a performance and was marked by the encounter.

Then Ellis gave us the other side of the coin. If B.B. was the good influence, Howlin’ Wolf was the unruly one. The Rated R one, as Ellis put it. He described Wolf taking a microphone down his pants and swinging it around by the cord, which is the sort of image that arrives in the mind fully formed and refuses to leave. Live music history is full of saints, devils, weirdos, and men who were somehow all three before midnight.

That story bled right into Ellis’ take on “Little Red Rooster,” and suddenly the room became participatory in the best possible way. When he sang “Hounds begin to howl,” the whole audience howled back in unison. Respectful crowd or not, they were in it now. It was one of those moments that snaps a room from attentive to communal. Nobody had to be told what to do. The song told them.

Afterglow

All good things end before you feel fully ready for them to. That is part of the bargain. I would have happily listened to Ellis play for another few hours, but there was something refreshing about the early finish too, especially with an early work morning waiting on the other side of the night like a disapproving hall monitor.

As the room emptied, the spell did not exactly break. It just loosened. I spent some time catching up with Brian Dodson while Igor connected with Ellis on stage during teardown. The venue returned to being a venue. The booth became a booth again. The wall would go back to cycling ads. People would head home, maybe with signed vinyl in hand, maybe with one story already rehearsed for whoever they talked to the next day.

That is what made the night linger. It was intimate without being small. Funny without becoming lightweight. Reverent toward the blues without embalming it. Ellis did not arrive as some distant elder statesman there to deliver wisdom from the mountain. He came across like a man still thrilled by the music, still amused by its characters, still willing to sit in a room and tell you how he learned what he learned.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Press Pass & Sponsor Note:

We applied for coverage all the way back in December, so this show was a long time coming. Special thanks to Kerri Gutierrez for working with us and helping get our approval finalized in early March. We also appreciated the venue allowing us to enter with the VIP guests so we could get our bearings, especially since this was our first time covering a show there. We’re also grateful to our sponsors, Mark Masters and Sheila Wren, whose support helped make this article possible. Big thanks to Patrick Roberts of Flannel for helping with pictures! OLP’s flashing lights were hell on the camera focus for the first 3 songs!

The road in

It started with a two-and-a-half-hour drive through light rain that never quite committed to being dramatic, just persistent enough to make the highway feel gray and a little smeared at the edges. That turned out to be the right weather for an Our Lady Peace night anyway. Their songs have always lived in that zone where the sky looks bruised but still somehow lit from behind.

Before the show, we stopped at Aroi Thai-Cajun Fusion Cuisine inside the Horseshoe, one of the newer dining options on the property. They were genuinely great about making the calamari without onions because of my allergy, which matters more than fancy menu copy ever will. The service was good. No complaint there. The pho, though, came out so salty it was barely edible. A split decision at dinner, basically. Good people, rough bowl.

That odd little pre-show imbalance ended up feeling like an accidental overture. Some things that night were careful and generous. Some things came in hot and hit harder than expected.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

The room and what it is built for

The Whiskey Roadhouse sits inside Horseshoe Casino in Council Bluffs, and the venue’s own material leans into what the room does best. It is not trying to masquerade as a velvet-seat listening hall. It is a bar, nightclub, and concert room hybrid built for live entertainment, with regular programming and a calendar that keeps moving. Caesars describes it as one of the property’s nightlife anchors, and its live calendar backs that up with recurring weekend bands and newer late-night programming such as Roadhouse EDM Night.

Whiskey Roadhouse is not just another stop with a bar and a stage. It has a little mileage in its bones. Eric Church once named it among the four or five rooms that helped elevate his career, and over the years the stage has also carried performances from Jim Belushi at the Horseshoe grand opening, along with Eli Young Band, Brantley Gilbert, and Scotty McCreery.

This stop on Our Lady Peace’s OLP30 USA run with The Verve Pipe was not dropped into some sterile black box. It landed in a room used to movement, noise, casual drink-in-hand attention spans, and the particular challenge of making people stop talking and actually lock in. The Council Bluffs date was listed by the band as a March 6 show at 8 p.m. with The Verve Pipe on the bill, and setlist records for both bands show doors at 7 p.m. that night.

That is what made the crowd response more impressive. Both bands got the room to lean forward.

The Verve Pipe knew exactly what they were doing

The Verve Pipe did not waste time pretending they were there to warm up politely. Their Council Bluffs set ran seven songs, and it was built like a clean, compact argument for why bands from the radio era still matter when they know how to play their cards right. Setlist records show they ran through “Photograph,” “Cup of Tea,” “Villains,” “Colorful,” “Never Let You Down,” “The Freshmen,” and a closing cover of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun.”

That sequence worked because it knew the room. They did not get cute. They gave people songs they knew, songs they could rediscover quickly, and then the exact kind of cover that can either collapse under its own ambition or hit like a flare. This one hit.

“The Freshmen” was the obvious sing-along moment, and the crowd took the bait immediately. Not in a cynical karaoke way either. More like people had been carrying that chorus around for years and finally got a reason to hand it back. You could feel the room widen when that song landed. Suddenly there were more voices than just the ones onstage.

Then they closed with “Black Hole Sun,” and that was the smartest move of the opening set. Not because it was unexpected, but because it was on point. They did not sand the song down or turn it into novelty. They played it straight enough to respect it and forceful enough to make it belong to the night instead of just to memory. That is a tightrope. They walked it without wobbling.

Our Lady Peace still knows where the nerve endings are

Our Lady Peace came into Council Bluffs on the 30th anniversary tour with a setlist that, at least for me, hit ten favorites without having to beg for them. That is no small thing for a band with a catalog this deep and a fan base that can argue for hours over which era hits hardest. According to the submitted setlist for the Whiskey Roadhouse stop, the band played “Superman’s Dead,” “Sound the Alarm,” “Innocent,” “One Man Army,” “Naveed,” “Life,” “Is Anybody Home?,” “Temporary Healing,” “Made of Steel,” Pearl Jam’s “Hail, Hail,” “Somewhere Out There,” “4am,” “Clumsy,” then an encore run that included 3 Doors Down’s “Away From the Sun,” “If You Believe,” “Automatic Flowers,” and “Starseed.”

There was one visible blank line in the posted setlist entry, which matches the feeling that the paper setlist in hand was close to Chicago but not exact by the end. A couple songs clearly moved around from what was expected. That kind of reshuffle usually tells you one useful thing: the band is still reading the room in real time.

The standout moment of the night was the extended intro to “Somewhere Out There.” Before the vocal came in, the band let the song breathe. The guys were basically playing to each other, stretching the opening like they wanted to stay inside it a little longer. It was not indulgent. It was conversational. It felt like a band that has been together long enough to stop counting measures and start trusting instinct. When the song finally arrived, it felt earned rather than triggered.

That is where the whole show lived. Not in nostalgia by itself, but in the friction between memory and present tense. “Superman’s Dead” still sounds like a song suspicious of the culture that feeds on people and spits out images. “One Man Army” still has that scorched-individualism pulse. “Is Anybody Home?” still lands eerily hard in an era where isolation now comes with better screens and worse habits. “Clumsy” still sways like a wound learning how to sing. None of that felt museum-preserved. It felt lived in.

The old mythology still works because the songs do

Part of what made this set feel right in a 30th anniversary frame is that Our Lady Peace’s origin story still has real voltage. The band formed in Toronto in the early 1990s after guitarist Mike Turner connected with Michael Maida, who later became Raine Maida. They pulled their name from a Mark Van Doren poem, worked early with producer Arnold Lanni, and landed at Sony Music Canada before releasing Naveed.

Then came “Starseed,” which was less a hit than a signal flare. The song got enough traction that Robert Plant heard it on the radio and, as Raine has retold it, that led to the band getting pulled into Page & Plant shows in the mid-1990s. That story matters because it explains why OLP never felt like a band built only for alt-rock fashion cycles. There was always something stranger in the bloodstream. Something spiritual, nervous, and a little feral.

You can still hear that all over the songs they chose in Council Bluffs. “Naveed” and “Starseed” still carry that early mystic-static energy. “4am” still feels like a private confession accidentally amplified for a room full of strangers. “Automatic Flowers” still hurts in that specific OLP way, where tenderness does not arrive clean but flickers through damage. “Somewhere Out There” is the smoother blade in the catalog, but it still cuts.

And yes, there was one complaint floating around because there is always one complaint floating around. Some fans wanted “Whatever,” the old wrestling-linked track that still carries a long shadow in OLP lore. The band revisited that song officially in 2025 as “Whatever (Redux),” framing the release around suicide prevention and mental health awareness. They did not play it here. Personally, with ten favorites already in the set, I was not leaving hungry.

What made the night work

The simple answer is that both bands understood the assignment. The Verve Pipe came in sharp, familiar, and efficient. Our Lady Peace came in with a set built to reward people who have stayed with them across eras.

The better answer is that the night worked because it never felt over-explained. No one onstage spent too much time trying to narrate their own importance. The songs did the heavy lifting. The crowd did the rest.

At a venue that routinely books everything from weekend live bands to touring acts and keeps its calendar crowded by design, this show managed to feel bigger than a stop on a route sheet. Not bigger in scale. Bigger in aftertaste. That is a different thing.

There is a reason those older OLP songs keep hanging around. They are built from questions more than answers. They do not tell you life is neat. They tell you life is noisy, fractured, spiritually itchy, media-poisoned, intimate in weird flashes, and still somehow worth pushing through. In a casino venue on a wet March night, that landed exactly the way it should.

Afterglow

The drive home took four hours because the storm finally got serious. Ice built up. Winds shoved at the car. Speeds dropped to 30 miles per hour for stretches just to get home safe. The road that had looked merely wet on the way down turned mean on the way back.

That ended up feeling like the right final image for this one.

You drive toward a show through light rain thinking you are going to hear old songs and have a decent night. Then the music hits harder than expected, memory gets louder than usual, the weather turns, and the trip home asks for more patience than the trip in. Somewhere between Council Bluffs and home, the whole night made its point.

Some music does not age out. It just learns how to travel in worse weather.

Please consider Donating to Sponsor an article even $1 helps!

Even with a photo pass secured for this event, the realities of covering live music from the road remain demanding. A three-hour drive to the venue and another three hours back the same night adds both physical and financial strain to the assignment. Support, in any fashion, helps offset the many costs that come with properly documenting a show. Special thanks to our sponsor, Kela Geyer, whose support helped lighten that burden and made this coverage possible.

A Packed House in the Shadow of the College World Series

Just a stone’s throw from Charles Schwab Field Omaha, home of the College World Series, sits the unassuming rock club known as Slowdown.

The venue describes itself simply as a rock club and bar. Walking up to the building, it was hard to know exactly what to expect. But one detail immediately stood out. A sign outside confirmed the show was sold out. For a venue with a roughly 750-person capacity, that meant one thing. This was going to be packed.

For me, it was also an exciting milestone. This marked only the fourth show I’ve received photo credentials for since joining Intellectual Dissatisfaction, giving me another opportunity to shoot with my camera rather than relying on my phone as I’ve had to do at some recent events.

What unfolded throughout the night was chaotic, exhausting, and absolutely worth it.

Under the Balcony: The Night’s Merch Selection

Merchandise for the night was tucked beneath the balcony steps, a setup that felt almost reminiscent of Harry Potter’s cramped bedroom at the home of the Dursleys. The compact space created a small but busy corner where fans gathered before the show.

The offerings leaned heavily toward the expected concert staples. Rows of black band T-shirts littered the wall but a few items stood out among the racks. Vinyl records from each of the night’s artists were available, alongside baseball caps and one particularly appealing item: a signed tour poster from the headliners.

While the selection wasn’t extensive, it provided a solid range of memorabilia for fans and made for an easy stop while waiting for the house lights to dim and the music to begin.

No Photo Pit, No Space — Just Pure Energy

Unlike many larger venues I’ve been to, Slowdown offered no dedicated photo pit. The only separation between artists and fans was the slightly elevated stage. A well-timed arm stretch from the crowd could easily reach the performers if someone got bold enough.

A sold-out show also meant standing shoulder to shoulder with fans while trying to capture shots I could be proud of. For a photographer, this created a strange balance of wanting to chase new angles while also trying not to disrupt the people who paid to enjoy the show. Navigating through the tightly packed crowd felt like threading a needle.

Eventually, I remembered something important. This is rock music. The occasional bump or shuffle comes with the territory in a venue this size. Once I leaned into the chaos, the night opened up.

Creeper Sets the Stage

The first band to take the stage was Creeper, a rock group formed in 2014 in Southampton, England.

From the moment they walked out, their visual presentation stood out. Their dark aesthetic carried a theatrical vibe reminiscent of Ghost, giving the impression that something heavier might be coming. Instead, the band delivered a melodic rock performance highlighted by songs like “Lovers Led Astray” and their set-closing track “Cry to Heaven.”

Creeper provided a strong opening act setting the tone for what would soon become a far more chaotic evening.

Letlive Turns the Venue Upside Down

If Creeper warmed up the crowd, Letlive blew the doors off.

Formed in Los Angeles in 2002, the band brought a relentless pace to the stage led by frontman Jason Aalon Butler. It’s difficult to overstate the amount of energy Butler brought into the room. His stage presence matched the band’s aggressive tempo perfectly, making their performance feel explosive from start to finish.

At one point, the band even incorporated a garbage can into the performance, using it as a makeshift percussion instrument. Butler later wore it during part of a song because, at this point, why not?

But the real moment of chaos came near the end of their set. The band issued a challenge to the audience. If you can make it onto the stage, join us.

The crowd didn’t hesitate.

Within seconds, the stage was flooded with fans. From where I stood, you could barely see the band members anymore. It was complete, joyful anarchy. Just when it seemed impossible to top that moment, Butler climbed into the venue’s rafters to perform the final song.

When the set ended, the room buzzed with disbelief. Letlive had delivered one of the most energetic performances I’ve seen in years.

Hawthorne Heights Celebrates 20 Years of Emo History

Finally, it was time for the headliner: Hawthorne Heights.

The last time I saw the band was as a fan at Phase Fest 2025 in Sioux Falls. This time, I was there with a camera in hand.

The tour itself is built around a major milestone. The 20th anniversary of their album If Only You Were Lonely.

In celebration, the band performed the album in its entirety, giving longtime fans the rare opportunity to hear the record exactly as it was meant to be experienced: live.

For fans of the band, it was a nostalgic ride through one of the defining emo albums of the mid-2000s.

But Hawthorne Heights also had something new to share. Toward the end of the night, they debuted a new song titled “Like a Cardinal,” scheduled to release on March 20. If the crowd’s reaction was any indication, fans are going to love it.

Of course, the night wouldn’t be complete without their signature song, Ohio Is for Lovers.

For the finale, lead singer JT Woodruff stepped down into the crowd, guitar in hand, performing the song directly among the fans who had been singing every word all night.

It was the perfect ending.

Afterglow

By the end of the night, the exhaustion had fully set in.

Between navigating a packed venue, chasing shots through the crowd, and trying to keep up with the relentless energy on stage, the experience was both physically draining and creatively rewarding.

Still, every mile on the road, every moment spent waiting in line, and every second inside that packed concert hall proved worth it.

If this tour is still headed to your city in the coming weeks, prepare yourself. Because after a night like this, you might just feel the sudden urge to grow your hair out and dye it black again.