Judd spent most of Sunday in his usual corner of Down Under Bar & Grill.

He was not circling the bar collecting congratulations or trying to place himself in the center of every photograph. He sat where people expected to find him, watching familiar faces come through the door while three bands traded the stage a few feet away. For a man celebrating his first year as owner, the view from the corner said plenty.

Judd officially took over Down Under on July 9, 2025. Three days after the anniversary, the Clive bar marked the occasion with its First Annual Summer Celebration: Dick Danger Band, Reload and Encore Legends sharing the bill alongside raffles, rotating food and drink specials and a staff working through a packed house.

It was loud. It was busy. It also felt remarkably close-knit for an event involving three bands, multiple photographers and enough moving pieces to keep Beyond Media Entertainment working behind the scenes all day.

Down Under already had a place in the Des Moines live-music circuit before Judd arrived. His first year was less about sanding off the venue’s history than protecting the reasons people kept returning. Local bands remained on the calendar. Saturday nights still came with guitars. Regulars could count on cold drinks, familiar bartenders and a stage close enough to watch a player’s hands instead of staring at a video screen.

For the anniversary, Judd turned the volume up.

A party with a running order

Every person entering received a complimentary raffle ticket. Anyone wanting better odds could purchase more. The drawings did not happen during the celebration, however, so no winners were announced at the event. Down Under instead called the winners the following day once things behind the bar had settled down.

The kitchen and bar followed the stage schedule, too. Each band had its own food and drink specials, available only while the corresponding act was playing. The menu changed when the music changed. Wait too long to order during Dick Danger and the opportunity disappeared once Reload took over.

It was a small decision with an amusing effect: the running order reached all the way from the stage to what people were eating and drinking.

Most anniversary parties lean hard on speeches. Down Under kept the talking brief and let the bands handle the bulk of the celebration. The choice suited the place. Judd’s first year was being marked inside a working bar, not a banquet hall, and the best evidence of its health was already visible—tables occupied, drinks moving and local musicians setting up for the next round.

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Three bands, no duplicate settings

Dick Danger Band opened the afternoon with the loosest hips on the bill.

The Des Moines group has been active since 2014, working across Top 40, R&B, funk and soul. Their range can move from Prince and Michael Jackson toward Bruno Mars, Phil Collins and Jimi Hendrix without turning the set into musical channel surfing. The band understands groove well enough to keep those changes connected.

Frontman Richard Lloyd carried his signature Prince-inspired guitar, a visual cue fitting the sound without swallowing it. There is always a risk when a cover band reaches for an artist as recognizable as Prince: the accessories can become more memorable than the playing. Lloyd avoided the trap. The guitar looked the part, but his stage presence did not depend upon posing with it.

Opening a daylong show asks for restraint. Come out too hard and the room burns through its attention early. Play it too cautiously and people remain planted at their tables, waiting for the “real” event to begin. Dick Danger found the useful middle, giving the early crowd a pulse without treating the first slot like rehearsal.

The set also carried a second celebration. It was Lloyd’s birthday, and at some point the microphone found its way into my hand so the room could wish him a happy one.

I prefer the clipboard.

Being behind the scenes means I can watch the schedule, talk with bands and fix problems without becoming part of the show. Walking onstage to explain raffle rules already pushed me outside my normal role. Returning to lead a birthday shoutout pushed a little farther.

The crowd made it painless. Lloyd is a familiar figure around the Des Moines scene, and the response came without coaxing. For a few minutes, an ownership anniversary widened to make room for another local musician’s milestone.

Then Reload changed the weight in the room.

Thirteen years in the Des Moines rock circuit have made the band a reliable presence at bike nights and bars where the audience prefers recognizable songs with the softer edges left off. Reload’s sets pull from the heavier end of the cover-band catalog—Megadeth, Rob Zombie and Billy Idol among them—and the group has built a following willing to show up before the first downbeat.

You could see the difference in who moved closer.

Dick Danger opened with funk, polish and movement. Reload brought a thicker guitar sound and a crowd already acquainted with its habits. Their supporters did not need an introduction to the band or a sales pitch between songs. They knew what was coming and positioned themselves accordingly.

Longevity helped. After thirteen years, Reload knows how to handle a bar stage without treating every moment like an audition. The riffs landed with the blunt force expected from the material, but the set did not become a pileup of familiar hard-rock gestures. There was control beneath the volume.

Kelz Bailey covered Reload on special assignment for Ain’t Life Grand Photography, concentrating on the band’s harder visual character while I moved between event coordination, crowd photographs and coverage of the other two acts. A dedicated camera made sense for Reload. Their set offered a different collection of images: tighter postures, heavier guitars and the sweat beginning to show as the day wore on.

Encore Legends inherited the closing slot and a crowd already several hours into the celebration.

A 2025 Iowa Music Awards nominee, Encore Legends works across rock, country and pop. On paper, the description could belong to dozens of event bands. Their closing set gave it a clearer definition. They chose songs broad enough to keep different parts of the room involved without reducing the performance to background music.

The dance floor stayed occupied.

Closing a long event requires a particular kind of awareness. The band has to read who remains, how much the crowd has left and when a familiar chorus can do more work than another display of technique. Encore Legends played to the hour in front of them. After Dick Danger’s funk and Reload’s harder attack, they opened the set outward, giving the room songs it could dance to and sing without needing to agree on one genre.

Three cover bands on one flyer could have blurred together. They did not. Dick Danger supplied the groove. Reload tightened the fists. Encore Legends kept the final stretch communal and upright.

The work between the songs

Beyond Media Entertainment helped host and coordinate the celebration, which meant the day was never limited to standing near the stage and watching bands play.

Schedules drift. People need answers. Raffle rules have to be explained clearly enough to prevent six different interpretations from developing around the bar. Photographers need to know which set they are responsible for. Musicians arrive with gear, questions and timelines of their own.

When those pieces are handled properly, few people notice them.

I spent much of the day in that unseen part of the event, managing transitions while watching for photographs between tasks. Dick Danger and Encore Legends fell under my performance coverage, but I also focused on the wider frames: the crowd at the tables, people reacting beyond the edge of the stage and the details showing Down Under as a place instead of an interchangeable black background.

Close-ups preserve the concentration in a musician’s face. Wider photographs preserve who came to see it.

The camera also gave me somewhere comfortable to retreat after my appearances with the microphone. I could move along the floor, catch the candid exchanges and return to the role I know best—close to the activity without asking it to revolve around me.

Once the photographs were selected, editing went to Igor Dimitrienko, my Beyond Media Entertainment partner and the CEO of Ain’t Life Grand Photography. He took work from multiple photographers and gave the finished gallery a consistent presentation. Different cameras, different positions, one event.

He nailed it. Again.

The people still working after the encore

Near the end of the night, I turned the camera away from the performers and toward the Down Under crew.

Judd had spent most of the celebration in his normal corner, but the staff never had the luxury of staying put. Drinks still needed to reach tables. Food orders continued through three band-specific menus. Raffle drawings brought another series of questions. A packed room does not become easier to manage because everyone is there to say something nice about the owner.

Manager Crystal received special recognition from Judd alongside Tina, Ashlyn, Josh and the staff members unable to be present for the photographs. He understood who had carried the first year with him.

Those names belong in the account of the day. Live-music coverage naturally points toward the stage, where the lights are better and the gestures are larger. A venue’s survival depends just as heavily on people carrying plates, clearing glasses, checking orders and cleaning the room after the musicians have unplugged.

I photographed Judd with the employees still there. No guitars in those frames. No solos. Just the owner and crew who had spent the day keeping everything upright.

For many people around the Des Moines scene, Down Under has become the place where they can arrive without an introduction. Musicians know the stage. Regulars know their seats. Judd knows his corner. The familiarity does not come from branding language or an anniversary slogan. It comes from repetition—another Saturday night, another local band loading through the door, another shift worked by people whose names the crowd eventually learns.

Sunday’s celebration enlarged the routine without losing it.

Afterglow

Once Encore Legends finished, the practical work returned. Amps had to be unplugged. Camera files needed sorting. The last glasses still had to be collected. A day advertised through bands, raffles and specials ended the way nights at working venues usually do: with a smaller group of people staying behind to put the room back together.

Plans are already taking shape for a second Summer Celebration in 2027. Bigger may be the intention. Louder seems inevitable.

The first one did not need either word to justify itself.

Judd spent most of the anniversary in his usual corner, watching three bands occupy the stage he had kept available and a staff carry the room he had spent a year operating. He never needed to interrupt the party to explain what had been built around him.

By then, everyone could see it.

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Backline Music Hall billed Belhaven as one of Oxford’s newest bands, a four-piece stepping into the room with something to prove.

For once, the ride north offered none of the usual mishaps from a photographer’s life. No wrong turns. No equipment trouble. No frantic race against the clock. I reached Tupelo early on a hot Friday evening, which gave me time to settle in, look around and talk with guitarist Dalton Burney after Cid introduced us.

Backline has become familiar territory by now. The room at 5339 Cliff Gookin Boulevard keeps putting young, local and regional artists close enough to the audience that there is nowhere to hide. A band cannot rely on distance, oversized production or the forgiving blur of an arena. People can see the hands moving across the fretboard. They notice whether the drummer is locked in. They can tell when stage movement is natural and when it has been rehearsed into stiffness.

Belhaven did not need anywhere to hide.

No longer standing behind someone else

Dalton explained that he, bassist Bryson Heatherly and drummer Sam Lewis had spent the past few years backing different singers and supporting other musicians. They already knew how to follow a front person, adjust to someone else’s material and provide the foundation another performer needed.

About four months ago, the three decided it was time to stop waiting in the background.

They needed a singer of their own.

Thomas Turner completed the lineup, and the difference between a collection of capable musicians and a functioning band became apparent almost immediately. The original three brought experience, control and the kind of stage awareness earned through years of supporting other people. Turner arrived with enough motion to make standing still seem impossible.

A Jackson native, Turner bounced, jumped and ran from one side of the stage to the other throughout the night. His movements were not disconnected from the songs, either. He watched the crowd, pressed toward people when a chorus needed another push and refused to let the front of the stage become dead space. Within the first few numbers, the audience had begun moving with him.

The combination made sense. Belhaven’s instrumental core had spent years learning how to support vocalists. Now they had one who demanded every inch of their attention.

The other two-thirds of “the three that were” deserve their own discussion. Besides, “the three that were” just sounds cool.

Bryson Heatherly appeared to be a Tupelo favorite judging by the support he received around the room. Calling him merely the bassist would miss half the point. Heatherly carried himself with the loose confidence of someone who knows where the pocket is and has no intention of leaving it. He swayed around the stage, leaned into the groove and kept his playing grounded even while the rest of the band accelerated around him.

His bass work became especially important when the set moved into material built around rhythm rather than guitar force. Heatherly did not treat the covers as obligations between original songs. He gave them shape, making familiar bass lines feel physical enough to move the audience before the choruses arrived.

Behind him, Sam Lewis handled the drums with less flash but equal authority. I have used the phrase “skins hammer” before, and Lewis earned it. Positioned at the back of the stage where the cymbals crashed and the low end collected, he maintained the beat without rushing the band’s constant movement.

Turner could sprint. Heatherly could sway. Burney could attack a guitar passage with his whole face.

Lewis kept the count.

There is something reassuring about watching a drummer who never looks as if he is chasing the song. Lewis played with force, but his real contribution was steadiness. The band could stretch a section, push a chorus or open a song into a longer jam because the foundation stayed underneath them.

Then there was Dalton Burney.

Madman might be the appropriate technical term.

Burney plays guitar with little interest in looking detached or overly polished. Emotion moved visibly across his face as his fingers worked the fretboard. He bent into solos, reacted to the notes and gave the impression that playing guitar remained exciting to him rather than becoming another task performed under stage lights.

Young musicians are sometimes encouraged to appear effortless. Burney looked invested instead, which was far more interesting.

The confidence came from experience, but so did his restraint. He could step forward when the guitar needed to cut through without crowding the rest of the band. The solos served the songs. His rhythm work left space for Heatherly’s bass and Turner’s voice. When he did let the six-string loose, the moment had somewhere to go.

I learned after the show that Burney is from Coffeeville. He mentioned it with the tone people use when they expect nobody to recognize the name. Unfortunately for him, I have friends from there.

Small-town mystery ruined.

We talked about it for a few minutes after the set. It was one of those easy conversations that happens when the stage has been cleared and the adrenaline is starting to settle, but first we had a show to finish.

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Four musicians, one moving target

Belhaven opened with the original song “Super Static,” a direct statement of what the band could do before leaning into its covers. Starting with original material was a smart choice. It allowed the audience to meet Belhaven as Belhaven rather than as another group borrowing recognition from familiar songs.

The track came out with enough rock weight to establish Burney’s guitar, but its real purpose was introducing the chemistry. Lewis held the center. Heatherly gave the song movement. Turner began working the audience almost as soon as his feet touched the stage.

The room responded early.

A few songs later, Belhaven reached for Cage the Elephant’s “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked.” It is one of my favorite songs, which also means I am less forgiving when a band mishandles it. Belhaven understood the loose, slightly crooked rhythm that makes the song work. They did not sand it into standard bar-band rock.

Heatherly’s bass gave it the necessary swagger. Lewis kept the beat clipped and deliberate. Burney stayed close to the riff instead of burying it beneath unnecessary guitar work. Turner pushed the vocal with enough personality to avoid sounding like an imitation.

By then, the band’s energy had spread through the room. People were not waiting politely for a song they recognized. They were following the set.

Belhaven’s description as a hybrid band fits. Their originals provide a developing identity, while the covers show how broad their working vocabulary has become. The best hybrid bands do not simply reproduce songs. They arrange a set so each selection reveals something about the musicians playing it.

“Superstition” allowed Heatherly to lean harder into funk, following the rhythmic pull established by Stevie Wonder’s original. “That’s All Right” acknowledged the city Belhaven was playing in. You do not perform in Tupelo without feeling Elvis Presley somewhere in the room, even if nobody says his name aloud. Belhaven said it with the song instead.

Then came Wild Cherry’s “Play That Funky Music.”

Heatherly looked built for it.

The song’s familiar groove gave him room to loosen his shoulders and pull the band deeper into the pocket. Turner continued crossing the stage, directing sections of the chorus toward different parts of the audience. Burney balanced the funk rhythm with enough rock bite to keep the performance from becoming too clean.

Familiar songs can expose a young band. Everyone in the room already knows where the changes fall, what the groove should feel like and whether the chorus lands. There is little room to bluff.

Belhaven sounded comfortable rather than cautious.

The covers also prepared the room for another original, “Rosemary,” which the band announced as a new single scheduled for release Aug. 1, 2026. It carried a clearer sense of the direction Belhaven could follow beyond a night of crowd favorites. The writing felt considered, with enough melodic structure to remain accessible without losing the rock foundation the band had established earlier.

“Rosemary” mattered because it shifted the audience’s attention back toward Belhaven’s own material. By that point, the group had earned the room’s trust through songs people already knew. The new single showed they were interested in doing more with that trust than extending the cover set.

A hybrid lineup can survive for years by becoming dependable entertainment. There is nothing wrong with that work. Belhaven, however, appeared to be testing whether those years supporting other artists could become the groundwork for something bearing its own name.

“Rosemary” suggested the answer may be yes.

Everybody gets an instrument

Belhaven closed with an extended jam built around Outkast’s “Hey Ya!”

By this point, the boundary between the stage and audience had nearly disappeared. Women in the crowd were handed maracas. A man took control of a tambourine. Voices from around the room joined the chorus while the band kept the song running longer than a standard cover arrangement would allow.

Loose participation can wreck a closing number when the musicians lose control of the tempo. Belhaven never did. Lewis kept the jam from wandering. Heatherly held the repeating groove. Burney added guitar phrases around the vocals without overcrowding the rhythm. Turner acted as singer, conductor and cheerful instigator.

The same urgency heard at the opening remained intact at the end.

Nobody looked as though they were simply completing the set. The band continued interacting with the audience, watching one another and finding small places to extend the song. Even with maracas rattling and a tambourine entering from the crowd, the arrangement stayed together.

Belhaven had spent years backing other performers. During “Hey Ya!,” they briefly backed the entire room.

It was a fitting way to close. The audience had spent the evening watching four musicians establish a new identity. By the final jam, they were allowed to step inside it.

Afterglow

The trip home felt different from the smooth drive north.

Nothing dramatic happened. No equipment failure. No roadside disaster. Just the quiet encouragement that comes after finding another young band before its story has settled into a familiar shape.

Belhaven is still new in this form. Turner joined only months ago. The original material is beginning to claim more room beside the covers. “Rosemary” is waiting for release. There are rough edges left to sharpen and more songs needed before anyone can know how far this version of the group will go.

The important part is already visible.

Burney, Heatherly and Lewis spent years learning how to make other singers sound better. Now they are using those lessons to build something of their own, with Turner moving across the front of the stage as if he has been waiting for them to catch up.

Belhaven has moved from backup to the front.

Do not miss them when they return.

As always, thanks to Cid, Christina, Brian, Brent and Meredith, the Backline at Backline. You guys rock.

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Bellevue arrived one lane closure at a time.

The summer construction season had turned the drive into a procession of orange barrels, narrowed lanes and quick decisions made while the GPS recalculated. By the time we reached Falconwood Park, the idea of staying in one place for the night sounded luxurious. Check-in offered no further resistance. We pulled up, completed the easy wristband transaction and drove into the campground without having to decode a maze of handwritten signs or circle the property searching for a patch of grass.

The campground roads were wide enough to navigate comfortably and the grounds were compact enough that disappearing into the wrong campsite never felt likely. In the middle sat a polished building that looked ready to host a wedding as soon as the speakers came down. Falconwood does, in fact, specialize in weddings and other private events across its more than 200 acres, but the air-conditioned restrooms were the feature earning our immediate loyalty. After construction traffic and the long drive into Bellevue, refrigeration-level plumbing felt close enough to a spiritual experience.

We stayed at camp for a while. No urgency. Bags were unpacked, chairs settled into place and muscles slowly remembered they were no longer folded inside a vehicle. Festivals often tempt people into sprinting toward the first audible kick drum, afraid they have already missed the moment everyone will discuss later. Power & Progress did not inspire that panic. The grounds seemed to give permission to arrive gradually.

As the sun began lowering, we finally moved toward the music.

No itinerary, no problem

Poe was finishing a set inside when we entered the main festival area. We caught only the closing portion, enough to hear the indoor stage working at full volume and to realize how easily Falconwood’s separate performance spaces could pull the evening in different directions. Friday’s official schedule placed Poe from 8 to 9 p.m. on the MAPP Entertainment stage, followed immediately by Rawlz. Across the grounds, Funk Trek was beginning on the Main Stage at the same time Rawlz took over indoors. Choosing one meant surrendering part of another. Power & Progress had built scheduling conflict directly into the night.

We chose movement instead of loyalty.

Rawlz immediately changed the posture of the electronic stage by bringing out an electric guitar. The instrument gave the set a physical point of focus beyond the laptop and LED panels. He leaned into the fretboard while the screen behind him dissolved into bright, cellular patterns, the guitar’s reflective blue finish catching flashes from the visuals. Electronic performances can sometimes leave an audience watching equipment it cannot see being operated. Rawlz gave the room hands, strings and visible pressure.

There was something satisfying about watching a guitar played inside a production built from screens, programmed light and bass. It did not feel pasted onto the set as a novelty. The guitar created friction against the digital environment, pulling the eye toward a performer working through notes in real time while the stage around him mutated.

Still, Funk Trek was waiting outside.

We drifted back toward the Main Stage and caught the closing stretch of Funk Trek, an Omaha group whose jazz-funk and fusion background makes its name unusually honest advertising. The band did not have to announce the assignment. Bass, keys, guitar and drums were already inside it, pushing the music through rhythmic turns without sanding away the groove people had followed toward the stage.

“Funky” can become a lazy adjective when a band owns a bass guitar and knows one syncopated rhythm. Funk Trek earned it through the way the players left room for one another. The rhythm section established the floor, then the other instruments moved across it without crowding every available space. Even arriving late, we heard enough to understand why the set had gathered people instead of merely playing in front of them.

Then it ended.

Rather than immediately chase another scheduled performance, we made the only responsible choice available to mature adults at a camping festival: we went looking for a mysterious path through the woods.

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The troll at the trailhead

We had heard about a special trail leading toward the third stage, though “trail” sounded suspiciously vague when we first started searching. For a moment, there was only darkness beyond the organized festival area. Then we spotted tiki torches among the trees, small flames marking the correct direction.

At the entrance, a festival volunteer claimed to be a troll demanding payment before allowing us to pass. Negotiations were brief. Currency was rejected. A game of rock-paper-scissors would settle the toll.

I won.

This surprised me enough that the victory deserves documentation.

The bit lasted only a minute, but it revealed something about the festival that polished production cannot manufacture. A volunteer had been given enough freedom to turn crowd control into a private joke with strangers. Nobody was being hurried through a checkpoint. Nobody barked directions. The entrance to the path became its own tiny performance, starring a self-appointed troll and several adults suddenly taking rock-paper-scissors far too seriously.

Beyond him, the trail curved through the trees under torchlight. Music from the other stages thinned as we moved farther into the woods. Falconwood’s manageable size had made the campground simple to understand, but the path introduced a hidden pocket to the property, a place you could miss completely by following only the obvious routes.

We reached the third stage.

No one was playing.

Our side quest had achieved precisely what side quests usually achieve: the discovery of something interesting at the least useful possible time.

It was still worth it. The vacant stage showed how far Power & Progress had spread itself across Falconwood and how differently each area was allowed to feel. The Main Stage had festival-scale screens and an open-air crowd. The MAPP room compressed electronic music into a wooden structure where LEDs, dancers and haze could control the full visual field. This third space waited beyond firelight and trees, separate enough to feel discovered rather than advertised.

The official festival material describes three large stages and dozens of performers across the weekend. Friday alone carried six campground sets, seven Main Stage appearances and nine electronic performances, continuing until 2 a.m. We did not attempt to conquer all of it. Treating a festival schedule like a scavenger hunt for completed names can turn an evening into unpaid clerical work. We let Power & Progress interrupt our plans instead.

The reward came when we returned indoors.

Bodies against the LEDs

We arrived for the end of HYDDIN, and the room looked entirely different from the one Rawlz had occupied.

HYDDIN stood behind a white hoodie and cap, framed by LED panels cycling through blue geometric patterns. Three dancers occupied the platforms and floor in front of the booth. Their black outfits and long braided hair reduced them to sharp silhouettes whenever the screens flared. Arms extended, wrists curled, bodies held still for a beat before breaking into another formation. The choreography was not decorative movement beside a DJ. It controlled where the audience looked.

Blue dominated first. White light followed, flattening the screens into a severe brightness that left the dancers nearly featureless. Red changed the room again. The same poses suddenly carried a harder edge, hands and bent elbows cutting across the color rather than floating inside it. Haze caught the light above the booth while the dancers shifted levels, two elevated on the side platforms and one working lower in the center.

HYDDIN’s recorded catalog sits firmly within electronic music, but the performance we witnessed depended as much on bodies and staging as the production coming through the speakers. The dancers gave the bass a visible consequence. Every stop, extension and drop translated sound into shape without trying to illustrate it too neatly.

The crowd inside had less room to drift than the people outside. Bodies gathered closer to the stage, some watching the choreography while others moved without facing forward at all. Behind them, the wooden ceiling and exposed beams remained visible above the digital production. Falconwood never fully disappeared beneath the technology. It still looked like a rustic event building temporarily possessed by low frequencies.

That collision suited Power & Progress. A jam band could be working through an extended passage outdoors while, a short walk away, three dancers turned an electronic set into shadow theater. Farther through the trees, another stage waited behind a troll with a flexible admissions policy.

HYDDIN’s set ended at 11 p.m. The final Main Stage performance was scheduled for 11:15.

We found a comfortable place and stayed there.

The band behind the festival

The late set belonged to The Midland Band, whose connection to Power & Progress runs deeper than a prominent slot on Friday’s schedule. Members of the Nebraska progressive jazz-rock group created the first festival outside Columbus in 2012. It began as a one-day gathering built around local music, art and camping. Even then, guitarist Tom Adelman was talking about expanding it into a full weekend with regional and national performers. Fourteen editions later, the event had reached Falconwood with three stages and a lineup stretching across funk, jam music, bluegrass and electronic production.

Knowing the history changed the late set. The Midland Band was not closing the Main Stage as a ceremonial nod to the organizers. The group was still operating inside the musical identity that helped create the festival in the first place: improvisation, progressive structures and enough rhythmic ease to keep technical playing from turning into homework. The band describes its sound through 1970s jazz-rock, danceable improvisation and influences ranging from Frank Zappa and Yes to Steely Dan and the Grateful Dead.

What reached us Friday carried a feel-good jam-band looseness. By then, people had been moving between stages for hours. Some had planted themselves in front of the band. Others listened from farther back, conserving whatever their legs had left. The set did not demand a dramatic second wind from everyone on the grounds. It made room for sitting, swaying, talking briefly and then turning back when a musical phrase caught the ear.

That comfort was important to me.

I have been dealing with back problems for a while, and by late Friday my body was no longer interested in pretending otherwise. Pain changes how a festival is experienced. Distance becomes a calculation. Standing through one more song becomes a negotiation. Even spontaneous choices, such as following tiki torches into the woods because a stranger mentioned a hidden stage, carry consequences that may arrive several minutes later.

My friends knew.

I see this group perhaps once every six months. Time and distance mean our lives usually intersect in bursts, then scatter again. Friday, they cared for me without being asked and without turning that care into a production. They adjusted to what I could handle. They let the night slow down when it needed to. There was no frustration, no suggestion that my pain had made the festival less fun and no expectation that kindness should be rewarded.

The strongest expression of festival culture came nowhere near a microphone.

Electronic communities often use PLUR as shorthand for peace, love, unity and respect. Those words can become merchandise language, repeated so often that they lose contact with actual behavior. Friday, my friends put them back into practice. They did not announce it. They simply took care of someone who was hurting.

Music culture is often discussed through scale: ticket counts, stage size, decibel levels, touring distance, streaming numbers. None of those measurements explain why people continue gathering in fields and campgrounds when the weather is punishing, sleep is unreliable and every necessary item is somehow a ten-minute walk away. The reason can be much smaller. Someone notices what you need before you have to say it. Someone changes pace. Someone stays.

Power & Progress says it was built around love, peace, unity, inclusion and community. Those ideas were present in the festival’s history and promotional language before we arrived. On Friday, they stopped being claims. They became people I trust standing beside me while my back argued with the rest of the evening.

Afterglow

The drive into Bellevue had been a blur of construction, detours and the stubborn urge to get there faster. By midnight, speed had lost its appeal.

The Midland Band continued on the stage built at the festival its members had helped imagine fourteen years earlier. Somewhere behind us, electronic music was preparing to run into the early morning. The torchlit path still waited in the trees. Campsites sat ready for people to return carrying folding chairs, dust and whatever remained in their cups.

My friends stayed close.

The festival’s biggest impression did not come from the loudest drop, the most complicated solo or the brightest screen. It came from being allowed to hurt without being treated as a burden. Peace, love, unity and respect sounded better when nobody needed to say the words.

For one Friday night at Falconwood, they were simply how people behaved.

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A Friday night at Grand Falls Casino offers no shortage of entertainment. Guests can try their luck on the casino floor, unwind in a hotel suite, enjoy dinner at one of the property's restaurants, or spend the day on the golf course. For many on this particular evening, however, the destination was the Event Center, where Ashley McBryde delivered a memorable night of country music.

A Night Without an Opener

As someone who loves arriving early to catch opening acts for the chance to discover new artists before they become household names; there is also something refreshing about a concert with only one artist on the bill. There’s no waiting through multiple sets before the main event. The audience gets exactly what they came for from the moment the lights go down.

That was the case for Ashley McBryde fans.

Raised in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, McBryde has steadily built one of country music’s most respected careers. After releasing an independent EP in 2016, she broke through nationally with her acclaimed debut album Girl Going Nowhere in 2018. Since then, she has earned a reputation for honest songwriting, powerhouse vocals, and unforgettable live performances.

A Live Performance That Converts Skeptics

I’ll be the first to admit that country music has never been my strongest genre. Anyone who regularly follows my work already knows my playlists lean in a very different direction.

But live country music is an entirely different experience.

McBryde’s voice was both commanding and soothing, effortlessly filling the venue while maintaining an intimate warmth that recordings simply can’t capture in my opinion. Every lyric felt authentic, whether she was delivering a heartfelt ballad or a humorous story.

The production elevated the experience even further.

Grand Falls Event Center holds roughly 1,100 people, yet the lighting design transformed the room into something that felt far larger. Dynamic colors, sweeping beams, and perfectly timed cues gave each song its own atmosphere. It was one of those productions that looked even more impressive in person than any photo could fully capture.

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A Band Full of Musicians

One of the evening’s highlights wasn’t just McBryde herself but the incredible musicians surrounding her.

Between songs, she shared stories and joked with the audience, making the inevitable instrument changes feel completely natural instead of slowing the show down.

That transition time became entertainment in itself.

Nearly every member of the band swapped instruments multiple times throughout the night, creating what could only be described as an organized musical fire drill. Guitars became mandolins, basses became acoustic instruments, and musicians constantly rotated positions around the stage without missing a beat.

The choreography behind those changes was almost as impressive as the music itself.

“Brenda Put Your Bra On” Lives Up to the Hype

Then came perhaps the most anticipated and certainly the funniest moment of the evening.

“Brenda Put Your Bra On” has become something of a fan favorite since its release in 2023, and seeing it performed live is an experience all its own.

Before beginning the song, McBryde jokingly apologized for the stronger language than what fans typically hear in her catalog and warned any children in attendance not to repeat what they were about to hear.

The audience laughed and then the stage crew started tossing bras onto the stage. With McBryde even throwing one into the audience.

The absurdity perfectly matched the tongue in cheek storytelling of the song, turning an already entertaining performance into one of the night’s most memorable moments.

It was pure fun from beginning to end.

The Emotional High Point

As entertaining as the comedy was, the performance that stayed with me most was “Sparrow.”

Before playing the song, McBryde shared the deeply personal story behind it, explaining how it reflects the parallel journeys of her brother serving aboard Navy ships while she spends much of her life traveling America’s highways. She also spoke about the sparrow tattoos on her back and what they symbolize.

Knowing that story made every lyric land with even greater emotion.

Combined with the breathtaking harmonies from the band, it became the emotional centerpiece of the evening.

There’s something uniquely beautiful about Southern voices blending together in harmony. The warmth, texture, and authenticity they create are difficult to replicate in any other style of music, and “Sparrow” showcased that better than any other song in the set.

Afterglow

Ashley McBryde delivered exactly the kind of concert fans hope for. A show that could make you laugh one minute and leave you reflecting the next.

Between the trailer park antics of “Brenda Put Your Bra On,” the heartfelt storytelling behind “Sparrow,” the outstanding musicianship across the stage, and one of the best lighting productions I’ve seen in a venue this size, the evening offered far more than just another country concert.

Even for someone who doesn’t typically spend much time listening to country music, the performance was easy to appreciate and connect with.

If Ashley McBryde makes a stop near your hometown, she’s absolutely worth seeing live. With tour dates continuing across the country through December, there’s still plenty of opportunity to catch the show for yourself.

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July has been busy around here, and not only because of the music. Life has been moving fast enough on its own. Add a couple of events at my favorite place to hang, a short trip to Nashville and the usual miles spent watching the road disappear beneath the car, and another weekend was already underway.

The first stop was Backline Music Hall’s second Summer Youth Concert Series showcase. Five dollars at the door. Three acts. Reese Burks returning to the opening slot, Pocket Change making its first official appearance and John Clayton White closing with a set steeped in Chicago and Delta blues.

Before getting into the music, Cid, Meredith, Christina, Brian and Brent deserve another thank-you for keeping this series alive. Monthly showcases do not organize themselves. Someone has to book the performers, open the building, handle the sound, make the adjustments and give developing artists a real stage instead of asking them to wait until they are older, more established or easier to sell.

Tupelo and the surrounding communities have plenty of talent. It still needs somewhere to play.

Start with “Jeremy”

Reese Burks returned to the opening position and made a bold decision immediately: he began with Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy”.

Ballsy choice.

“Jeremy” carries more weight than the average rock cover. Its verses sit in an uneasy quiet before the chorus breaks open, and Eddie Vedder’s original performance is so recognizable that a singer can disappear beneath it if he treats the song like an imitation exercise. Reese did not back away from the difficult parts. He stayed with the song’s tension, let the louder passages arrive naturally and delivered a version that sounded considered instead of merely ambitious.

A few originals from his forthcoming EP followed. Their titles were not announced clearly enough in our notes to publish with confidence, but hearing them alongside the covers helped explain where Reese is headed. The older songs are not random crowd bait. They are part of how he is shaping his own material.

Reese told us he listens heavily to rock and older classics, with Darius Rucker and Hootie & the Blowfish among his favorites. You could hear the connection when he moved into Hootie’s “Let Her Cry”, a song built around restraint rather than vocal fireworks. His version kept its plainspoken quality intact. Nothing needed to be oversold.

Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel” brought a more familiar country swing into the set, followed by “Forever and Ever, Amen”, material associated with the Red Clay Strays and a closing run through Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me”. Closing with a song nearly everyone knows can become a shortcut. Here, it worked as punctuation. Reese had already spent the set moving between his influences and his own writing, so the final melody felt communal rather than predictable.

His upcoming debut EP is the next step, and recording one costs money long before anybody presses play. Reese and his family have launched The Road to My Own Lane, a Kickstarter campaign supporting the project. Anyone who wants to help a local artist move his original songs out of the room and onto a record can contribute there.

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Five players, no soft launch

Pocket Change followed with the kind of first show that makes the phrase “first show” difficult to believe.

The lineup brings together brothers Clay, James and Mason Cordell with Kayden Shumpert and William Henson. Their backgrounds stretch through classical training, gospel performance, rock, blues and enough years spent practicing to make their ages feel almost irrelevant once they began playing.

Kayden has reportedly been drumming since he could crawl. He is now in the 11th grade and also performs in a gospel quartet, which may help explain the confidence behind his playing. He did not tap his way cautiously through Pocket Change’s debut. He hit the drums as if someone had informed him this would be his last chance to play them.

Cid, working sound, eventually shut off the snare microphone.

Kayden did not need it.

The snare was already cutting through the room under its own power, each strike arriving with enough force to make additional amplification unnecessary. Plenty of drummers play loudly. Kayden played with control inside the volume, keeping the band moving without turning the songs into a percussion demonstration.

Clay held down the bass after six years with the instrument, although his musical training reaches much further back. A junior in college, he also has 14 years of violin behind him. He considers bass the coolest position in the band, partly because it requires less cardio during a performance. Fair point. Somebody has to remain calm while the drummer tries to murder the snare.

James, the youngest member and a college junior, has played guitar for three years after spending six years with the cello. He is also an avid hunter, and his favorite story involves taking down an 11-point buck on November 11, 2011—11 points on 11/11/11. Pretty cool.

The coincidence became stranger while I was writing this section. YouTube decided to play Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar, We’re Goin Down” at the exact moment I typed “11-point buck.” Suddenly the antlers appeared on my television.

I could not have queued it better if I tried.

Mason brings 11 years of piano, six years of bass and five years of guitar into the group. A college freshman, he also plays golf and occasionally throws his clubs into the lake. Nobody offered an official count for how many clubs remain underwater, but his musical training has survived the frustration. The years behind several different instruments could be heard in the way he approached the set—less concerned with claiming space than with understanding where the arrangement needed him.

William Henson completed the lineup on keys and shades.

The shades are important.

A college junior, Will has spent 12 years playing piano, six years with guitar and three years with the melodica. Melodica? Huh. Add it to the résumé and keep moving. He once took a golf ball to the head while playing, which may or may not have produced the unbothered Mr. Cool who appeared onstage at Backline. Medical science has not weighed in.

The stories are funny, but the playing kept Pocket Change from becoming a novelty. Their sound landed somewhere between funk-minded rock and blues, with the keyboards adding color around a rhythm section that preferred a little dirt beneath the polish. Their classical backgrounds did not make the set stiff. The training showed up in how well they listened to one another.

They worked through the Eagles’ “Take It Easy”, then leaned into the Black Crowes’ “She Talks to Angels”. The latter gave them more room to sit inside a slower arrangement, holding back where the song needed space instead of treating every measure like a chance to prove something.

For five musicians making their first official appearance together, Pocket Change sounded unusually settled. Transitions stayed intact. The rhythm section remained connected even when Kayden’s playing grew forceful. Will’s keys filled the open spaces without crowding the guitars. The audience responded accordingly, growing louder as the familiar songs arrived and the band proved it was not going to come apart under the excitement of its debut.

They came to put on a show. They did.

The blues already know John Clayton White

John Clayton White is only 15, but listing his previous appearances takes longer than explaining his age.

His résumé already includes a noon performance on the Visit Mississippi Crossroads Stage during the 2026 Chicago Blues Festival, an opening appearance at Mississippi Makers Fest and a featured program at the GRAMMY Museum Mississippi. The Mississippi Delta Blues Society selected him for the Youth Showcase at the International Blues Challenge in Memphis after he and his band won the society’s regional competition.

Then there is the list of people and places already attached to his name. Kenny Wayne Shepherd. Christone “Kingfish” Ingram. Mr. Sipp. The Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise. Susan Tedeschi and Derek Trucks at the 2023 grand reopening of Club Ebony, alongside members of B.B. King’s band.

In May 2025, White opened Ground Zero Blues Club’s 24th-anniversary celebration for John Primer—not John Prine, as an early version of our notes mistakenly read—with Ground Zero co-owner Morgan Freeman in attendance. His performance record also includes B.B. King’s 100th Birthday Celebration and a reported headline appearance at Ground Zero’s Biloxi location on April 18h 2025.

None of those names played the guitar for him at Backline.

White opened with an original, “Tires Gone Flat,” and immediately brought his Chicago-blues instincts into the room. The guitar phrasing had bite without becoming a blur of notes, and the song allowed him to establish himself as a writer before reaching for familiar material.

The Marshall Tucker Band’s “Can’t You See” and the Allman Brothers Band’s “Ramblin’ Man” pushed the set toward Southern rock. When the familiar “ride, Sally, ride” refrain arrived, the crowd took the invitation. People who had been watching closely were suddenly participating, the response growing as White worked through the section.

His version of Jimi Hendrix’s “Red House” returned the focus to the guitar. Covering Hendrix can encourage players to chase volume and speed while forgetting the pauses between the phrases. White’s command came from knowing when to press and when to leave the next note alone for a second.

In Tupelo, an Elvis Presley turn is never far away. White brought “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Hound Dog” into the set without turning the hometown connection into a costume. The songs moved as part of the same musical vocabulary he had been using all evening: blues structure, rock-and-roll attack and a performer paying attention to how a crowd reacts.

The originals provided a better indication of where his music may be headed. “Not Going Back” carried its own identity, while “Something in the Mud” leaned harder into the Delta side of his playing. The title itself sounds local—less interested in polishing the Mississippi out of the music than in digging into it.

White has already performed in rooms many adult musicians spend years trying to reach. Backline still offered something useful: a close audience, a local stage and no famous names standing nearby to explain why he belonged there. He had to do it himself.

He did.

Afterglow

Three acts represented three different points in development. Reese Burks is preparing to record his debut EP while testing his originals beside the music that shaped him. Pocket Change walked into its first official show with five separate musical histories and left sounding like a band instead of an experiment. John Clayton White arrived with an oversized résumé, then made the résumé secondary once he began playing.

This is why the Summer Youth Concert Series deserves more than polite applause on social media. Backline is giving developing performers stage time, a working sound system, an audience and room to find out what survives once rehearsal ends. Cid, Meredith, Christina, Brian and Brent are building a place where the artist comes first, and the proof is louder than any slogan.

Sometimes it is loud enough to turn off the snare mic.

Belhaven and a last-minute run to Nashville were still waiting, the next two events in a three-stop weekend. July was not slowing down. The opening night had already given us a Pearl Jam gamble, a drummer playing beyond the microphone, an improbable pileup of elevens, submerged golf clubs, a keyboard player in shades and a young bluesman making old songs answer to him.

Not bad for a Thursday.

“IS YOUR MUSIC ON THE RIGHT TRAKKS!””

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Six blocks and thirty minutes

If there is one universal truth about seeing a show at Wooly’s, it is knowing the parking situation may demand nearly as much endurance as the concert.

Igor spent a solid 30 minutes circling the surrounding blocks, watching available spaces disappear with the ruthless timing of someone shutting off a guitar solo halfway through its final bend. Luck eventually opened a spot six blocks away. From there, patience gave way to a frantic trek through Des Moines’ East Village with the clock ticking and the beginning of the show drawing closer.

We slipped through the doors just in time for the lights to go down.

The aggravation faded quickly once we were inside. Wooly’s was packed with familiar faces, close friends and a strong turnout from Des Moines’ local music community. Musicians, photographers, writers and regular concertgoers filled the room until the evening began to feel less like another touring stop and more like a homecoming.

Every local scene has places where its paths cross. Wooly’s is one of those places for Des Moines. Since opening its doors in 2012, the venue has become a dependable landing point for national touring acts while remaining closely connected to the musicians and fans who keep Iowa’s rock scene moving between those larger visits. On July 16, both worlds met beneath the same roof.

People had come to see Wolfgang Van Halen and Mammoth, of course, but the conversations moving across the room told another story too. Friends were spotting friends. Musicians were catching up with musicians. Photographers were finding familiar shoulders in a crowded pit. The concert had already become a community gathering before the headliner played a note.

Gallivant finds the groove

Gallivant opened the evening with the confidence of a band accustomed to winning over rooms one riff at a time.

The Omaha three-piece describes its sound as riff-based groove rock, and the phrase fits. Their performance carried the looseness of a party band without sacrificing the muscle needed to prepare a packed rock crowd for Mammoth. A high-energy medley mashup pushed the room forward before the band capped the sequence with a stellar nod to the Scorpions.

Medleys can become little more than jukebox tricks in the wrong hands. Gallivant approached theirs as a conversation with the crowd. Familiar fragments arrived quickly, giving listeners an immediate way into the performance while the band’s own personality held the pieces together.

The frontman stood at the center of it all. He did not need inflated bravado, drawn-out speeches or any of the other habits occasionally mistaken for stage presence. His command came from charisma and timing. He knew when to pull the crowd closer, when to let the groove breathe and when to hand the moment back to the musicians beside him.

Rock frontmen often face a simple choice. They can perform at an audience or bring the audience into the performance. Gallivant chose the latter. By the end of the set, the distance between the stage and the floor had nearly disappeared.

It was an intelligent opening performance because it understood its role without shrinking beneath it. Gallivant warmed the room, established the evening’s humor and delivered enough personality to leave its own mark. They did not imitate the headliner’s scale. They built their own momentum and handed Mammoth a crowd ready to move.

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A heartbeat in the dark

Mammoth ran only a few minutes behind schedule before taking the stage at 8:05 p.m.

The room fell into complete darkness. A heavy heartbeat began pulsing through the sound system, low enough to feel in the floorboards before it fully registered in the ears. Each beat tightened the anticipation until the band emerged and Wooly’s erupted.

Flashing lights cut through the room as pillars of digital flame climbed across the video wall. No actual fire was needed. The graphics, darkness and physical force of the opening rhythm made the stage appear wider than the building had any right to hold.

Once known as Mammoth WVH, Mammoth now carries a shorter name into the era surrounding its third album, The End. The initials may be gone, but the scope has only grown. In Wooly’s, the band delivered the kind of production and sound normally expected several rungs higher on the venue-capacity ladder.

Wolfgang Van Halen stepped forward in a Zelda T-shirt, adding a small flash of color to a lineup otherwise dressed almost entirely in black. The shirt fit neatly with the arcade-inspired visuals waiting behind him. It also sparked one quick press-pit thought before the music reclaimed everyone’s attention: has Wolfie lost weight?

His signature yellow guitar supplied the brighter visual statement. Under the moving lights, it looked nearly illuminated against the darker clothing and stage design.

The current touring lineup places guitarists Jon Jourdan and Frank Sidoris on either side of Van Halen, with bassist Ronnie Ficarro and drummer Garrett Whitlock completing the five-piece formation. Their arrangement looked clean and balanced, each player occupying a defined piece of the stage while the sound remained dense enough to fill every corner of the club.

The band opened with “One of a Kind”, the first track from The End. Its immediate drive made it a natural entrance point, announcing the newest version of Mammoth before the set reached backward through the catalog.

Without wasting the momentum, the band moved into “Another Celebration at the End of the World”. The transition carried the audience from the latest album into Mammoth II while keeping the opening charge intact. Guitars remained sharp, the rhythm section landed with weight and Van Halen’s voice stayed clear above a mix capable of turning muddy in a room packed this tightly.

Instead, the sound was remarkably clean and crisp. Each instrument remained distinguishable inside the larger wall of sound. The guitars were heavy without becoming shapeless, the drums carried genuine physical impact and the bass gave the songs enough foundation to keep the room moving.

Big sound, human scale

Van Halen stopped and addressed the audience directly, explaining, “We weren’t ready, some stuff going on with our ears,” while pointing toward the band’s in-ear monitors.

There was no attempt to disguise the problem or bury it beneath a vague excuse. He told the room what was happening, the issue was handled and the band moved forward. The interruption was brief, but it revealed plenty about the group’s temperament. Mammoth could deliver a highly polished production without pretending live music always behaves perfectly.

The 14-song set reached across all three Mammoth albums. Six selections came from The End, five from the 2021 debut Mammoth WVH and three from Mammoth II. Rather than leaning on a single chapter, the band presented a compact history of Wolfgang Van Halen’s work under the Mammoth name.

Hearing those periods together also clarified how quickly the project has developed. The early material established Van Halen as a songwriter and multi-instrumentalist with his own identity, while the newer songs have grown more comfortable with scale. The hooks are larger, the visual world is more defined and the touring band now carries the material with the confidence of a permanent unit rather than a collection of hired hands orbiting one recognizable name.

The family name will always enter the room before Wolfgang does. Rock history made sure of it. His live performance, however, did not depend on nostalgia or inherited goodwill. He did not spend the evening recreating someone else’s past. The set remained centered on Mammoth’s own songs, humor and visual language.

At one point, an unscripted conversation broke out over one guitarist’s impressive beard. It was ridiculous in the best possible way, the sort of exchange friends might have during rehearsal before remembering hundreds of people were listening. The crowd laughed because the moment did not feel rehearsed or strategically placed between songs. It was simply funny.

Van Halen’s self-deprecating delivery kept those exchanges from becoming distractions. He appeared comfortable enough to let the show loosen around the edges, trusting the music to pull everything back into focus when the next song began.

Humility is sometimes discussed as if it requires a performer to become smaller onstage. Mammoth offered a better version. The band could sound enormous, use elaborate visuals and command a packed club without treating the audience like anonymous bodies beneath the lights.

The visual presentation followed the same balance.

Old-school video-game imagery rolled across the backdrop in styles recalling classic arcade cabinets and early home consoles. The graphics were bright, playful and nostalgic without clashing with the weight of the music. Van Halen’s Zelda shirt made the theme feel even less like a production-company concept and more like a genuine extension of his personality.

Home videos appeared among those graphics, bringing a more intimate texture into the set. Their presence softened the machinery surrounding the band. Digital flames, flashing lights and heavy guitar tones could create spectacle, but the footage kept a piece of personal history close to the center.

The pairing worked because Mammoth did not treat heaviness and sentiment as opposing forces. The show could be loud without becoming cold. It could be polished without becoming distant. It could acknowledge memory without allowing the past to swallow the person standing onstage in the present.

Near the end, Van Halen pretended the set was finished and staged a fake exit. He drew out the cheers, allowing the audience to play along even though few people appeared ready to believe him. The joke landed because it matched the personality established throughout the evening: accomplished, slightly mischievous and never too proud to undercut the drama with a grin.

The band returned for the final push with “Don’t Back Down”, one of Mammoth’s defining early songs. Its title alone made it a nearly perfect response to the fake departure. The riff hit, the crowd answered and any remaining separation between the stage and floor vanished.

Then came “The End”.

Closing with a song bearing the name of the album, tour and supposed conclusion could have felt overly tidy. Mammoth gave it enough force to make the choice feel earned. The final song did not suggest an ending so much as another door opening. Its weight carried the evening to a decisive finish while leaving the band’s next chapter very much in motion.

Afterglow

The evening began with Igor circling the block for 30 minutes and ended with a packed room refusing to let Mammoth leave without one final song. Somewhere between the parking hunt and the fake exit, the frustration of getting there became part of the story.

Concerts rarely begin with the first note. Sometimes they start six blocks away, moving at a near sprint while the clock argues with every crosswalk. Sometimes they begin in the relief of making it through the doors and discovering half the local music scene waiting inside.

Mammoth brought arena-sized sound into Wooly’s, but the evening worked because the band never lost sight of the people standing a few feet away. The heartbeat in the darkness, digital flames, arcade graphics and towering riffs gave the show scale. The monitor admission, beard discussion, home movies and fake exit gave it a pulse.

Outside, the cars still had to be found.

Inside, Mammoth had already shown everyone why they keep circling the block.

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Some albums introduce themselves with a firm handshake. Others ask a question, glance toward the nearest exit and let the silence grow uncomfortable.

Can You? belongs firmly in the latter category.

For years, Off Contact has quietly occupied one of the most distinctive corners of Sioux Falls' music scene, blending post-punk, shoegaze, psychedelia, and art rock into something that increasingly feels less like a collection of influences than a language of its own.

For listeners expecting towering choruses or immediate hooks, the album’s deliberate pacing may initially feel restrained. The restraint is precisely where Off Contact separates itself from many contemporary post-punk acts. Across forty-odd minutes, the band shows little interest in racing toward catharsis. It would rather study the pressure building beforehand: the private craving, the public threat, the thought circling after midnight and the bargain made when desperation has worn down every lock.

The approach rewards close attention. The music draws a listener inward through repetition, then the lyrics reveal how little safety exists once you arrive. Even the album title feels intentionally incomplete. Can you what? Change? Notice? Endure? Trust your own mind? Refuse the hand offering an easier life at a terrible price? Each song supplies another possible ending, but none stays settled for long.

Off Contact has described its sound as existing somewhere between post-punk urgency, Madchester grooves, shoegaze haze, psychedelic textures and the slow-building progression of post-rock. The description sounds ambitious on paper, but Can You? justifies every piece of it. The album rarely rests inside one identity. A driving bass line may recall classic post-punk before dissolving into shimmering guitar washes, then rhythmic repetition carries the song forward with a krautrock-like pulse.

What could have become an inventory of influences instead feels cohesive. The record understands movement as more than speed. Sometimes movement means a body dancing. Sometimes it means a thought pacing a groove into the floor.

The rhythm section is the album’s secret weapon

If the album has a defining musical characteristic, it is not the guitars. It is the rhythm section.

Bassist Pat Nelson and drummer Brogan Costa provide a remarkably disciplined foundation throughout the record, locking into grooves both mechanical and deeply human. Their playing rarely elbows its way to the front, yet nearly every memorable passage begins with the pair establishing an unwavering pulse before the rest of the band reaches outward. Costa’s drums give the songs forward motion without rushing them. Nelson treats the bass as a melodic anchor, adding shape beneath arrangements capable of drifting into abstraction.

Their patience gives guitarist Simon Keller room to paint instead of merely riff. Chorus, delay and reverb shift around the rhythm section without burying it. Distortion becomes weather rather than blunt force, changing the air pressure around a song until its shape feels larger than it did a minute earlier. Keller’s saxophone credit also speaks to the album’s willingness to widen its palette without placing a blinking arrow over every new color.

Qarl Koyzer’s vocals and keys complete the architecture. The vocal is intentionally integrated into the mix, often functioning as another instrument instead of a narrator standing above the band. Listeners seeking an arena-sized performance may wish for more separation, but the decision suits a record concerned with obscured motives, unreliable thoughts and voices creeping in from the edge of perception. Koyzer does not simply deliver the unease. He lives inside it.

This balance also explains why the lyrics and music work so well together. The rhythm section supplies order. The guitars cloud its boundaries. The vocal tries to make sense of whatever is moving in the fog. The record repeatedly sounds stable from the floor down and unsettled everywhere else.

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Everybody needs something

If the music establishes Can You?'s atmosphere, the lyrics explain why it feels so unsettled. Rather than telling a single narrative, Off Contact assembles a series of emotional and symbolic snapshots linked by a common question: what do people reach for when they can no longer live comfortably inside themselves? Escape appears in many forms—compulsion, authority, refuge, reason, grief, and the promise of becoming someone else—but every path carries its own cost.

“Anew” opens with a catalog of human needs. Pain, war, shame, praise, drugs, sex, love, and hope are presented with equal weight, blurring the line between what sustains a person and what ultimately consumes them. By the song’s close, the plea to be “made anew” feels less like optimism than desperation. Reinvention is introduced as the album’s central desire, but never as a guaranteed salvation.

That search immediately collides with outside authority on “The Clink.” Endless questioning transforms investigation into intimidation as institutions reduce individuals to categories and procedures. Whether the song points toward criminal justice, politics, or bureaucracy is deliberately left unresolved. Its real subject is the way systems can make guilt feel inevitable simply by refusing to stop asking.

“Haven” widens the lens through vivid natural imagery. Mountains, streams, rain, and circling vultures create a landscape that feels both beautiful and uneasy. The song never decides whether its refuge is physical, emotional, or environmental. Instead, it suggests that safety itself may be conditional—something promised but never fully secured.

If the first three songs examine forces outside ourselves, “Heart and Mind” turns inward. Instinct and reason become competing saboteurs rather than reliable guides, arguing that either can become destructive when followed without restraint. The conflict gives the album one of its clearest recurring themes: our greatest obstacles often speak in our own voice.

That idea continues through “Violent Walking” and “Side.” The former explores regret, decay, and the quiet ways harm can arrive without spectacle, while the latter places personal crisis in the middle of a crowd that never notices it unfolding. Physical proximity offers no guarantee of genuine connection, making isolation feel even more profound.

The album’s final stretch shifts from observation toward consequence. “Stakes Are High” frames every decision as a wager whose outcome can never be fully known, while “Maybe Another Day” exchanges fear for grief. Memories linger like ghosts, and survival narrows to the modest hope of enduring one more day.

Closing track “This Is A Stick Up” brings the album full circle. Where “Anew” introduced the longing to become someone else, the finale imagines that desire exploited by a figure offering transformation at an unbearable price. Reinvention, once imagined as liberation, becomes another transaction capable of leaving someone emptier than before.

Taken together, the songs never settle into a single narrative, but they consistently return to the same unresolved questions. Can people truly change? Can they trust themselves? Can they recognize false refuge before surrendering to it? The album’s title, Can You?, remains intentionally unfinished because every track proposes a different ending to the question—and none offers an easy answer.

Production that serves the songs

One of Can You?’s greatest achievements lies in its production. The album was recorded and mixed by Jack Liedel at Carpet Booth Studios in November 2025, then mastered by Bruce Templeton at Microphonic Mastering. Dense rock records often sacrifice either clarity or impact when every instrument competes for the same space. This mix preserves both.

The openness makes repeat listens rewarding. Guitar flourishes emerge from corners previously mistaken for empty air. Bass lines reveal melodic turns beneath the vocal. Small rhythmic accents begin to feel indispensable. Even Koyzer’s partially submerged delivery gains definition once the ear learns where to find it.

The same restraint can become a weakness on an initial listen. Several songs ask more from the audience than they immediately return. A sharper melodic anchor in a few passages could have given the atmosphere somewhere firmer to land, and the middle distance between songs may blur before their individual personalities emerge. Listeners accustomed to immediate payoff could mistake patience for sameness.

Time changes the criticism without erasing it. Repetition gradually exposes the deliberate differences between each song, much as walking the same neighborhood reveals which porch light flickers and which gate never quite closes. Can You? is built for familiarity. Its details gather slowly, then refuse to leave.

Comparisons to Shame, Iceage, Ulrika Spacek or Geese offer a useful starting map, especially for listeners encountering Off Contact for the first time. They do not explain the destination. The deeper identity lives in how this lineup lets a groove remain physical while everything above it grows psychologically unstable. By now, the group sounds less like musicians arranging their influences and more like a band arranging a world of its own.

Can You? arrives July 31, followed by an album release show at Icon Lounge in Sioux Falls on August 1. For a scene often overlooked outside the Upper Midwest, the record offers another reminder of how much ambitious music grows far from the places accustomed to claiming the conversation.

Afterglow

The album’s written arc begins by asking to be made new and ends with a knife placed inside the offer. Between those points, Off Contact finds people dancing beside suffering, running from wagers already lost and listening for absent friends in the movement of leaves.

The final seconds tidy nothing up. The rhythm keeps moving, the question remains unfinished and the silence after the final track feels less empty than watchful.

Off Contact has made one of South Dakota’s strongest albums of the year, but the state line is not the edge of its reach. Can You? deserves a wider conversation because it trusts uncertainty enough to leave the door open.

Some records give answers. This one looks you in the eye and waits.

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Nothing quite like a school night rock show at The District to throw your sleep schedule into absolute ruin early in the week. On this Tuesday night, though, every lost hour of sleep was worth it as Lips Speak Louder, Stretch, and Buckcherry turned an ordinary weeknight into a memorable evening of rock music.

As is tradition, I walked through the doors, made a beeline for the merchandise tables, and prepared myself for the usual temptation of T-shirts, vinyl records, CDs, and maybe a signed poster or album. Instead, I found one of the most unusual collections of tour merchandise I’ve seen in quite some time. Before a single note had been played, I already knew this wasn’t going to be an average concert.

Merch Tables Full of Surprises

Stretch’s merchandise booth immediately caught my attention. Sitting alongside the normal assortment of shirts were bottles of sauces and spices.

At first, it seemed completely random. Was this some side business? A joke? A promotional gimmick?

By the end of their performance, however, it made perfect sense. Their personality was so over the top and unpredictable that selling hot sauce almost felt tame compared to everything else they brought to the stage.

Buckcherry’s table had its own surprises. Instead of just signed CDs and apparel, fans with deep pockets could purchase one of two autographed guitars, a signed cymbal that had actually been used during a full tour, and even a show worn bandana. These weren’t inexpensive collectibles either. The least expensive of the unique items started around $450, making them true collector’s pieces rather than impulse purchases.

Even before the house lights dimmed, the evening had already proven itself to be a little different.

Lips Speak Louder Opens with Confidence

The first act of the evening came from Minneapolis based duo Lips Speak Louder, making their Sioux Falls debut.

It’s always refreshing to hear an artist mention it’s their first visit to town because there’s a certain excitement that comes with trying to win over a brand new audience. Based on the response they received, I’d be surprised if this ends up being their last stop in Sioux Falls.

Their setup couldn’t have been much simpler. Armed with only a guitar and a drum kit, they demonstrated that a full wall of instruments isn’t necessary to create a compelling rock performance.

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Simplicity That Never Felt Small

One of the biggest compliments I can give Lips Speak Louder is that the set never felt repetitive.

With only two musicians on stage, it would have been easy for songs to begin blending together. Instead, each track carried its own identity, keeping the audience engaged throughout the performance.

The lighting production also stood out. Opening acts often receive a stripped down version of the production package, but this felt more polished than expected. The added visual energy elevated the performance and made the duo feel every bit deserving of their spot on the stage.

By the time they wrapped up, they had earned plenty of new fans.

Stretch Delivers Pure Entertainment

Then came Stretch.

I can honestly say I’ve never seen another performer quite like him, at least not recently. The only artist that even comes close in terms of unpredictability is Weird Al Yankovic, and that’s saying something.

Almost immediately after Stretch walked on stage, another photographer leaned over and pointed out something I couldn’t ignore for the rest of the night.

“He looks like Danny DeVito from Batman Returns.”

Minus the pale makeup, dark eyeliner, and pointed nose, the comparison was surprisingly accurate, and once that image entered my head, there was no getting rid of it.

Thankfully, it only added to the fun.

You Never Knew What Would Happen Next

Calling Stretch simply a musician doesn’t really capture what he does.

He’s an entertainer in every sense of the word.

At one point, he tossed Slim Jims into the crowd after performing “Flavortown.” Moments later, kazoos began flying toward audience members for them to play during the following song. Then came full sized boxing gloves chucked into the crowd.

He even handed a fan an actual cowbell so they could participate during a song.

Every few minutes something unexpected happened, making it nearly impossible to lower my camera. Normally photographers can anticipate the big moments of a performance, but with Stretch, every second felt like it could become the next memorable image.

A Bubble-Filled Finale

Just when it seemed like the performance couldn’t become any more ridiculous, the finale arrived. A commercial sized bubble machine erupted near the end of the set, sending thousands of tiny bubbles floating throughout the venue.

It was wonderfully absurd.

Sometimes opening acts simply warm up the crowd. Other times they steal the show.

For me, Stretch delivered my favorite performance of the entire evening. The combination of comedy, audience interaction, musicianship, and complete unpredictability made every song feel like its own event.

Buckcherry Closes Out the Night

As the evening pushed later into the night, Buckcherry finally took the stage.

I was never the biggest Buckcherry fan growing up, but like many people from my generation, there were a handful of songs that found their way into playlists during my high school years.

Thankfully, they played both of those favorites.

The band delivered exactly what longtime fans would expect with loud guitars, infectious hooks, and enough energy to make everyone forget it was only Tuesday.

The Surprise Emotional Highlight

Ironically, my favorite Buckcherry song of the night wasn’t one of their hard hitting rock anthems.

It was a ballad.

When the opening notes of “Sorry” began, I realized I had completely forgotten about the song. Then, almost magically, every lyric returned as if I had been listening to it right before the show.

Music has a funny way of unlocking memories like that.

One familiar melody can transport you years into the past, and for a few minutes, I wasn’t standing inside The District. I was back in high school discovering the song for the first time.

Those moments are part of what makes live music so special.

Josh Todd Still Owns the Stage

Josh Todd remains one of rock’s most charismatic frontmen.

His trademark gradual transformation throughout the set made another appearance. Rather than immediately tearing off his shirt, he slowly worked toward it over the course of the performance, beginning fully dressed, then opening the buttons, and finally finishing shirtless by the end of the night.

It almost became its own visual storyline that evolved alongside the setlist.

Meanwhile, the rest of the band maintained relentless energy, keeping the crowd fully engaged until the final notes echoed through the venue.

Judging by the audience reaction, nobody was ready for the night to end. Unfortunately, reality had other plans.

It was still a Tuesday.

Afterglow

One of my favorite things about touring packages is discovering artists I probably never would have sought out on my own.

Buckcherry may have been the headliner that sold the tickets, but both opening acts proved why they deserved to share the stage.

Lips Speak Louder showcased how much power can come from simplicity. Stretch reminded everyone that concerts can still surprise us and be genuinely fun in unexpected ways. Buckcherry delivered the nostalgic, high energy rock show longtime fans came to see.

Each band represented a different corner of the rock genre, creating a lineup that offered something for nearly everyone in attendance.

Tuesday nights may not be ideal for staying out late, but concerts like this remind me why it’s worth sacrificing a little sleep.

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By the time we reached Climate Pledge Arena, a massive crowd had swallowed the sidewalks outside. The most committed fans were easy to spot. Several had arrived in full pink bodysuits, carrying a piece of George Miller’s bizarre internet history into the arena with them.

I had to explain the reference to my friends. Before the melancholy vocals and slow-burning alt-R&B of Joji, Miller built an online following through Filthy Frank and Pink Guy, the latter being the Lycra-covered chaos creature represented in the crowd. Seeing those pink suits among fans who had discovered Joji through songs such as “Glimpse of Us” offered a quick survey of his entire career. The old internet guard had shown up alongside a newer generation ready to turn up on a Sunday night, even if their reasons for loving him began in completely different corners of the internet.

Getting everyone inside proved to be its own production. Bag-check lines stretched far enough to make bringing a purse feel like a poor life decision. Luckily, we had arrived without bags and slipped into a significantly shorter line. Once inside, the arena staff were exceptionally helpful in directing us toward our seats. Out of all the venues I have visited, Climate Pledge had some of the nicest employees I have encountered. Clear directions and a little patience go a long way when thousands of people are wandering through an arena looking for the correct section.

Then I paid $18.25 for a tall boy.

Some memories are made by music. Others are burned into the soul by beverage pricing.

A slow trip to the seats

The official schedule for the Seattle stop of the Solaris global arena tour listed doors at 6:30 p.m. We were settled into our seats around 7:45, but large pockets of the crowd continued filtering into their sections well past 8:30. Even shortly before 9, people were still navigating rows, apologizing while stepping over knees and trying to figure out which cupholder belonged to whom.

Because we arrived after the scheduled start, this review begins with the opening performance we actually caught. Around 8:30, Nate Sib took the stage with an electronic pop sound parked somewhere in modern Justin Bieber territory. The music carried glossy production and youthful pop instincts, though the live presentation did not always land from our seats.

At several points, Sib rolled around onstage or dropped into what can only be described as “Disney knees.” The exaggerated movement seemed designed to project emotional intensity, but it occasionally crossed into awkwardness. Instead of pulling attention deeper into the songs, the choreography became the main event. There is always room for physical performance in pop music, especially when the production leans synthetic and kinetic, but the movements need to feel connected to the music. Here, some of them felt placed on top of it.

Cringe is subjective, of course. One person’s dramatic pop release is another person’s reason to stare at the floor and wait for the next song. From where we sat, the rolling and crouching were difficult to watch without a little secondhand embarrassment.

Fortunately, the wait for the main event was nearly over.

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The signal reaches Seattle

At 9:01 p.m., the room shifted as Joji appeared and opened with “PIXELATED KISSES”, the first track from his latest album, Piss in the Wind. Its distorted production and clipped momentum immediately gave the audience somewhere to place all the anticipation built during the long entrance process.

The opener flowed seamlessly into “Sojourn”, extending the darker electronic atmosphere before Joji began moving toward the quieter material associated with much of his career. Opening with two songs from the new album was a smart choice. It gave the show an immediate sense of forward motion instead of relying on an older hit to secure an easy reaction.

From there, the set moved between recent material and familiar favorites without allowing either side of his catalog to dominate. Longtime fans had recognizable songs to hold onto while newer tracks were given enough room to establish their own identity. Arena shows can lose momentum when the latest album is treated as a mandatory block the audience must endure before the hits return. Joji avoided that problem by weaving the eras together.

His career has always contained an unusual tension. A performer once known for deliberately obnoxious internet comedy now makes music built around isolation, distance and emotional hesitation. The pink suits in the crowd carried one version of him into the building, while the stage belonged almost entirely to the other. There were a few flashes of absurdity, but the music remained at the center.

One of those flashes arrived when Joji sat near the edge of the stage and produced a T-shirt cannon. It was random, unnecessary and genuinely fun. For a moment, the brooding atmosphere gave way to the simple joy of watching an artist fire merchandise into an arena. Nobody needed a deeper artistic explanation. Sometimes a man just has a cannon full of shirts.

Letting the visuals do the moving

The most unexpected staging choice arrived during “Last of a Dying Breed”, when Joji brought out a robotic backup dancer. The sight of a machine moving beside him could have become a distracting gimmick, but it fit naturally within the cold, digitally fractured world surrounding the new material. I had never seen anything quite like it at a concert. It was strange, memorable and far more effective than another burst of fire or obligatory confetti drop.

Joji himself remained much more subdued. Throughout the performance, he looked tired and occasionally unenthused. There is no point pretending otherwise. His body language rarely suggested someone eager to command every inch of an arena stage, and anyone expecting relentless crowd work or oversized showmanship may have found his presence distant.

Thankfully, the apparent fatigue did not damage his vocals.

Joji’s singing remained the foundation of the show, and the production seemed intentionally designed around that strength. The stage visuals supplied movement, scale and atmosphere while he concentrated on delivering the songs. Instead of competing with a dozen effects, the audience could focus on the shape of his voice and the emotional weight it carried through the room.

It was a welcome change from arena productions in which every moment arrives with another explosion, costume change or mechanical platform. Large shows often operate under the assumption that silence must be filled and stillness must be corrected. Joji allowed both to exist. The screens and lighting enlarged the mood without burying him beneath spectacle.

His reserved presence still left room for criticism. Restraint can be purposeful, but visible exhaustion can also weaken the connection between performer and audience. The Seattle performance occasionally drifted close to that boundary. Joji’s vocals kept it from crossing over. Even when his physical presence seemed detached, his voice remained controlled enough to carry the songs.

Several arrangements also departed from their familiar studio versions. Songs including “Ew” and “SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK” appeared in altered keys or moved at slower tempos. Those changes gave the material a heavier, worn-in quality. Rather than reproducing recordings note for note, Joji let the songs settle into the room at their own pace.

Slowing familiar material can be risky. Pull too far and the song loses its pulse. Here, the stretched arrangements generally supported the evening’s subdued character. The crowd recognized the songs immediately, but the altered delivery forced everyone to listen again instead of automatically singing over a carbon copy of the record.

A short night with a long shadow

The pacing made the entire show feel surprisingly quick. We reached our seats at 7:45, Joji began at 9:01 and the evening wrapped around 10:30. For a Sunday-night arena show, the efficiency was almost merciful. Most of the audience probably had alarms waiting for them Monday morning, and no encore is powerful enough to negotiate with a work schedule.

Despite the relatively compact experience, the set never felt carelessly rushed. Joji covered both sides of what his audience had come to hear: the newer, more distorted world of Piss in the Wind and the quieter songs responsible for building his wider following. The visual production filled the spaces left by his restrained stage presence, while occasional oddities such as the T-shirt cannon and robotic dancer kept the show from becoming too solemn.

The final eruption arrived with “SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK”. Used as the closing encore, the song drew the loudest response of the night. The crowd went wild as soon as it recognized the opening, and the slower live arrangement gave the finale an added sense of weight. It was the right song to close with: familiar enough to unite the arena, emotionally heavy enough to linger after the lights came up.

Afterglow

Outside the arena, those pink bodysuits returned to the Seattle streets alongside fans who had come to Joji through an entirely different life. Some had followed George Miller since the days of Filthy Frank and Pink Guy. Others knew only the soft voice, shadowed production and songs built for staring at the ceiling long after everyone else has gone to sleep.

My friends belonged closer to the second group, although even they had only recently begun listening. They entered without much history with Joji and left happy, curious and interested in exploring more of his music. A concert does not need to convert someone into an obsessive fan before they reach the parking lot. Sometimes opening the next door is enough.

The performance was not flawless. Nate Sib’s stage movement frequently felt forced, Joji looked tired and the arena’s beer prices bordered on a personal attack. Still, the vocals held, the visual choices served the music and the mix of old favorites with new material kept the crowd engaged.

Joji did not leave Seattle with a wall of fire behind him. He left with thousands of voices carrying “SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK” toward the exits. For a performer who built an arena show around distance, stillness and digital noise, the strongest moment came when everyone in the room finally sang together.

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Another beautiful Saturday evening welcomed music lovers back to The Levitt at Falls Park. With comfortable weather, a lively crowd, and another free night of live entertainment, the stage played host to two very different acts that were united by one thing. Authenticity. The evening featured a local nonprofit whose music serves a life changing mission alongside a family bluegrass trio whose lifelong passion for music radiated through every note.

By the end of the night, attendees had experienced not only excellent performances but also reminders of the power music has to unite people, tell stories, and bring communities together.

Breathe Bravely Opens With a Mission Bigger Than Music

The evening began with a performance from Breathe Bravely, a local nonprofit organization dedicated to helping individuals living with cystic fibrosis find their voices through music. Following a brief introduction from one of the organization’s board members, founder Ashley Ballou-Bonnema welcomed the audience and immediately established that this would be more than just another opening set.

Throughout the performance, Ashley shared pieces of her own story as someone living with cystic fibrosis. Her vulnerability gave every song additional meaning, allowing the audience to see that each lyric carried experiences that were deeply personal. There were moments where emotion visibly surfaced as she spoke about the challenges of living with the disease, but there was even greater joy as she described how music has become a source of hope for so many others facing similar circumstances.

sINgSPIRE Brings Hope Across the Globe

One of the central focuses of the evening was Breathe Bravely’s sINgSPIRE program, which provides virtual voice lessons for people living with cystic fibrosis around the world.

Because individuals with cystic fibrosis cannot safely gather together due to the risk of dangerous cross infection, technology has become an incredible bridge for connection. What would normally be impossible has become reality through online lessons, allowing students from across the globe to improve their singing while building relationships with others who truly understand their journey.

Ashley was joined on stage by Maren Engel and Betty Kay, whose beautiful harmonies complemented not only the music but also the stories shared between songs. Their chemistry made the performance feel personal and inviting rather than simply rehearsed.

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A World Premiere That Moved the Entire Crowd

The emotional centerpiece of the evening came when Breathe Bravely unveiled the world premiere of a brand new music video featuring participants from the sINgSPIRE program.

Knowing the unique circumstances behind the project made the presentation especially moving. Every singer appeared individually, yet through thoughtful editing and modern technology they were able to perform together as one unified choir.

For many in attendance, this wasn’t simply another music video. It represented people overcoming barriers that most of us never have to consider. Despite being physically separated by necessity, these singers were able to create something beautiful together.

As the video concluded, there was a noticeable sense of pride throughout the audience. While Breathe Bravely undoubtedly delivered an impressive musical performance, they also reminded everyone that meaningful work is happening right here in Sioux Falls. Their set became a celebration of resilience, creativity, and the belief that music can reach places where physical presence cannot.

Flat River Band Brings Southern Roots to Sioux Falls

After the heartfelt opening performance, Flat River Band took the stage and immediately shifted the atmosphere into one of carefree country living.

From the opening song, it felt as though The Levitt had been transported somewhere deep in the Appalachian hills, where life slows down, front porches become gathering places, and music is woven into everyday life.

The trio consists of three brothers whose musical heritage stretches back through multiple generations. With parents and grandparents who also performed professionally, it was immediately obvious that performing isn’t simply what they do; it’s part of who they are.

That authenticity came through in every interaction, every harmony, and every story they shared throughout the evening.

Three-Part Harmonies Steal the Show

One of the biggest highlights of Flat River Band’s performance was their vocal harmony.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about hearing three part harmonies performed by siblings who have spent a lifetime singing together. Their voices blended naturally with remarkable precision, creating rich textures that elevated every song they performed.

Whether singing upbeat bluegrass tunes or slower country ballads, their harmonies remained consistently tight, serving as the foundation for an already impressive performance.

It was one of those concerts where you could close your eyes and simply enjoy the sound without needing any elaborate stage production.

Outstanding Musicianship From Start to Finish

While the harmonies were exceptional, the musicianship across the board was equally impressive.

The brothers showcased an impressive collection of traditional instruments throughout the evening, including mandolins, banjos, harmonicas, acoustic guitars, and even a lap steel guitar. Each instrument added another layer to their unmistakably country rooted sound while keeping every arrangement fresh and engaging.

Their comfort on stage was evident as they effortlessly traded instruments, shared solos, and interacted with one another in ways that only siblings can. Nothing felt forced. Instead, every moment reflected decades of playing together.

The stories shared between songs only enhanced the experience, giving listeners context for the music while transporting them into the places and memories that inspired each performance.

Music That Invited Everyone In

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable parts of the evening was watching how naturally the audience connected with the performance.

Some people danced near the front of the stage while others relaxed in lawn chairs, tapping their feet to the rhythm. Even residents watching from nearby apartment balconies paused to enjoy the concert from above, a reminder that The Levitt’s reach extends well beyond those seated directly in front of the stage.

Flat River Band created the kind of atmosphere that encourages strangers to smile at one another, families to dance together, and everyone to forget about the busyness of everyday life for even just an hour.

If you ever have the opportunity to catch them live, don’t pass it up. Their combination of exceptional musicianship, family harmonies, and engaging storytelling makes for an unforgettable performance.

Afterglow

As the final songs faded into the evening and the sun slowly disappeared behind the skyline, it was impossible not to appreciate what makes The Levitt such a unique part of the Sioux Falls community.

Few venues consistently provide opportunities to discover both nationally touring artists and incredible local organizations on the very same stage, all while remaining completely free to the public. One moment you can be introduced to a nonprofit changing lives through music, and the next you can find yourself swept away by world class bluegrass performed by musicians who have spent their lives perfecting their craft.

That balance of community, culture, and accessibility is what continues to make each night at The Levitt feel special. Every concert offers something new to discover, whether it’s a new favorite band, a meaningful local cause, or simply another summer evening spent surrounded by great music and even better company.

If this weekend was any indication, there’s plenty more to look forward to as The Levitt’s summer concert season continues.

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The Den

The Den occupies the remains of an old Buffalo Wild Wings, a building I had not entered since the wings stopped flying. From the outside, the place could easily pass for another neighborhood bar waiting on its regulars. Step through the doors on a concert night, however, and its second life becomes visible.

The Den offers pinball, billiards, darts and foosball alongside drinks for those looking for somewhere to land after dark. Fairly regularly, the room opens for a more specific crowd: concertgoers. Pool cues share space with guitar cases. Conversations compete with sound checks. People begin gathering near the stage instead of around the televisions.

On this Thursday evening, The Den belonged to the Point of No Return shows with Sioux Falls’ Rivorium, Iowa horror-rock institution Grave Corps and Portland industrial nu-metal band Amerakin Overdose.

Three people and plenty of thunder

The advertised starting time came and went while Rivorium worked through a last-minute bass problem. Equipment has a sense of humor about schedules, especially after somebody has already printed one on a flyer. The delay could have rattled the trio, but once Rivorium took its place, the set moved forward without another visible hitch.

Watching a genuinely local band walk onto a Sioux Falls stage carries a different feeling. There is no distance between the performers and the community being represented. These are not mysterious travelers appearing from a faraway tour van. They are people we know from around town, now standing under stage lights and asking everyone to hear another side of them.

Lead vocalist and bassist Mariah is also a friend of ours. She entered the performance with an injured foot, forcing her to remain seated throughout the set. Sitting limited her movement, but it did not weaken her command of the music.

She handled vocals and bass simultaneously, marking only the second time I have watched a lead singer carry the low end of a band from center stage. John Cooper of Skillet immediately came to mind, although this arrangement arrived in female form and inside a considerably smaller room.

Rivorium is only a three-piece, but the sound was never thin. The trio brought powerful riffs, frequent rhythmic turns and enough volume to make the venue feel several feet smaller. Their songs traveled through extended passages and time changes without losing their central direction. One section would settle into a steady classic-metal stride before another turn pulled the arrangement elsewhere.

Mariah described Rivorium’s music as storytelling, and her explanation matched what we heard. These songs were not built solely to reach a chorus as quickly as possible. They unfolded in scenes, allowing the riffs and tempo changes to carry the narrative.

One introduction reached into family memory, bringing up white-magic cards and a song written about her grandmother. Even without every detail explained, the personal origin gave the performance another layer. Someone’s family history had found its way into a Sioux Falls bar through a bass line and a wall of guitar.

Rivorium’s sound carries classic rock and traditional metal instincts, while the structural turns keep it from becoming simple revivalism. The trio can provide the blunt satisfaction of a heavy riff, then complicate it with longer arrangements and narrative ideas.

The delayed start and Mariah’s injured foot remained visible around the edges of the set, but neither controlled the performance. Once the trio started playing, Rivorium sounded prepared to stay on its feet—even if its singer temporarily could not.

Nineteen years among the undead

Our press director knew exactly what he was doing when he sent us to cover a bill featuring Grave Corps. He had already experienced them at the Iowa Music Awards. Once seven blood-covered musicians took their places inside The Den, we understood why he wanted our eyes on them.

Grave Corps followed with the second female-fronted band of the evening, but nearly everything else changed when the seven musicians took their positions.

For nineteen years, Grave Corps has developed its own corner of horror rock in Iowa. The group began in 2007, building from horror-punk foundations while pulling in sleaze rock, classic heavy metal and the theatrical instincts of performers who understand how much the eyes contribute to hearing a song.

The current seven-member incarnation arrived with face paint, fake blood, dark costumes and enough undead personality to resemble KISS after a long and unfortunate evening in a cemetery. Grave Corps does not treat its visual presentation as a seasonal accessory. The costumes belong to the identity of the band. Remove them and the songs would remain, but part of Grave Corps would disappear.

The commitment reminded me of covering Castle Rat, another group willing to step fully into its imagined world. For artists operating this way, wardrobe does not hang around the music as decoration. It gives the music a body.

At the center stood Traci Von Krypt, a powerful vocalist capable of leading six other musicians without vanishing into the crowd behind her. Her voice brought grit and range along with a firm grasp on melody. Grave Corps may arrive drenched in fake blood, but the group knows its way around a hook.

Their balance between heaviness and movement shaped the set. The riffs remained steady enough to pull heads into motion while the rhythm carried a hip-moving rock-and-roll swing. The audience could headbang, dance or invent a compromise involving both.

Three guitars, bass, drums and keyboards gave the arrangements considerable weight, yet the musicians did not simply stack noise until every open space disappeared. Each part served the song, producing a broader and more melodic attack than the band’s early horror-punk material.

Gang vocals and theatrical flourishes gave the songs a communal quality suited to the band’s name for its following, the Army of the Undead. Several fans already knew the material, providing Grave Corps with voices from the floor whenever a chorus called for reinforcements.

The performance included music from the group’s recent chapter. The two-track Hellfire Boulevard release arrived in August 2025, pairing its original title song with a cover of W.A.S.P.’s “Wild Child.” “Hellfire Boulevard” begins with an engine before racing into melodic guitar work, gang vocals and a hard-rock drive built for a midnight road with questionable intentions.

Their rendition of Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” became one of the set’s most recognizable moments. Cover songs can become dead space when a band merely recreates something everyone already knows. Grave Corps pulled the song into its own theatrical world instead. The familiar chorus remained, while the blood-spattered presentation and heavier delivery made it sound at home among the undead.

The horror presentation also connects to work far removed from fake knives and stage blood. Grave Corps helped create Rock 108’s annual Chaos for a Cause Halloween concert in Waterloo. The event supports the Iowa Giving Crew’s Operation Give Birds, which distributes complete Thanksgiving meals to families across eastern Iowa.

By its fifth year in 2025, Chaos for a Cause had raised over $32,000 through its first four events. Operation Give Birds planned to provide meals to over 2,500 families during the 2025 holiday season, with each package designed to feed at least four people. Roughly 10,000 people could sit down to turkey, potatoes, stuffing, vegetables and the dignity of preparing a holiday meal at home.

Grave Corps spends the year raising the dead. Around the holidays, the band helps feed the living.

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The masks arrive from Portland

Amerakin Overdose entered next, ending the evening’s streak of female lead vocalists and pushing the room from horror rock into industrial nu-metal.

The band hails from Portland, Oregon, rather than Billings, Montana. Amerakin Overdose had performed in Billings the previous evening before continuing east to Sioux Falls. The Den was one stop in the group’s Point of No Return run, which would take them to Rock Fest in Cadott, Wisconsin two days later.

The Slipknot influence announced itself immediately. Every member appeared in a mask, while the music arrived with downtuned grooves, electronic textures, dual vocals and the physical bounce associated with nu-metal’s heaviest years. The resemblance was easy to hear, but Amerakin Overdose carried enough personality to escape the shadow of its influences.

The band’s identity grew from a satire of American excess. Vocalist Cody Perez founded Amerakin Overdose in 2009 as an outlet for his thoughts on the country’s appetite for celebrity, violence, sex and manufactured identity. Even the altered spelling of “Amerakin” feels like a corrupted brand name pulled from a culture consuming too much of itself.

The masks represent characters distorted by greed, vanity and social decay. Their faces are ugly because the habits underneath them are ugly.

Amerakin Overdose also arrived prepared to claim the room. Much like Grave Corps before them, they carried their own lights, illuminated signs and banners. Those details can seem small until someone is trying to identify performers and reconstruct the evening later. A visible band name is a welcome gift for writers, photographers and new listeners trying to remember who just rearranged their hearing.

The lighting and signs made the small stage theirs. The result felt less like a touring group borrowing the corner of a bar and closer to stepping briefly into the world of Amerakin Overdose.

Both touring bands brought visible supporters who already understood their music. Familiar fans change the opening minutes of a set. Someone already knows when to shout, where the chorus lands and which riff demands movement. The band receives an immediate response instead of spending half its set introducing itself.

Amerakin Overdose mixed screams, melodic vocals and rhythmic phrasing over groove-heavy guitar work. Electronic layers thickened the atmosphere while the rhythm section kept everything moving. The music was aggressive without becoming shapeless. Hooks remained buried inside the machinery.

The strangest and most entertaining turn came when the band launched into “Genie in a Bottle”, the Christina Aguilera hit few people would expect to hear during an industrial-metal show.

Amerakin Overdose respected the pop structure underneath the original, rebuilt it with heavier guitars and allowed the collision between nostalgia and metal to carry the moment. When one vocalist extended the microphone toward the women near the stage, they supplied the familiar lyrics. A Portland shock-rock band in grotesque masks had turned The Den into the least predictable late-1990s singalong in Sioux Falls.

The cover also suited the group’s fascination with celebrity, desire and pop culture. Amerakin Overdose has spent years criticizing the machinery of fame while remaining willing to reach inside it and pull out something catchy.

Their recent music has grown increasingly personal. The 2024 album Artificial Infection focused heavily on social media, digital dependency and corrupted identity. Newer songs including “Time Bomb,” “My Endless Battle” and “Oxygen” turn toward trauma, mental health, emotional captivity and the struggle to escape destructive attachments.

The newer work complicates the masks. They once served primarily as monstrous reflections of society. Now the songs are beginning to expose the people wearing them.

Afterglow

Rivorium played through an injured foot and a delayed bass. Grave Corps brought nineteen years of blood, melody and charitable mischief onto a small stage. Amerakin Overdose carried its masks, lights and corrupted pop songs across the country before leaving for one of Wisconsin’s largest rock festivals.

The equipment packed away. The old Buffalo Wild Wings returned to looking like a neighborhood bar. For a few hours, though, the room had held white-magic cards, undead rock and Christina Aguilera beneath a wall of industrial guitars.

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When Joshua W. Turner joined me on Zoom to talk about We Wept, his Seattle-area Christian grunge and hard rock project, we had a few years of catching up to do. Since our first conversation, We Wept has gained considerable ground, released a steady run of music and found listeners well beyond the bedroom where Turner still constructs much of it.

Then he reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten.

“You were the first interview I did with We Wept,” Turner said. “You were the first guy that took me in when we were brand new and gave me that opportunity.”

Our first conversation found an artist introducing his vision. This one arrived with Turner preparing to release Guardian, a three-song EP built from his mother’s death, the collapse that followed and the encounter with God that changed the direction of his life. The project may be growing—Turner had already reported more than 300,000 Spotify streams by late May—but Guardian returns to the place where numbers cannot offer much comfort.

It begins beside a deathbed.

From the island to the city

Long before We Wept, Turner was learning how to make music alone in his bedroom on a small island in Washington. It was a quiet place to develop a voice, experiment with instruments and make the kinds of mistakes that are easier to survive when nobody is standing over your shoulder with a clipboard.

That seclusion disappeared when he left home for Berklee College of Music in Boston and later continued his education through Musicians Institute in Hollywood.

“The transition rocked me pretty good,” Turner said. “I moved from my bedroom, really honing my craft, performing music and then going straight from the little island that I was raised on to downtown Boston.”

Turner describes himself as a sensitive person. One day he was surrounded by the calm and familiarity of home. The next, he was living in the noise of a major city among musicians who had also arrived carrying talent, ambition and at least one private suspicion that everyone else knew more than they did.

“You don’t know what you don’t know,” he said. “I just went in there. It’s like, okay, I guess this is life now. Now we’re in it, and I guess this is what I wanted.”

His timing placed him inside an industry changing faster than some schools could revise their lesson plans. The traditional machinery of record labels, physical sales and expensive studios was weakening while independent distribution and home recording were beginning to open different doors.

“They were teaching you the music industry when the music industry wasn’t there anymore,” Turner said. “They were going off of a model that wasn’t really relevant.”

He had applied to Berklee as a vocalist almost by process of elimination. Turner could already play several instruments, so he had to choose which one would carry him through the application. He liked being a frontman, so singing won. That decision eventually gave him operatic training and a technical understanding of his voice, though We Wept would later use that education in ways unlikely to be heard during a polite recital.

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What Seattle leaves in the blood

Turner did not discover Seattle’s musical history through documentaries or anniversary editions. He grew up while it was happening around him.

As a child, he rode through Seattle during the early 1990s without fully understanding that the music coming from the city was reshaping rock across the world. Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Nirvana were local sounds before he was old enough to recognize their global reach.

Grunge found him again in high school, this time when he was old enough to understand the heaviness, alienation and honesty carried inside those songs.

“I was hit again with the second wave of being an older person and recognizing these songs speak to my soul,” Turner said. “The heaviness, the darkness, even simply the pain of the lyrics and the honesty.”

Those influences remain visible in We Wept, but Turner does not approach them like a student attempting to reconstruct an old blueprint.

“I don’t think about how to do it,” he said. “I think I just am and I just be.”

That philosophy explains why “Not Satisfied” can carry a Soundgarden-shaped riff while “Desperate” bears the abrasion of Nirvana. Turner occasionally begins with the thought that he would like to write something resembling an artist he loves. By the time the idea passes through his own history, faith and instincts, it has become a We Wept song.

“Nobody can touch this because nobody is me,” he said.

It is a line that could sound arrogant in the wrong hands. Turner delivers it as encouragement. Every artist inherits influences, but no one else filters them through the same collection of memories. The goal is not to pretend inspiration appeared from an empty sky. It is to stop apologizing for the fingerprints left behind after making it your own.

Seattle’s scene has changed. Turner sees the current landscape leaning toward independent music rather than the concentrated grunge movement that once turned the city into the center of the rock world. The old connections have not completely vanished, though. He casually mentioned that Layne Staley’s mother lives nearby, the sort of detail that reminds you musical history is often less like a museum and more like realizing somebody’s mom lives down the road.

Two microphones in a church cupboard

We Wept operates primarily as Turner’s one-man project. He writes the songs, plays the instruments, records the parts, mixes the sessions, masters the finished tracks and creates the artwork. The arrangement offers control, but it grew from years of disappointment.

As a younger musician, Turner spent money taking songs into professional studios. Producers would return recordings that sounded polished but no longer resembled what he had heard in his mind. Eventually, he stopped handing the work to other people.

“I wasn’t trained in producing music,” Turner said. “But when you do it for 20 years, you learn things. A lot of trial and error.”

The gear behind We Wept carries none of the glamour commonly associated with professional studios. One day, Turner was cleaning an old cupboard at a church when he found two forgotten microphones inside a drawer—one intended for vocals and another for instruments. The church allowed him to take them home.

Those discarded microphones became part of the We Wept sound.

“I intentionally use a really cheap microphone,” Turner said.

The vocal microphone cost less than $100. The instrument microphone is so old that he has struggled to find much information about it. Turner owns more expensive equipment, including a Blue microphone, but when he attempted to record heavier vocals through it, the result sounded too clean. He returned to the cheap microphone because its natural distortion supplied the scarred edge he had come to recognize as his own.

There is something fitting about a Christian rock project finding its voice through unwanted microphones pulled from a church cupboard. Most origin stories receive some polishing after the fact. This one still has dust on it.

Turner takes a similarly practical approach to mixing and mastering. After years of becoming overwhelmed by countless production options, he returned to a simpler question: Does it sound good?

He mixes the track, raises the master as loudly as possible without unwanted distortion, widens the sound and adds a touch of excitation. Twenty years of experimentation have reduced a maze of technical possibilities into a process guided largely by his ears.

That simplicity does not mean the music lacks dynamics. Turner pointed to Deftones as a major sonic influence, particularly the movement from restraint into overwhelming force. Hearing “Change (In the House of Flies)” in high school introduced him to a contrast he has chased ever since: delicate verses that suddenly open into enormous choruses.

The influence can be heard clearly in “Live For You”, where soft falsetto vocals give way to a monstrous scream.

“It’s like Deftones meets Marilyn Manson, but Jesus is at the center of it,” Turner said.

His operatic training helps him make those transitions without shredding his throat. Turner does not obsess over vocal terminology while recording. He listens to what his body tells him.

“If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong,” he said. “If it doesn’t hurt, then you’re OK.”

If he can move from a scream into a soft falsetto without pain, irritation or a lingering tickle in his throat, he knows the technique is working. The performance may sound like a man tearing something out of himself, but the goal is to leave the vocal cords alive enough to do it again tomorrow.

Three songs that could not be separated

Guardian begins with “Need to Say,” the song that drew a trace of Mother Love Bone to my ears during an advance listen. Turner had not consciously pulled from the band when he wrote it. The music came from somewhere far more personal.

He composed the central riff before becoming a Christian, while his mother was dying. Turner would sit beside her unconscious body and play it near her deathbed.

After she died, he went into what he describes as a downward spiral. The eventual collapse brought him to rock bottom, where he says he experienced the presence of God and became a follower of Jesus. He later wrote the lyrics to “Need to Say” from the perspective of his mother’s death.

The second song, “Leave the Light On,” moves into the emptiness left behind. Turner addresses his mother after she is gone, holding onto the hope that he will see her again.

If she is somewhere beyond this life, he asks her to leave a light on for him.

The title track completes the progression. “Guardian” captures Turner’s collapse into hopelessness and the moment he believes the Holy Spirit met him there. The song does not approach conversion as a clean before-and-after photograph. It carries the force of someone hitting the floor because there was nowhere lower left to go.

“I have the power,” Turner sings. “I feel nothing but you.”

Together, the three tracks follow death, absence and spiritual rescue. Turner understood that releasing them separately would damage the story, even in an industry built around feeding listeners one single at a time.

“It’s not necessarily a smart business thing to release an EP,” he said. “But I realized there’s no way I could separate this because this is a story. And it’s a true story.”

Guardian also represents a departure from the harder attack associated with earlier We Wept releases. Turner knows some listeners may not follow him into its quieter or more vulnerable spaces. He accepts that risk.

“If this EP flops, it still needed to be exactly what it is,” he said.

He considers these three songs the most personal, diverse and accomplished work of his 20-year musical life. That pride does not come from believing every listener will interpret the songs as he does. Turner welcomes the possibility that they will not.

“Once I release it, it’s not mine anymore,” he said. “It’s yours.”

That idea connects Guardian back to the grunge records Turner carried through his own life. His understanding of those songs may differ from the experiences that created them. They still became part of his history. He hopes listeners will grant Guardian the same freedom, finding themselves inside the spaces where his story leaves room.

The conversation after the song

The healing Turner wants We Wept to encourage has begun moving beyond music. Through Turner Life Coaching, he now works directly with people navigating trauma, anxiety, grief and questions of identity or faith.

Turner identifies himself as a life coach, pastor and non-licensed certified Christian counselor. His background also includes crisis-response training and pastoral counseling. The work grew from conversations he was already having with people who approached him for support.

“There’s a lot of hurting people,” he said. “I talk with so many people and they tell me, ‘Thank you for being there for me.’ And it’s like, well, is nobody else there for you?”

Sometimes healing arrives through a song loud enough to rattle a car door. Sometimes it is a conversation where somebody stays long enough to hear the answer. Turner sees both as expressions of the same ability to communicate.

We Wept itself is also preparing for a transition. Although Turner considers himself a performer first, the project has yet to play a live show. He expects that to change within the coming months, when the music finally leaves the controlled environment of his home recordings and enters a room full of amplifiers, musicians and people.

That first performance will inevitably change We Wept. A recording can remain exactly as its creator imagined. A live song has to breathe with everyone standing in the room.

Turner has spent years making sure nobody else could return his songs in a form he did not recognize. Soon, he will find out what happens when he releases them into other hands.

Afterglow

The first time Joshua W. Turner and I spoke, We Wept was a new name trying to find a place in a crowded musical world. Years later, he returned with growing numbers, wider recognition and an EP that reaches backward to the most painful room of his life.

Guardian began before Turner knew it would become an EP. It began with a riff played beside his unconscious mother, waiting in a room where music could no longer wake the person it was written for.

Years passed. The riff remained.

Now it opens a story about losing her, hoping to find her again and discovering faith after grief had stripped nearly everything else away. Guardian will belong to Turner until July 20. After that, as he put it, it belongs to whoever needs it.

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By the third day at Electric Forest, most of that has become secondary. Your backpack starts filling with things you never packed: bracelets from strangers, business cards you’ll actually keep, trinkets tucked into forgotten pockets, photographs that already feel nostalgic and conversations that somehow became part of your weekend before you realized they were happening.

Hope had traded Friday’s Bowsette cosplay for Miltank on Saturday, and looking back, it couldn’t have been a better fit for the day ahead. Miltank has never been the loudest Pokémon in the room. It isn’t built around spectacle. It’s built around care, support and keeping everyone around it going. Saturday turned out to have that same heartbeat. Instead of chasing one massive headline after another, we found ourselves spending the day with the people who quietly hold Electric Forest together. They don’t always stand beneath the biggest stage lights, but without them, the Forest wouldn’t feel like the place so many of us return to year after year.

Michigan continued to treat us kindly. The cooler evenings had given us something festival veterans never take for granted: a full night’s sleep. Eventually the morning sun began turning our tent into a slow cooker, gently convincing us it was time to get moving. Cameras were packed. Batteries were checked. Recorders were tested one more time. Devin had managed to secure an interview before the festival officially opened with Sheriff Phoenix, the person leading one of Electric Forest’s most beloved institutions, the Grand Artique Trading Post.

By the time we reached the entrance, the festival hadn’t technically opened, but it was already alive. Thousands of people waited patiently outside the gates, each carrying their own excitement for what Saturday might become. Some compared schedules one last time before inevitably abandoning them. Others adjusted elaborate costumes or topped off hydration packs. Friends reunited after getting separated the night before while first-time attendees scanned the towering pines with the kind of wide-eyed excitement that’s impossible to fake. The gates hadn’t opened yet, but the Forest had already begun.

Every object remembers someone

The Grand Artique Trading Post doesn’t feel like a store.

It feels like discovering the forgotten attic of a fantasy novel.

Shelves overflow with antique keys, vintage jewelry, weathered books, strange instruments, tiny curiosities and objects that refuse to explain themselves at first glance. Nothing inside looks mass-produced, and nothing feels anonymous. Every item seems to carry the quiet weight of another life before arriving here. That’s because every single one does.

Sheriff Phoenix greeted us with the warmth of someone welcoming old friends back into their home. It didn’t take long to understand that while visitors often think they’re walking into a place built around trading objects, the Trading Post has always been about something much deeper. Every item on those shelves arrived because someone believed its story wasn’t finished yet. The staff carefully documents those stories, preserving not only the objects themselves but the memories attached to them until another person walks through the door and feels an unexpected connection.

Listening to Phoenix describe the process completely changed the way we looked around the room. A wedding ring traded after the end of a marriage might one day become part of someone else’s beginning. A necklace that accompanied years of adventures might eventually inspire a new one. A simple brass key worth only a few dollars could become priceless because it reminds someone of their grandparents’ farmhouse. The Trading Post doesn’t ask, “How much is this worth?” It asks, “Why does this matter to you?” The answer is almost never found in the material. It’s found in the memory.

Phoenix’s own story could have easily become one of the legends traded across that very counter. Growing up around parents who worked as antiquers and auctioneers, they admitted antiques never held much appeal while they were younger. That changed after discovering Electric Forest. Years ago, Phoenix stood on the opposite side of the counter, slowly building a friendship through trades with Grand Artique co-founder Shane Dolan. A century-old military trumpet. A bracelet Shane had found during his honeymoon in Morocco. An antique dagger. Even a holy water sprinkler from a Catholic priest’s estate that had reportedly been used during thirteen exorcisms all became part of those early exchanges. Over time, the objects became less important than the conversations surrounding them.

Eventually, Phoenix walked back to the counter carrying another collection of treasures, but this time the trade they wanted wasn’t sitting on the shelves.

They wanted a job.

That simple request changed everything.

The trade was accepted, and Phoenix joined the Grand Artique family, eventually traveling with the organization around the country before inheriting the very role once held by the person who first welcomed them behind the counter. Somewhere along the way, the antiques they once overlooked became the language through which they now connect with thousands of people every year. It wasn’t simply a career. It was finding the place where every part of themselves finally made sense.

How this interview came to be you ask? Yesterday, Phoenix looked at Devin for a second, smiled and recognized him from a trade they had made years earlier. Not because of a press badge. Not because of Intellectual Dissatisfaction. Simply because of a conversation and an exchange that had stayed with them. In a festival attended by tens of thousands of people, that memory surviving all those years somehow felt completely believable. Electric Forest has always been unusually good at remembering people.

The recognition made Devin’s newest trade even more meaningful. After a little friendly negotiation, Phoenix agreed to part with a necklace inspired by The NeverEnding Story, explaining that it had originally come from someone they had met at Lightning in a Bottle in California. Like nearly everything in the Trading Post, it had already lived an interesting life before arriving in Rothbury. Now it was beginning another chapter.

As we wrapped up the interview, Phoenix shared another fact that perfectly captured the scale of what happens behind the scenes. After each festival, the crew carefully packs, catalogs and stores nearly ten thousand individual objects, preserving not just the items themselves but the stories attached to them so they can continue traveling from festival to festival until the next person discovers them. It’s an incredible amount of work for something that exists almost entirely because people believe memories deserve another chance.

Walking back outside, we arrived just as the gates swung open.

The crowd flowed into Sherwood Forest like water finally finding an open riverbed. Some sprinted toward favorite stages hoping to claim the perfect hammock spot before anyone else. Others wandered with no destination at all, content to let the Forest decide their day for them. Watching thousands of people disappear beneath the trees, it struck me that every one of them had unknowingly brought something worth exchanging. Maybe it was a bracelet. Maybe it was a story. Maybe it was simply a smile offered to the right stranger at the right moment.

By the end of the weekend, almost none of them would leave carrying exactly what they brought in.

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The Forest chooses participants

Once the initial wave of people disappeared beneath the trees, the Forest settled into its familiar rhythm. One of the things we’ve always appreciated about arriving early is getting to watch the place wake up instead of being dropped into the middle of the rush. Vendors rolled open their storefronts, actors quietly slipped into character long before most guests would ever meet them and artists made the final adjustments to installations that would soon become backdrops for thousands of photographs. There was a calmness hanging over Sherwood that only exists for a short window every morning before the festival fully stretches its legs.

That slower pace gave us another opportunity to spend time with the people behind one of Electric Forest’s most recognizable traditions, the Time Travel Agency.

For years we’ve enjoyed participating in the annual scavenger hunt, collecting clues that slowly unlock hidden experiences tucked throughout the Forest. Like many attendees, we always treated it as another entertaining side quest without giving much thought to the people responsible for building the experience. Sitting down with the show’s creators completely changed our perspective.

One of the first things they told us surprised us. The Time Travel Agency didn’t begin as a corporate attraction dreamed up inside a conference room. It started as a fan project. Electric Forest saw the creativity behind it, embraced it and slowly helped it grow into the experience thousands of people now line up to enjoy every year. Somehow that origin story made perfect sense. So many of the Forest’s traditions begin because someone cared enough to build something simply for the joy of sharing it.

This year’s story revolved around six moments throughout history where goodness had almost happened before being lost. Rather than watching the story unfold from the sidelines, guests became time travelers tasked with restoring those moments themselves. That small shift completely changes the experience. You aren’t standing in line waiting for actors to entertain you. You’re helping tell the story. Every clue solved, every hidden room discovered and every strange interaction with a wandering character becomes another piece of a much larger puzzle.

The creators laughed when we asked how many people eventually discover every secret.

“Nobody.”

Not even them.

Even after helping build the experience, there were moments they hadn’t personally witnessed because the story evolves differently for every participant. They also shared that the six puzzle experiences were designed and built in roughly a week before the festival, an incredible amount of work considering the detail poured into each environment.

It explained something we’d noticed all weekend without fully understanding why. Every actor we encountered remained completely committed to their role. Whether it was the mechanic “repairing” Hope’s moxie, the eccentric dentist handing out toothbrushes or the mysterious witch who would become part of our evening later that night, nobody ever slipped out of character. The Forest doesn’t ask performers to simply play a role. It asks them to become part of a living world.

The interview also answered one lingering question from Thursday. Completing the Time Travel Agency quest doesn’t simply earn participants a commemorative pin. That pin quietly becomes another key. Those paying close attention may eventually find themselves standing near a wall of purple roses where another hidden doorway reveals itself. We won’t spoil what waits beyond that point because discovering it yourself is part of the magic, but knowing how carefully these experiences are layered only deepened our appreciation for the people creating them.

A place called Space Fruit

Eventually, all the wandering catches up with you.

By Saturday afternoon we’d already logged miles through Sherwood Forest, conducted interviews, explored hidden rooms, photographed vendors and chased stories that kept branching into new ones. Festivals have a funny way of distorting distance. You convince yourself you’ve only been walking for a little while before your legs quietly remind you that you’ve crossed the grounds several times already.

Thankfully, we already knew exactly where we wanted to stop.

Our relationship with Space Fruit actually began long before Electric Forest. We first discovered them at Secret Dreams Festival, where they quickly became our favorite food vendor of the entire weekend. More than once they rescued us from the dangerous combination of heat, exhaustion and forgetting that your body occasionally needs something besides caffeine and determination. So when we learned they weren’t simply returning to Electric Forest but had expanded into one of the festival’s largest food operations, sitting down with them became one of our highest priorities.

By this point in the afternoon, grabbing another smoothie and one of their kale salads wasn’t just another meal. It had quietly become part of our own festival tradition.

I’ll admit something.

I’m usually the person who arrives at a festival with every intention of eating healthier, only to realize three days later I’ve somehow survived almost entirely on fried food and questionable life choices. Somehow Space Fruit keeps breaking that cycle. Their kale salad, packed with fresh vegetables and enough substance to actually fuel the rest of the day, became one of the best meals I ate all weekend. Pair that with one of their smoothies topped with their signature frozen Space Fruit, and suddenly eating well doesn’t feel like sacrificing anything.

It also solves a problem almost every summer festival creates. Once the afternoon heat settles in, there are days when solid food becomes less appealing than something cold you can sip while making your way to the next stage. The smoothies are refreshing without feeling heavy, and when you’re trying to make it through another six or eight hours of walking, dancing and carrying camera gear, they become exactly what your body hoped you’d find.

What surprised us most wasn’t the menu.

It was the story behind it.

Founders Bri and Kelvin explained that Space Fruit began with two high school friends who simply fell in love with music festivals. Like countless young festivalgoers, they wanted to keep coming back year after year, but reality eventually reminds everyone that road trips, tickets and camping gear aren’t free. Instead of giving up the lifestyle they loved, they asked themselves a different question.

What if the festival became our work?

That simple idea eventually became Space Fruit.

Kelvin smiled while remembering his first Electric Forest over a decade ago. He talked about how the music drew him in, but it was the people, the vendors and the little communities scattered throughout the grounds that stayed with him long after the weekend ended. Their dream wasn’t simply to sell food. It was to become one of those experiences someone would remember months later while telling stories about their weekend.

Listening to them, it became obvious that dream had already come true.

Today, Space Fruit has grown far beyond a single booth. This year alone they operated eight different locations throughout Electric Forest while managing a team of more than 110 employees. Alongside their smoothie stands they’ve introduced their Health Oasis locations, offering fresh farm-inspired meals, expanded into their Space Ideas quesadilla concept and even created two Analog Cafés that provide guests with a quieter place to recharge. What started with two teenagers hoping to afford another festival season has grown into one of the largest independent operations inside Electric Forest.

Even with that growth, none of them spoke like people chasing expansion simply for the sake of getting bigger. Every answer eventually circled back to the same thing.

People.

That became especially clear listening to Pip tell his story. Introducing himself with a grin as “Pip the Potter,” he explained that he and Bri originally met through festivals, became close friends and eventually fell in love. Bri couldn’t resist laughing that he had “married his boss,” a joke that immediately filled the room with the kind of easy chemistry you only get from people who’ve genuinely built something together.

Pip described recognizing Space Fruit’s potential almost immediately after meeting Bri. He believed so deeply in what they were creating that he jumped in headfirst, helping transform a promising little operation into the company sitting in front of us today. Rather than talking about profits or business plans, he kept returning to the same idea over and over again.

Support.

Support the team.

Support the guests.

Support the experience.

That philosophy became especially visible in the Analog Café, one of the additions Pip seemed most excited to share. Calling it a café almost undersells what they’ve built. Hidden within the bustle of Electric Forest, it feels like someone quietly tucked an old neighborhood coffee shop into the middle of a music festival. Vinyl records spin throughout the day while people settle into comfortable chairs with a cup of coffee, escaping the constant movement outside for a little while. The conversations slow down. Friends reconnect before disappearing back into the crowd. Rather than trying to compete with the chaos surrounding it, the Analog Café embraces the opposite approach, becoming a sanctuary where the volume is measured more by conversation than by speakers.

Watching people drift in and out, it became obvious that many weren’t there simply because they wanted coffee. Some had been walking since morning. Others had been dancing until sunrise. A few looked perfectly content to sit quietly and let the world pass by before stepping back into another adventure. That simple idea kept appearing throughout our Saturday. We had seen it inside the hidden rooms of the Time Travel Agency, beneath hammocks strung between towering pines and now here inside the Analog Café. Electric Forest understands something many festivals overlook. The experience isn’t created solely by keeping people constantly moving. Sometimes the most thoughtful thing you can build is a place where someone can simply pause, collect themselves and breathe.

Toward the end of our conversation, I mentioned something I’d been noticing while wandering the grounds over the previous three days. It genuinely felt like I had overheard more people asking where they could find Space Fruit than asking about longtime festival favorite Island Noodles. It wasn’t meant as a competition. Island Noodles has earned legendary status over decades of festivals, and hearing another vendor mentioned with that same excitement caught my attention.

The response from the Space Fruit team probably taught me more about their company than any prepared interview answer could have.

Rather than celebrating the comparison, they immediately started talking about Island Noodles with genuine admiration. They praised the consistency they had maintained over the years, the reputation they had earned and the example they had set for other festival vendors. There wasn’t an ounce of rivalry in the conversation. Only respect.

Walking away from the interview, I realized we hadn’t simply spent time with the owners of one of Electric Forest’s most popular food vendors. We’d met people who genuinely see themselves as caretakers of the festival experience. Whether they’re serving smoothies at two in the afternoon, keeping booths stocked around the clock, spinning records inside the Analog Café or giving someone their first truly healthy meal in days, everything they do comes back to helping people enjoy their weekend a little more.

For a company that started with two high school friends trying to figure out how to afford another festival, that journey has come full circle in a beautiful way. Today they’re no longer wondering how to stay in this world. They’re helping build it. Every smoothie handed across the counter, every employee welcomed onto the team and every tired festivalgoer who walks away feeling a little more refreshed becomes another small contribution to the community that first inspired them.

After spending time with them, it was easy to understand why so many people had made Space Fruit part of their own Electric Forest tradition.

The things you can’t put on a setlist

One of the easiest mistakes to make when writing about Electric Forest is assuming the music tells the entire story. The lineup is extraordinary every year, bringing together some of the biggest names in electronic music alongside jam bands, funk, hip-hop and artists who don’t fit neatly into any one genre. Those names are what sell tickets, fill playlists and spark conversations months before anyone ever sets foot in Rothbury. Yet somewhere between the first stage you visit and the last one you leave, another festival quietly reveals itself. It isn’t built by headliners or production crews alone. It’s built by painters, leather workers, sculptors, coffee makers, actors, jewelers and countless creators who never perform beneath a spotlight but leave just as lasting an impression.

With our interviews wrapped up for the afternoon, we did what Electric Forest has slowly taught us to do over the years. We stopped looking for the next destination and simply wandered. Early in the weekend there’s a tendency to move with purpose, constantly checking schedules and worrying about missing something. By Saturday, those instincts begin to fade. The best discoveries usually aren’t the ones circled on a map. They’re the ones you stumble into because you allowed yourself enough time to stop.

The vendor village rewarded that mindset almost immediately. Every booth seemed to offer another invitation to linger a little longer. Psychedelic reinterpretations of classic cartoons hung beside hand-tooled leatherwork. Handmade clothing swayed gently in the breeze while jewelry, sculptures and paintings transformed every corner into a gallery. One vendor displayed enough Chewbacca-inspired outfits to make it feel as though Kashyyyk itself had quietly opened a storefront beneath the pines. More than anything, though, what stood out wasn’t the merchandise. It was the artists themselves. Every creator seemed genuinely excited to explain where an idea came from, how something was made or what inspired an entire collection. Their booths weren’t simply businesses. They were extensions of their personalities.

One artist handed us something we’d never experienced before, a handcrafted copper kaleidoscope pendant. Instead of asking us to admire it from the safety of the display table, they encouraged us to borrow it and carry it into the Forest. “Go see what you find,” they said.

That small gesture completely changed the afternoon.

Looking through the pendant transformed familiar places into something entirely new. Sunlight fractured into shifting patterns that no camera filter could recreate. The towering white pines dissolved into ribbons of green and gold while installations we’d already photographed suddenly looked as though they belonged in another world. Eventually we found ourselves standing in front of one of my favorite pieces in all of Electric Forest, the Piano in the Woods. I’ve photographed that piano before, and every year I find myself drawn back to it, but viewing it through someone else’s artwork reminded me that sometimes the greatest gift an artist can offer isn’t creating a new subject. It’s teaching someone a new way to see an old one.

As we continued making our way down Main Street, we remembered one promise we still needed to keep. Before leaving for Michigan, we’d told our hydration sponsor, RaveRunner, that we’d grab photographs of their exclusive Electric Forest collaboration hydration bag while it was being sold inside the official merchandise booth. It sounded like one of the simplest assignments of the weekend. Walk over, snap a few photos and send them back.

Reality had been much less cooperative.

Since Thursday we’d stopped by the merchandise booth three different times. Each visit ended with the same optimistic answer. “Check back later.” “We’re waiting on another shipment.” “They should be restocking soon.” By Saturday afternoon we figured we’d give it one final attempt before admitting we had simply missed our opportunity.

Raphael, working behind the merchandise counter, greeted us with an apologetic smile before explaining what had happened. There wouldn’t be another restock because there wasn’t anything left to restock. The collaboration had sold out almost immediately. For RaveRunner, that was actually wonderful news. Their limited-edition Electric Forest bag had clearly resonated with attendees, disappearing into the crowd long before we managed to photograph one. After hearing why we kept returning, Raphael happily offered another solution. While there wasn’t a single hydration pack left hanging on the wall, he let us photograph the point-of-sale screen showing the RaveRunner collaboration in the merchandise system so we’d have something to bring back to our sponsor.

It wasn’t the photograph we’d originally promised to capture, but by then it had become a better story. Sometimes the clearest proof that people embraced something isn’t seeing it sitting on a shelf. It’s arriving just a little too late because everyone else got there first. We owe Raphael a sincere thank you for taking a few extra minutes to help us keep our word.

As the afternoon slowly gave way to evening, we found ourselves wandering back toward one of the places that had fascinated us since Thursday: the Time Travel Agency maze. We already knew there were still experiences hidden somewhere inside that we hadn’t discovered, and curiosity has always been one of the easiest ways to lose track of time at Electric Forest.

The maze welcomed us back like an old friend who still had one more secret to share.

Earlier in the weekend we’d visited the mechanic who “repaired” Hope’s moxie, stopped by the delightfully strange dentist’s office where guests walked away with complimentary toothbrushes and uncovered quiet spaces hidden behind walls that most people never realized opened. Every room carried its own personality, making the maze feel less like an attraction and more like an entire neighborhood tucked inside the Forest.

This time we found ourselves invited into the séance room.

Stepping through the doorway felt like crossing into another century. Candlelight flickered across weathered furniture while shelves overflowed with mysterious objects that looked as though they’d been collected over generations. The actor leading the experience never once stepped outside their role, inviting everyone inside to become participants rather than spectators. At one point, much to my own amusement, I was chosen to become the witch for the séance.

It was impossible not to laugh.

At the same time, it perfectly illustrated what makes these immersive experiences so memorable. The performers never wink at the audience to remind everyone it’s pretend. They trust complete strangers to lean into the story, and those strangers almost always do. Thousands of people willingly suspend disbelief together, if only for a few minutes, because everyone silently agrees that imagination deserves to be taken seriously.

That commitment has become one of Electric Forest’s greatest strengths. Whether you’re talking to a mysterious doctor, an eccentric mechanic, a woodland creature or a fortune teller, nobody breaks the illusion. The actors don’t simply perform for the audience. They invite the audience to perform alongside them. That’s a very different kind of entertainment, and one that stays with you long after you’ve left the room.

By the time we stepped back outside, daylight had almost completely disappeared beneath the canopy. Strings of lights now traced the pathways through Sherwood Forest, lanterns glowed from hidden corners and the distant pulse of bass echoed between the trees. The festival had transformed once again. The relaxed pace of the afternoon was giving way to the electricity of another Saturday night, and thousands of people were all beginning to move toward the same destination.

One of the biggest crowds of the weekend was already gathering.

It was finally time for DJ Diesel and Teddy Pain.

When the Forest starts dancing together

By the time we made our way toward Ranch Arena, the atmosphere had shifted again. That’s one of the remarkable things about Electric Forest. The same pathways you wandered peacefully that afternoon now pulsed with movement as streams of people flowed toward the night’s biggest performances. The conversations were louder, costumes glowed beneath LEDs instead of sunlight and every stage seemed to pull another current of people through the trees. Saturday night always feels like the point where the entire festival has found its rhythm. Everyone has settled into camp life, discovered their favorite corners of Sherwood and figured out which shoes were the wrong choice. By now, strangers have become neighbors and familiar faces start appearing everywhere you look.

The crowd gathering for DJ Diesel B2B Teddy Pain reflected exactly that feeling. It wasn’t simply large. It was the kind of audience that arrives early because nobody wants to miss the beginning. Groups squeezed together to make room for newcomers while conversations bounced between favorite Shaq stories, old T-Pain hits and guesses about what the two might have planned. Electric Forest crowds have a reputation for looking after one another, and moments like this remind you why. Tens of thousands of people can gather in one place without losing the sense that everyone is collectively looking out for the experience around them.

The collaboration itself worked because neither artist tried to become the other. DJ Diesel brought the crushing bass and larger-than-life presence that have become staples of his festival sets, while T-Pain balanced the night with his unmistakable charisma and catalog of songs that somehow still feel woven into popular culture years later. The set bounced between hip-hop, bass music, surprise edits and moments that felt equal parts concert and celebration. There was never much concern for staying inside one genre because Electric Forest has never been a festival that asks artists to color inside the lines.

Watching from the crowd, I found myself appreciating something beyond the music itself. We had ended up spending the set with one of our longtime festival friends and several people they had met over years of attending festivals together. Some friendships had started at Electric Forest. Others began somewhere entirely different before eventually crossing paths again beneath these same trees. That seems to happen here with surprising regularity. Festivals become reunion grounds where circles of friends slowly expand each year until nobody can quite remember who introduced whom in the first place.

Those are often the moments that stay with you longest.

Not necessarily the biggest bass drop.

Not the loudest cheer.

Just standing in the middle of a crowd, looking around and realizing everyone is sharing the same memory while it’s happening.

As the music continued late into the night, I couldn’t help thinking back to how the day had begun. That morning we sat inside the Trading Post talking with Sheriff Phoenix about how every object carries the story of the people who held it before. Throughout the afternoon we met artists sharing pieces of themselves through paintings, jewelry and handmade creations. The Time Travel Agency invited thousands of strangers to become characters inside a story instead of simply watching one unfold. Space Fruit reminded us that sometimes caring for a community looks like handing someone a smoothie, a healthy meal or simply giving them a quiet place to catch their breath before heading back into the crowd.

By the time Saturday reached its final hours, it became clear those weren’t separate stories at all.

They were all telling the same one.

Electric Forest has always been known for incredible music, elaborate production and unforgettable performances, but after three days beneath these trees, I found myself thinking less about stages and more about the people standing between them. The artists who loaned us a kaleidoscope pendant simply because they wanted us to see the Forest differently. Raphael taking a few extra minutes to help us document a sold-out RaveRunner collaboration. Phoenix remembering a trade from years earlier. The Space Fruit team building a company around making someone else’s vacation a little brighter. Every interaction quietly added another thread to a weekend that already felt impossibly full.

When people ask what makes Electric Forest different, they often expect an answer about production budgets or lineups.

Those things certainly help.

But after spending another year here, I think the real answer is much simpler.

The Forest has spent years creating a place where people are encouraged to contribute something instead of simply consume something. Some contribute music. Others contribute artwork. Some build elaborate scavenger hunts or hidden theatrical worlds. Some hand strangers handmade Pokémon. Others serve smoothies, trade antiques, lend kaleidoscopes or simply offer directions to someone who looks lost.

Everyone leaves something behind.

Afterglow

By the time we made our way back toward camp, the music had faded into the distance, but the conversations from the day were still finding places to settle. It’s funny how quickly a festival changes your definition of what feels valuable. That morning began with a room full of antiques whose worth was measured by the stories attached to them. By nightfall, we’d added a few stories of our own.

The NeverEnding Story necklace had found another chapter. A handmade kaleidoscope pendant had shown us familiar places through unfamiliar eyes. A sold-out RaveRunner collaboration bag reminded us that sometimes success leaves nothing behind but a good story. Space Fruit had once again proven that taking care of people can become its own kind of art, while the actors, artists and dreamers scattered throughout Sherwood continued quietly building a world where imagination is treated as something worth protecting.

Saturday felt less like chasing a lineup and more like collecting pieces of the people who make Electric Forest what it is. The music was incredible, but between the stages we found the caretakers, the storytellers, the creators and the volunteers whose fingerprints are on this place in ways most attendees never see. They don’t appear on posters, yet they help shape the memories people carry home every year.

Tomorrow would bring another sunrise, another wave of music and another chance for the Forest to surprise us. If the first three days had taught us anything, it was not to expect the next chapter to look anything like the last one. Around here, the best stories have a habit of waiting just beyond the next trail.

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In its ninth edition, Sioux Falls’ homegrown extreme-metal festival filled Bigs Bar with two stages, a dozen Saturday bands and the kind of community that keeps local music alive.

Metal has always had a funny way of looking hostile from the parking lot and feeling like home once you walk through the door. From a distance, it is all sharp logos, hard riffs and vocals that sound capable of filing their own weather report. Up close, it is often one of the kindest rooms in live music.

That has been true for me since I was younger. I came for the hardest riffs, loudest screams and best breakdowns. I stayed because the metal scene was the one that invited me in with open arms. It is where my real love of live music began.

On Saturday, July 11, SlamDakota Death Fest IX brought that lesson back to Bigs Bar in Sioux Falls. This was only my second year attending, but the festival already felt familiar in the best way: part concert, part reunion and part evidence that something local can keep growing if enough people decide it deserves another year.

Nine editions and still growing

SlamDakota first gathered at Bigs in August 2018. A 2019 listing called the next event the second annual festival, the 2020 lineup was documented as Death Fest III and the 2021 event was billed as the fourth annual edition. From there came V in 2022, VI in 2023, VII in 2024, VIII in 2025 and IX in 2026.

That gives SlamDakota nine annual editions across the eight years since the first festival.

The Roman numerals are more than trivia. They are a record of persistence. Local festivals rarely disappear with a formal goodbye. More often, they miss a year, then another, until somebody notices the poster is no longer in the window.

SlamDakota has gone in the other direction. It has continued through changing lineups, changing summers and the ordinary wear that comes with asking venues, bands, vendors, production crews and fans to keep believing in the same thing.

Travel South Dakota describes SlamDakota as an annual gathering of death metal, slam and thrash bands from across the country and around the world. That is a long way from a small passion project, but the festival has not outgrown the quality that helped it survive: South Dakota’s heavy-music scene still has a stage of its own.

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Two stages and very little standing still

Bigs is unusually well suited to a festival like this. The parking lot becomes an outdoor stage and gathering space while the indoor room holds the other half of the bill, the bar and a growing collection of vendors.

On Saturday, the doors opened at 4 p.m. and the music began at 5. For most of the evening, a new set started every half hour, alternating between the indoor and outdoor stages. If one band finished and you wondered what came next, the correct answer was usually, “Turn around and start walking.”

That rhythm kept the day moving without making it feel rushed. It also gave the crowd natural moments to cool off, find water, visit a booth or grab something to eat. The schedule was demanding, but it understood something important: even the most committed metal fan occasionally needs a taco and a minute to locate both earplugs.

A Saturday bill that told its own history

The first four sets leaned into the newer edge of slam and deathcore.

At 5 p.m., Indiana’s Slamology opened indoors. The Charlestown project had released its first track, “Iverson Anklebreaker,” only in January, giving the beginning of the day a genuinely fresh band.

Chicago’s Gutnoose took the outdoor stage at 5:30 with a five-song debut EP from 2025 and a sound planted firmly in slamming brutal death metal.

At 6, Orbital Gate brought one-woman slamming brutal death metal from Cary, Illinois, into the indoor room.

At 6:30, Sioux Falls’ own Reviver moved outside with progressive deathcore and a catalog that runs from 2020’s “The Death Experience” through the 2023 release Voids Embrace.

In 90 minutes, the festival had already made room for a new Indiana project, a Chicago band with one EP, a solo Illinois project and a hometown act with several years of releases behind it.

The middle of the schedule widened the sound.

Lansing, Michigan’s Krocophile took over indoors at 7 with reptile-themed slam. The concept carries a sense of humor, but the music does not treat heaviness like a joke. Releases such as A Cold-Blooded Torture Chamber and 2025’s Sewer King, King of the Sewer give the band a whole scaly little universe to work in.

At 7:30, Fed to Pigs put Sioux Falls death metal on the outdoor stage. Formed in 2024, the band is young enough to represent the scene’s current growth, yet its full-stage presence looked completely at home within the festival.

A local event does not become regional by leaving local bands behind. It grows by giving them room beside the touring acts.

Then came Beer Goblins at 8. The Sioux Falls band has been described locally as party thrash and groove metal, a useful change of gait on a bill dominated by death metal’s heavier subdivisions.

By that point, the schedule read less like an itinerary and more like a list of things a county health inspector would prefer not to discuss, which is how you know a death festival is doing its job.

New Jersey’s Condition Critical followed outside at 8:30. The band has played what it calls “unrelenting New Jersey thrash metal” since 2010 and arrived with Degeneration Chamber, released in 2025. Its sharper thrash attack gave the outdoor stage a different kind of momentum before the late-night stretch.

At 9, Minnesota’s Glutton for Punishment returned the night to death metal indoors. The band’s history reaches back more than two decades, with releases including Purified in Blood and the 2018 full-length The Mutilation Process.

Glutton for Punishment has also appeared at earlier SlamDakota editions, including 2019 and 2025. A recurring festival is partly built from bands that know the road back.

Denver’s Angelic Desolation took the outdoor stage at 9:30 and supplied one of the evening’s most complete visual moments: smoke rolling across the musicians, purple and red light filling the air and the crowd pressed close enough to become part of the composition.

The band calls its collision of thrash, grindcore, death metal, horror and riff worship “American Razorgrind.” The description fits. Its 2023 full-length Orchestrionic Abortion turns the same mixture into a full record.

At 10:15, Dallas–Fort Worth’s Kill Everything moved the night back inside. Formed in 2016, the Comatose Music band works in slam and brutal death metal and released Scorched Earth in 2018.

The closing slot at 11:15 belonged to Suffer, and that was more than a hometown courtesy.

Suffer’s roots reach to 1989, when the musicians were known as Pukus, before the Sioux Falls death-metal name took shape in 1990. The surviving demos from 1989 through 1994 document a local band working during the birth of death metal itself.

The Saturday bill became a compressed history of underground metal. It began with a project whose first song arrived six months earlier and ended with a Sioux Falls band whose earliest recordings are older than many people in the room.

New slam, local deathcore, party thrash, razorgrind, brutal death metal and old-school hometown history all fit within the same day.

We ran into our friend Kayla Stensland at the show who was nice enough to provide this gallery she got of Fed to Pigs.

The part of the festival that does not come through the speakers

As someone who has worked as an event vendor, I know how much a good booth can change the feeling of a room.

Vendors give people somewhere to linger between sets. They create conversations that would not happen in a line at the bar and remind us that a local scene is built by more than musicians.

One of my favorite parts of events at Bigs has been running into Michele and her partner with Sanctuary Goods. Their table is filled with jewelry, stones, tinctures, artwork and other handcrafted goods, but what stays with me is their warmth.

They do not simply put merchandise on a folding table. They take care of people, and people can feel the difference.

Sanctuary Goods is still a relatively new Sioux Falls shop. Founder and curator Stefan Bernardino opened the Jones421 storefront in December 2024 and described it as “a place filled with curiosities.”

Its mix of local art, wellness, spirituality and handmade work fit naturally at SlamDakota. Alternative culture is rarely one straight line. It is more like a neighborhood where the tattoo shop, record label, jewelry maker and death-metal band all borrow extension cords from one another.

The rest of the festival marketplace carried the same handmade character. Shirts and records shared space with jewelry and artwork. An artist worked at an easel inside while another booth glowed behind them.

Outside, Westside Glass Emporium paired its merchandise display with live glassworking, giving the parking lot one more kind of controlled fire.

When all that culture made people hungry, Windy City Bites was waiting in the parking lot. Food trucks are humble pieces of festival infrastructure, but around hour six, a hot meal can feel like thoughtful urban planning.

The afterglow

By midnight, the smoke had started to clear, the vendor tables were being packed away and the parking lot was slowly becoming a parking lot again. The music may stop on schedule, but a metal festival follows you home in ringing ears, dusty shoes and the sudden realization that your neck is going to file a complaint in the morning.

This was only my second SlamDakota, but I left with the same feeling that first brought me into the metal scene years ago. The music may be built from aggression, distortion and every unpleasant medical term a band could fit onto a T-shirt, but the people remain remarkably welcoming.

Most communities are built with lumber, asphalt and meetings that should have been emails. Metal communities are built with cables, black shirts and somebody reaching down to help a stranger back to their feet.

Watching Suffer close the night brought the festival’s history full circle. A Sioux Falls band with roots reaching back to 1989 finished a day that began with some of the newest names in slam and death metal. Between them stood the touring bands, local musicians, artists, vendors, sponsors, production crews and fans carrying the scene forward.

Nine editions are now in the books. If the Roman numerals continue as expected, next year brings X. Until then, Sioux Falls can let its ears recover and take some pride in knowing the most vicious fest in the Midwest is also one of its warmest welcomes.

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A Community Celebration Before the Music

The evening began a few blocks away from Levitt at the Falls, where the Mosaic Arts & Events Center was buzzing with a different kind of entertainment. Before a single guitar was tuned, Health Connect of South Dakota hosted its Mocktail Mix-Off, giving seven contestants the chance to showcase creative non-alcoholic drinks while promoting fun alternatives for social gatherings.

The event was even more personal for me because one of the contestants was the daughter of a family from my church’s Gospel Community. Every drink offered something unique, making the judging feel almost impossible, but the final results felt well deserved. Third place earned $150, second place received $300, and the winning recipe took home a $500 grand prize. The stunning conclusion in which the daughter of my friends claimed first place made an already enjoyable event an unforgettable way to begin the night.

With the awards wrapped up, the short walk to Levitt at the Falls made for a seamless transition from community celebration to live music.

Free Music That Brings Sioux Falls Together

One of the best parts about the Levitt concert series isn’t just that admission is free. It’s the experience surrounding every show.

Food trucks line the venue before the music starts, and one of the things I appreciate most is how the lineup changes throughout the season. Regular attendees never feel like they’re getting the exact same experience twice with how many different genres are represented throughout the summer.

The fact that Levitt offers 50 free concerts every summer is still remarkable. Throughout the evening, organizers encouraged donations to help keep the series free for everyone. It’s a model that deserves support. Outdoor concerts spanning everything from bluegrass to Celtic rock without an admission charge have become one of Sioux Falls’ best summer traditions.

Buffalo Galaxy Warms Up the Crowd

Buffalo Galaxy immediately caught my attention long before they took the stage. Their self description as “Deep-Space, Light-Speed, Bluegrass” promised something beyond a traditional bluegrass performance, and the trio certainly leaned into that identity.

Interestingly, the band’s website lists four members, but only three musicians performed this evening. It left me wondering how the full lineup might have expanded the already layered sound.

Musically, the set featured excellent instrumental work and showcased the group’s technical ability. The musicians were clearly comfortable stretching songs into extended jams that gave each player room to shine.

That approach, however, is where my own tastes created a bit of distance. As someone whose concert calendar is usually filled with hard rock and metal shows, I found myself wanting more lyrical content and fewer extended instrumental passages. That’s less a criticism of Buffalo Galaxy than it is an acknowledgment that bluegrass improvisation simply isn’t my usual genre.

Judging by the audience response, though, plenty of people were more than happy to settle into those long musical explorations, making the set an effective and enjoyable warmup for the night’s headliner.

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The Elders Bring Irish Spirit to Sioux Falls

And then, The Elders took the stage.

There’s something uniquely infectious about Celtic music. The rhythms, melodies, and energy invite movement whether you’re planning to dance or not. From the opening songs onward, the crowd seemed eager to embrace that spirit.

Lead singer Ian Byrne joked about the band’s nearly 30 year career and how they’ve finally grown into their band name. The humor fit naturally with a performance that balanced musicianship with an easy connection to the audience. And the joke brought laughter throughout the crowd.

What continues to separate The Elders from many bands in the genre is how deeply Irish history and folklore are woven into their songwriting. Rather than simply borrowing Celtic sounds, the band tells stories rooted in generations of tradition.

One of the strongest examples came during “Banshee Cry.” Before hearing the song, I wasn’t familiar with the legend of the banshee appearing as a warning of death within a family. It’s a surprisingly dark piece of Irish folklore, yet hearing that story transformed the song into something much richer than simply another Celtic rock anthem.

Moments like that gave the performance an educational element without ever feeling like a history lesson. The music remained lively and approachable while offering glimpses into the culture that inspired it.

By the end of the set, The Elders had transported Sioux Falls across the Atlantic for a night filled with spirited musicianship, storytelling, and enough energy to make you forget you were sitting in the middle of downtown South Dakota.

Sunset, Soundscapes, and Strings: The Perfect Outdoor Match

Levitt’s outdoor setting continues to serve performances like this well. Both bands came through with clear mixes that allowed acoustic instruments to remain distinct without overpowering vocals. The natural backdrop, combined with the relaxed atmosphere of lawn seating and a summer sunset, complemented the Celtic and bluegrass sounds perfectly.

The production wasn’t flashy because it didn’t need to be. The focus stayed squarely on the musicians, allowing the performances themselves to carry the evening.

Breaking Barriers, Building Community

The Levitt audience once again reflected what makes these concerts special. Families spread out blankets alongside longtime music fans, children danced near the stage, and visitors casually wandered between food trucks before settling in for the performances.

Because admission is free, the barrier to experiencing live music is almost nonexistent. That accessibility creates one of the most welcoming concert environments in Sioux Falls.

Afterglow

As the final songs echoed across Levitt at the Falls and the sun disappeared behind the Sioux Falls skyline, it was hard not to appreciate what makes these evenings so memorable. A community event, local food vendors, talented touring musicians, and an outdoor venue that asks nothing more than a donation if you’re able to give one.

For a concert that didn’t require a ticket, I left feeling like I had received far more than I paid for. Whether you’re a local or simply passing through Sioux Falls on a summer weekend, Levitt at the Falls remains one of the city’s most rewarding live music experiences. If The Elders find their way back to town, I’ll gladly be there to experience another evening of Celtic storytelling and infectious energy.

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There are drives you remember because of thunderstorms, traffic jams or some roadside oddity that leaves you wondering whether everybody else is living on the same planet. Then there is my usual, habitual run up the interstate and across Tupelo. I have made it often enough that the truck could probably finish the trip without me, though I have no plans to test that theory.

Nothing was out of the ordinary this week. That was fine by me. I was headed back to Backline Music Hall to see some friends and spend an evening with Riki Rachtman, a man whose stories were raised on the Sunset Strip and had now traveled to the birthplace of Elvis Presley.

Marla, Randy, Clay and Ricky met up with me before the doors opened. We collected our wristbands, got everything squared away and talked for a few minutes before making our way inside. The room filled quickly once the doors opened. We found good seats, I made my usual rounds to speak with the Backline team, grabbed a drink and settled in.

Our group had grown up watching Rachtman host “Headbangers Ball” on MTV. Back then, finding new music required patience, a television schedule and occasionally a blank VHS tape with somebody else’s birthday written on the label. Seeing the man who once delivered heavy metal into our living rooms now standing a few feet away in Tupelo felt like somebody had pulled an old memory from the attic, dusted it off and handed it a microphone.

Before metal history could be replayed on demand, Riki Rachtman was already living inside it. He co-founded Hollywood’s World Famous Cathouse with Faster Pussycat frontman Taime Downe, then hosted MTV’s “Headbangers Ball” from 1990 until the original show ended in 1995. With one hand on the club door and the other wrapped around a microphone, Rachtman became the hinge between the Sunset Strip’s private chaos and the millions watching from home. His authority was never borrowed from a cue card. It came from friendships, questionable decisions, sleepless nights and the trust granted only to somebody who was already in the room.

A video presentation played before the show, flashing a few oddities and treasures across the screen while we waited. It offered a first glimpse into the collection of photographs, footage and personal artifacts Rachtman would use throughout “One Foot in the Gutter”. The official description promises true stories of rock and roll, sleaze and debauchery, but the show also examines what remains after the party finally turns on the lights.

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Put the phone down and watch

Before Rachtman came out, I stopped at the merchandise table to meet Cathouse Karen. I wanted to make sure taking photographs would be all right, so she went directly to Riki and asked.

The answer came back simple. Photos were allowed. Video was not.

That worked for me.

I understand Riki’s policy. We have all been to shows where half the room is filming the other half of the room trying to film the stage. People pay good money for a ticket, then spend the evening watching everything through their own phone. You did not pay all that money to stare at a six-inch screen, did you?

Keeping the cameras down also protected the stories. “One Foot in the Gutter” depends on surprise, timing and the feeling that Rachtman might open any one of those cases and pull out a piece of rock history nobody expected to see. Recording the entire performance would turn those moments into internet scraps before the next audience had the chance to discover them.

The policy also kept everyone involved. People watched Riki instead of watching themselves record Riki. When he addressed someone in the crowd, they answered. When a photograph appeared onscreen, the room reacted together. The evening felt like a conversation rather than a lecture.

Rachtman, Anita, Cathouse Karen and Jerry have clearly put a great deal of work into building and touring this production. I am not going to hand out the best stories in advance. There is enough here to explain the shape of the show without opening every box before it reaches your town.

When nothing wants to cooperate

Rachtman began by explaining that they had experienced one of those days when absolutely nothing wanted to cooperate. Anyone who has spent time around live events knows those days. Cables become temperamental, equipment forgets what it was designed to do and technology suddenly decides it would rather pursue a different career.

A couple of bugs followed the crew onto the Backline stage. Instead of allowing them to derail the evening, Rachtman and Anita worked through the trouble while taking playful shots at each other. Their jabs became part of the show, turning technical frustration into some of the night’s first big laughs.

You could see how well they functioned together on the road. There was no panic and no awkward attempt to pretend everything was perfect. Riki acknowledged the problems, Anita gave him a little grief and together they pulled the show back into place.

Once everything settled, the presentation moved back toward Los Angeles and the beginning of the World Famous Cathouse. Rachtman and Taime Downe built the club through friendship, shared trust and their connections to a scene that was about to become much larger than any of them could have predicted. Downe eventually turned his attention toward Faster Pussycat, leaving Rachtman to guide the club deeper into rock-and-roll history.

The Cathouse became one of Hollywood’s most infamous rock-and-roll gathering places, where musicians could walk through the door without immediately becoming a performance for everyone around them. Many were already Rachtman’s friends before their faces appeared on magazine covers and arena screens. Inside those walls, rising stars, established musicians and assorted creatures of the night all entered the same orbit.

Rachtman took us from the club’s beginning through its final years, following friendships that survived the chaos and stories that probably should not have. He shared rare photographs, old footage and moments many people in the crowd had never seen. Some images drew immediate recognition. Others felt like somebody had discovered a secret compartment beneath the Sunset Strip.

There was plenty of debauchery. Nobody walked into a Cathouse story expecting a seminar on sensible decision-making. Still, the show did not treat the club as one endless parade of drunken celebrities. The real foundation was trust.

The musicians knew Rachtman before television turned him into a national figure. He knew them before fame added publicists, security and layers of mythology. Those relationships gave him access, but they also gave the stories warmth. Beneath the madness were people looking out for one another, laughing at one another and occasionally dragging one another out of situations that had seemed like excellent ideas several hours earlier.

The Ball rolls through Tupelo

After exploring the Cathouse years, Rachtman moved into the chapter most familiar to our table: MTV’s “Headbangers Ball”.

For metal fans in the early 1990s, the show was an appointment. There were no streaming libraries waiting for you the next morning. There was no algorithm preparing a playlist based on whatever you had listened to while mowing the lawn. You stayed awake, turned on MTV and waited to see where Rachtman would take you.

“Headbangers Ball” could introduce a band, provide a glimpse backstage or turn an interview into the kind of chaos that would make a network executive quietly reconsider several life choices. Rachtman hosted the program from 1990 through 1995, sitting across from many of the biggest names in metal and hard rock during one of the genre’s most dramatic periods. The surviving episode archive reads like a directory of everyone who made the era louder, stranger and harder to explain to our parents.

By then, many of the guests were already his friends.

That changed the interviews. Rachtman was rarely approaching musicians as a stranger armed with a list of polite questions. He knew their personalities, their history and which buttons could be pushed without starting an international incident. The resulting footage often felt less like a formal television appearance and more like friends causing trouble near expensive cameras.

At Backline, Rachtman guided us through photographs, video and stories from those years. Some moments brought loud laughter. Others produced the low murmur of recognition that moves through a room when everyone suddenly remembers the same Saturday night.

For our group, those clips did not simply document an old television show. They reopened the years when we first encountered many of those bands. Watching the footage in 2026, with Rachtman standing beside the screen and explaining what happened outside the camera frame, stitched the public version of “Headbangers Ball” to the private one.

He was not looking back from a distance. He knew what happened before the red light came on, what happened after the director yelled cut and which stories improved with age.

Some history arrives in dates and headlines. This history wore leather jackets, ignored curfews and occasionally woke up with no clear explanation for the previous evening.

Rachtman also refused to present the past as a perfect kingdom destroyed by modern music. The era was exciting, reckless and often absurd. Some friendships lasted. Others broke. The television landscape changed, the Sunset Strip transformed and the culture moved on, usually before anyone had finished packing.

The people missing from the photographs

As the presentation moved through the years, the tone gradually changed. The laughter remained, but the photographs began carrying the weight of people who are no longer here.

Rachtman remembered musicians including Shannon Hoon, Lemmy Kilmister, Ozzy Osbourne and Kurt Cobain. Their images returned them to the room for a few moments, not as distant figures carved into rock history, but as people Rachtman had spoken with, laughed with and sometimes watched stumble through the same strange machinery of fame.

Ozzy’s inclusion carried a different weight after his death in July 2025, adding another name to the growing list of figures whose work shaped the world Rachtman was describing. His official archive still holds the music, videos and history of a career that stretched from Black Sabbath’s earliest records through his final performance.

After Lemmy died, several people close to him received bullet-shaped capsules containing some of his ashes. Rachtman was among those chosen. At Backline, he showed us the engraved bullet entrusted to him, a small silver object carrying part of a friendship much larger than anything that could fit inside it.

Rachtman has previously spoken about the bullet containing Lemmy’s ashes, describing it as the greatest gift he had ever received. The photographs accompanying the story explained why. They showed a relationship that existed beyond interviews and television appearances. Lemmy was not simply the frontman of Motörhead or a legendary musician Rachtman once met. He was his friend.

It would be difficult to imagine a memorial better suited to Lemmy. Nothing delicate. Nothing dressed up in soft language. A bullet carrying the ashes of a man who played bass as though the amplifier owed him money.

Then, as good storytellers know how to do, Rachtman eventually brought us back toward laughter. Grief and humor shared the stage without one canceling out the other. That is often how old friendships survive inside us. One story leaves you smiling. The next catches in your throat. Then another makes you laugh before you have fully recovered.

One foot farther down the road

The evening ran longer than expected, but nobody seemed concerned. We would have stayed much later to hear Rachtman keep talking.

He continued through other projects, later chapters in his life and the collection of choices that eventually brought “One Foot in the Gutter” to a small music hall in Tupelo. The famous landmarks were all present, but the distance between them became just as interesting.

Most people knew the Cathouse and “Headbangers Ball.” Rachtman filled in some of the roads connecting those destinations. Careers rarely travel in straight lines. They take wrong turns, stall in strange towns and occasionally find their most interesting chapter somewhere they never expected to stop.

Thirty-five years can reduce a life to a handful of familiar images. Rachtman placed movement back inside them. The old photographs became scenes again. The television clips regained everything that had happened around them. Friends who had died walked back into the story for a while.

Afterglow

Elvis has left the building.

Well, actually, he was never there.

Riki Rachtman sure as hell was.

Heavy metal came to Tupelo looking for the ghosts of the Sunset Strip and found them sitting inside a collection of road cases. Rachtman opened those cases one at a time, pulling out photographs, footage, artifacts and several decades of stories that had somehow survived the people living them.

We heard about the debauchery, chaos and madness of those years. We learned the truth behind a few familiar events and discovered interesting corners of others. We spent the evening listening to someone who had been close enough to see the legends before the rest of the world decided what their legends would become.

The drive home followed the same familiar interstate. Same exits. Same pavement. Same Mississippi night.

Still, a familiar road can feel different after somebody hands you 35 years of memories before sending you back onto it.

Thank you to Riki Rachtman for a great evening and to Anita, Cathouse Karen and Jerry for carrying the show from town to town, even when the equipment has other plans.

Thanks once again to Cid, Christina, Meredith, Brian and Brent at Backline Music Hall for continuing to bring unusual events into Tupelo.

Get some rest.

Until next time……

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Friday morning at Electric Forest does not really begin. It fades in. You wake up with yesterday still ringing around the edges, some ghost-whisper version of the last set you heard still knocking softly inside your skull. Camp sounds return first: tent zippers, distant laughter, someone explaining a story that absolutely requires hand gestures, the low shuffle of people trying to remember where they left their water bottle, phone, fan, shoes or whatever tiny piece of themselves got misplaced between Ranch Arena and the walk back home. Day 1 is arrival. Day 2 is when the Forest starts recognizing you back.

For us, Friday carried the buzz of everything we had already unlocked: the overnight drive, the inTENTion, the Time Travel Agency, the mechanic tune-up room, Pearly’s Dentistry, the Luminaria story and Excision’s lasers cutting over Ranch Arena. But Friday had its own strange little creature waiting in the grass. Actually, several of them.

Hope had traded the previous day’s Umbreon energy for Bowsette, which somehow made perfect sense inside Electric Forest. This is one of the few places where that sentence does not need a warning label. It was playful, chaotic, bold enough to stop traffic and exactly the kind of character choice that made every side quest feel like it had a boss-level companion attached.

The Forest does not ask people to be subtle. It asks them to mean it.

Pokémon in the Forest

Our first real mission Friday was meeting up with the latest unofficial Forest side quest: Pokémon.

That made almost too much sense. Electric Forest and Pokémon both run on wandering, discovery and the very real possibility that something wonderful is hiding just off the marked path. Both bring together all kinds of creatures, some costumed, some carrying tiny treasures, some surviving on loyalty, snacks and the belief that one more detour is probably worth it.

At the meetup, we interviewed Ryan, a 3D printing artist from Austin, Texas and the founder of the Pokémon and Poké Ball finding side quest. For him, the idea came straight from the Forest itself. He talked about the giving culture at Electric Forest, the way people make little gifts, trinkets and creative offerings for strangers simply because it might brighten somebody’s day. After his first Forest last year, Ryan said he knew he “couldn’t show up without some cool stuff.”

Pokémon fit the mission. He has been a fan his whole life, and the idea of printing small Pokémon and Poké Balls to hide around the grounds clicked with the Forest’s scavenger spirit almost immediately. It was not an official activation. It did not need a stage, sponsor wall or flashing sign. It worked because the idea felt native to the place.

The project has also grown beyond one person with a backpack full of tiny creatures. Ryan said the team is mostly made up of friends he has gone to festivals with over the years, along with newer friends and enthusiastic people who reached out after seeing the project at other events. The more people who help hide and gift them, the more little sparks of joy make it into the Forest. His goal was simple: make as many people’s days better as possible.

For Electric Forest this year, Ryan personally brought around 250 pieces. He also estimated that about 1,000 had been sold to people before the festival, with many of those likely brought into the grounds to hide, gift or trade. By his rough math, there could have been somewhere around 500 to 700 Pokémon and Poké Balls scattered through the weekend. Somewhere in the trees, someone was probably finding an Eevee while someone else was finding a Poké Ball and deciding whether to keep it, gift it or send it back into circulation.

The craft behind them was not accidental either. Ryan is an architect by trade, still licensed in Texas, and he designs the models himself using CAD. A full plate of small Eevees can take around eight hours to print, while a Poké Ball averages around four hours once all the parts are made in batches. It is a funny kind of Forest math: hours of modeling, printing and packing, all for a stranger’s five-second gasp when they find something tiny and unexpected in the wild.

Eevee, he said, gets the biggest reaction online. That tracked perfectly with our weekend. Hope had dressed as Umbreon on Day 1, Ryan’s girlfriend had also dressed as Umbreon and suddenly the whole conversation felt like the Forest had rolled a critical hit on coincidence.

By then, we were operating somewhere between press team and shady Squirtle: following clues, looking for shade, trading stories and getting pulled toward every strange little thing rustling in the tall grass. Hydration, thankfully, was one part of the weekend we did not have to gamble with. Thanks to our hydration sponsor, RaveRunner, we had a hydration bag built for exactly this kind of wandering: long walks, hot stretches, stage-hopping and the sudden decision to chase a Pokémon side quest across the Forest. At a festival where one more “quick detour” can turn into another mile before you notice, having water on your back is not a luxury. It is part of the loadout.

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Media lounge and the language of nerds

After discovering the media lounge the day before, we finally made it back with enough time to enjoy it properly. Free drinks, shade, conversation and a little breathing room go a long way when the festival has already started turning your legs into folklore.

That is where we ended up talking with correspondents from SPIN Magazine, and the icebreaker was not some polished media industry line. It was Pokémon. Of course it was. Without much more than a blink, the conversation turned into shared enthusiasm, Pokémon Go friend requests and that instant little recognition that happens when adults find the same old beloved doorway back into play.

Those are the conversations that make festival media feel less like badges and more like campfire culture with better credentials. Everyone is covering the same giant organism from different angles. Sometimes the fastest way to connect is not asking what camera someone shoots on or what outlet they write for. Sometimes it is asking what they caught.

That is the thing about Electric Forest. The official schedule is only one version of the weekend. The other one is built out of tiny trades: bracelets, stories, water, shade, codes, trinkets, advice, directions and the occasional 3D-printed creature waiting to be found by someone who needed exactly that kind of joy.

Space Fruit, hammocks and a healthy miracle

Eventually, the body starts making demands. Friday needed food, shade and a horizontal surface.

Hydration was already handled thanks to our RaveRunner hydration bag, which became one of those sponsor items that stops feeling like gear and starts feeling like common sense by the second day. With water covered, the next mission was sustenance. No matter how many festivals we go to, and no matter how many vendor rows we walk through pretending we are still considering all options, we seem to magically gravitate toward Space Fruit.

It has become one of those festival instincts. When the day is warm, the body is tired and the Forest is still asking for miles, a smoothie starts sounding less like a treat and more like survival equipment with better branding. We grabbed an iconic Space Fruit smoothie and what turned out to be the best kale salad I have ever had in my life.

That is not a sentence I expected Electric Forest to pull out of me, but here we are.

Even better, I got to share it with Devin, who is not usually the first person sprinting toward the healthiest food vendor. Credit where it is due: Space Fruit made a kale salad persuasive enough to cross household eating habits. There are miracles in Sherwood and not all of them involve lasers.

Next came some well deserved hammock time.

There are few things at Electric Forest more necessary than giving yourself permission to stop. Not quit, not miss out, not fall behind. Stop. Let the trees do what they were planted to do. Let the noise become distance. Let the day slow down enough for the body to catch up with the spirit. We found our little pocket, ate, rested and let the Forest do one of its oldest tricks: turning a break into part of the story.

The land remembers

The longer you spend at Electric Forest, the more the land itself starts feeling like part of the lineup.

That is not just festival romance talking. The property has been gathering stories for more than a century. In 1914, George and Mary Stouch settled on about 80 acres near Rothbury, land that included Big Wildcat Lake and a farmhouse dating back to the 1890s. Their daughter Roma later used the setting for Cedar Shores, a girls’ summer camp where kids learned swimming, horseback riding, crafts, theater and outdoor skills. The Depression ended that chapter, but the idea of the land as a gathering place did not disappear.

By the late 1930s, the property had evolved into Jack and Jill Ranch, then eventually Double JJ Ranch and Double JJ Resort. Long before Electric Forest filled the grounds with bass, lasers and art installations, people were already coming there for horseback riding, campfires, dances, vacations and the strange alchemy that happens when strangers become temporary neighbors.

That history changes the way the Forest feels. A lot of festivals are built on open fields and blank fairgrounds. Electric Forest sits on land that had decades of memory before the first festival wristband ever clicked onto a wrist. Rothbury Festival arrived in 2008 and 2009, then Electric Forest launched in 2011 after a year off in 2010, turning the Double JJ grounds into one of North America’s most beloved festival landscapes.

So when people say Sherwood feels alive, maybe they are not only talking about the lights, actors, hammocks or art. Maybe they are feeling the layers: farmland, camp, ranch, resort, Rothbury, Forest. The place was already teaching people how to gather long before the bass drops learned the route through the trees.

That made Friday’s wandering feel different. The Pokémon side quest, the Space Fruit stop, the hammocks, the hidden rooms and the chessboard lore were not interruptions from the music. They were part of the older grammar of the land: come here, meet people, move through the woods, find the story waiting behind the obvious road.

The room behind the room

The maze kept proving that Electric Forest does not build its weirdness in a straight line. Sometimes the first room is only the waiting room for the real one.

After hanging around long enough, we found one of those openings that makes the Forest feel less like a festival and more like a living puzzle box. If you stayed present, if you played along, if the timing lined up, you could be invited behind the obvious room into a smaller secret space. Back there, the volume dropped. The lighting stayed warm and red. Small beds and soft places to sit turned the room into something halfway between a backstage lounge, a confession booth and a fever-dream parlor.

There was someone inside dressed in a burlesque-adjacent character style, but the point was not performance in the big-stage sense. It was conversation. You sat down, caught your breath and talked about whatever rose to the surface. It could be silly. It could be strange. It could be nothing heavy at all. But in the middle of a festival built on movement, sound and sensory overload, the simple invitation to sit still and be spoken to like a person felt quietly generous.

That kind of space is easy to overlook if you are only measuring Electric Forest by set times. But for some people, that little hidden room could be the reset button. A mental break. A place to step out of the crowd without stepping out of the magic. The Forest has plenty of spectacle, but moments like this are where it shows a different kind of care. Not everything has to shake the ground to stay with you.

The kingdoms before the board

Before we reached the giant chess game, the maze started laying out its own mythology. Two hand-painted banners hung along the path like pages torn from an old fantasy book, telling the story of a civilization split between light, dark, power, greed and collapse. One spoke of a great technological alchemy, of gold, sacred rivers, volcanic mountains and a kingdom that once traveled the stars. The other turned darker, describing betrayal, the destruction of that technology and a fall back into primitive medieval war.

That made the chessboard room feel bigger than a clever installation. The game had a world behind it. The banners gave the battle stakes before anyone ever stepped onto a square. By the time we reached the life-sized board, it did not feel like we had stumbled into a random performance. It felt like we had walked into the next chapter of something the Forest had already been whispering through the walls.

The room itself looked like a moonlit battlefield. Blue light spilled across the oversized squares, shadows stretched over the board and people gathered around the edges waiting to see who would be pulled into the game. Then the performance began folding the crowd into the story. We became part of it as pawns, and thanks to where we were sitting, we somehow got swapped from the dark side to the light. I was personally happy with the accidental team change. If the Forest is going to assign you a role in a medieval cosmic chess war, you might as well land on the side with better lighting.

The art was worth slowing down for. The banners looked handmade, thick with texture, calligraphy and real brushwork, not just printed decoration slapped onto a wall. Electric Forest does that well when it is firing on all cylinders. It gives you the spectacle, but it also rewards the people who stop long enough to read the signs, study the details and realize the side quest has lore.

By then, Friday had become its own strange collection: a Bowsette companion, Pokémon in the wild, healthy food that somehow got Devin’s approval, a hidden parlor, a mythological chess war and a whole ranch’s worth of history under our feet. The night had stacked itself into chapters.

Then came GRiZ.

GRiZ brings it all together

By the time we made it to GRiZ, the night already felt loaded with story. The Pokémon side quest, the media lounge, the hammocks, Space Fruit, the hidden rooms and the chessboard kingdom had all piled into one of those long Forest days where every hour feels like its own little pocket universe. Then GRiZ walked out with the saxophone, and the whole field seemed to lift at once.

GRiZ at Electric Forest is not just a booking. It is a hometown-adjacent homecoming with a crowd that knows exactly what kind of emotional weather he can bring. He can make people dance, cry, laugh, shake their whole spirit loose and remember they are lucky to be alive, sometimes inside the same stretch of music. The saxophone gives it breath. The bass gives it body. The transitions give it motion.

What made the Friday set feel special was not just that he played the songs people wanted. It was the way he pulled pieces from across his different projects and made them flow together, almost like he was stitching his own map in real time. For years, every GRiZ lane has felt like him saying, “Yeah, I can do that too.” Funk, bass, soul, sax, party music, emotional release, weird little electronic turns, full-crowd catharsis. Friday felt like the answer to all of that. Not just proof that he could do each piece, but proof that he could bring all of it into one living set without the seams showing.

That is why the set landed so hard. It did not feel like a greatest-hits shuffle or a producer proving versatility by jumping lanes every few minutes. It felt integrated. Each project, each era, each mood had been part of the same bigger sentence all along. The GRiZ crowd has always loved him for the joy, but Friday made the craft glow too. He was not just saying he could do it all. He was doing it all, in one continuous current, with Ranch Arena answering every turn.

A few hours earlier, we had been walking through a maze reading about alchemy, betrayal and civilizations that traveled the stars. Then GRiZ took pieces from his own musical kingdoms and made them move as one. That might sound too neat, but the Forest has a habit of arranging metaphors before you notice you are standing inside one.

The crowd gave itself over. Hands went up. Totems bobbed like neon sea creatures. The sax cut through the night with that familiar human brightness, and the bass came underneath like the ground remembering its job. For a festival that spends so much time balancing spectacle and intimacy, GRiZ found the cleanest line between the two. Ranch Arena was enormous, but the set still felt personal.

Day 2 needed that. After a day full of side quests and small discoveries, GRiZ gave Friday its wide-screen ending.

Late-night ghosts and glowing routes

After GRiZ, the Forest still had hours left in it. Friday’s official map stretched deep into the morning, with Sammy Virji carrying Sherwood Court from 2:15 to 3:30 a.m. and Claude VonStroke taking Tripolee into the 4 a.m. hour. We did not build our whole night around seeing everything, because Electric Forest does not really reward that kind of stubbornness. It rewards surrender.

Still, the late-night images told their own story. Sherwood Court kept throwing lasers through the trees. Ranch Arena still felt like it was cooling down from GRiZ. The walkways glowed. Costumes blurred. The day’s side quests became camp stories before we had even made it back to camp.

That is the difference between a festival with stages and a festival with a world. At Electric Forest, the music is the gravity, but the wandering is the weather. You do not just leave a set and go somewhere else. You pass through scenes, characters, tiny rituals and overheard sentences that make the night feel populated by more than the schedule.

Friday had started with leftover echoes from Thursday. It ended with a new set of them.

The people who kept the quest moving

Coverage like this takes more than a wristband and a notebook. It takes fuel, gear, time, trust and the kind of support that lets a small media team chase stories across a very large Forest.

A huge thank you goes out to our Electric Forest coverage sponsors: Herb N’ Legend, The Dakota Scout, Iron Trakks Media, RaveRunner, Total Drag and Common Sense. Each one helped make it possible for Intellectual Dissatisfaction to return to Rothbury with cameras, notes, curiosity and enough stubborn momentum to follow the weekend wherever it led.

That support showed up in practical ways all weekend. RaveRunner kept us hydrated through the endless walking, long stage stretches and side quests that never stayed as close as they seemed on the map. At Electric Forest, good gear does not just make coverage easier. It lets you stay present long enough to notice the weird little moments that become the story.

Afterglow

Friday was not one clean storyline. It was a pocket full of strange items: 3D-printed Pokémon, Bowsette in the Forest, media-lounge friend codes, Space Fruit, hammocks, handmade chess kingdoms and GRiZ turning Ranch Arena into something close to collective gratitude.

Day 1 got us back through the gates. Day 2 reminded us why people keep wandering after they arrive. Sometimes the best thing in the Forest is not the thing printed on the schedule. Sometimes it is a side quest, a smoothie, a stranger with a shared obsession, a quiet room behind the room, a chessboard in the woods or a saxophone line from GRiZ that makes the whole crowd remember they are alive at the same time.

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The road back home

For us, Electric Forest has never been a regular stop on the summer calendar. This year marked Devin’s fourth, and Hopes third in the forest.

Four years ago, this place became part of our marriage story. Not in the cute, throwaway “we love festivals” kind of way, either. We got married here. The Forest became chapel, witness, backdrop and weird little cosmic notary all at once. It meant enough that my dad found a job flipping burgers 14 hours a day just so he could make it to our wedding. That is the kind of thing that changes how a place lives in your memory.

Electric Forest became more than a festival wristband or a wild weekend. It became a place people worked, traveled, sacrificed and showed up for us. So when Intellectual Dissatisfaction sent my wife and me back this year to cover the festival together, it felt less like a media assignment and more like being asked to walk back into a memory while it was still alive and throwing lasers.

Day 1 started about as smooth as anyone can reasonably hope for when the plan involves driving overnight, navigating arrival, finding will call, grabbing wristbands, making camp and hoping nothing important was forgotten in a gas station parking lot three states back.

The 24-hour will call setup made the first step easy. We grabbed our media bands, eased through the car search and made our way toward the campgrounds with that first-day mix of exhaustion and disbelief sitting in the chest. Everyone we dealt with was in a genuinely good mood, which at a festival entrance is not a small thing. A pleasant gate crew can change the whole opening chapter.

Electric Forest deserves credit here. Media check-in was handled with care and clarity. Credentials were easy to grab, directions were clear and once we found the media hub inside the festival, it felt like there was always someone available when we needed a contact. Nobody acted like we were bothering them by asking questions. Nobody had that burned-out clipboard stare. The media team was polite, steady and easy to work with, which helps when you are trying to build coverage in the middle of a giant temporary city made of tents, bass, dust, hammocks, hydration packs and human beings moving in every possible direction.

By the time we landed at home base, the trip had already shifted from travel mode into Forest mode. The road noise was still buzzing in our ears, but the grounds had that familiar pull. It was the first breath after arrival, that little pause where you realize you are no longer trying to get somewhere. You have arrived.

Our inTENTion

Some people arrive with architectural confidence and build a shaded compound before breakfast. Some people throw a canopy into the wind and pray. We landed somewhere in the practical chaos zone, working as the dynamic duo we are and setting up what Devin has now dubbed our “inTENTion,” a play on “Inception,” because we had our tent inside a tent. It was ridiculous, useful and entirely us. A tent within a tent. A dream inside a dream. A marriage inside a media assignment inside a festival that already feels like it was designed by someone who read a fairy tale, lost the plot and made it better.

The setup looked a little bare at first, the way every festival camp does before it starts collecting personality. Chairs landed first. Bags found temporary corners. The canopy became walls, shade and a small claim of territory. Then the actual tent went inside it, and suddenly the joke became architecture. It was part weather protection, part privacy plan, part proof that tired people can still innovate when the alternative is sleeping in a field with no system.

That small camp joke became a good first metaphor for the weekend. Electric Forest is layered. There is always another room behind the room, another path behind the path, another reason the place has become personal to people who return year after year. You come in thinking you are here for the lineup, then the land starts handing you clues.

Once the tapestry went up, camp stopped feeling like a pile of gear and started feeling like home base. That is one of the small rituals of any festival: the moment a temporary shelter becomes yours. A blanket on a wall, a chair in the corner, a bag tucked under a table, a little shade carved out of a giant field. It does not need to be fancy. It just needs to become recognizable after a long walk back in the dark.

Hope’s favorite part of that first walk was not the stages. Not yet. It was noticing the flora and fauna around us. Electric Forest is obviously known for lights, art installations and the beautiful nonsense of Sherwood after dark, but during the day the land speaks in a quieter register. Near where we camped, we found carrots growing in the field. Actual carrots.

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The Forest starts feeding clues

The first day came with technical issues, because of course it did. Any festival coverage day without at least one equipment or logistics snag feels suspicious. The issue was a down shuttle which pushed us into making the journey on foot to the venue, which could have been frustrating. Instead, it became another accidental discovery route.

That walk is where we started noticing more of the edible landscape hiding around the edges: asparagus, rhubarb and those earlier carrots. For a festival so often described through spectacle, it was funny to have Day 1 begin with something so grounded. Before the big drops, before the lasers, before Excision turned Ranch Arena into a bass-powered pressure system, we were walking through plants and asking quiet questions about the soil.

This is where being married at Electric Forest changes the way you cover it. A first-time attendee might see those things as curiosities. We saw them as part of a place that already had a strange claim on us. Coming back four years later as press did not erase the personal history. It sharpened it. We were working, yes. We had material to gather and sets to catch. But we were also moving through a place that had already held one of the biggest days of our life.

The festival itself was waking up around us. Day 1 always has a special kind of charge. People are still clean enough to recognize themselves. Camp setups are still standing with optimism. Outfits are still intact. The weekend has not yet taken its tax. Everyone is moving with the bright confusion of arrival, trying to find stages, friends, water stations, bathrooms, shortcuts, landmarks and the version of themselves they packed for the weekend.

What made Thursday feel especially kind was the weather. The rare Forest day where the heat was not immediately trying to turn everybody into a cautionary tale changes the whole mood. People still looked ready for a long weekend, but not like they were already negotiating with the sun for custody of their soul. That gave the opening hours more room to breathe. The crowd had that first-night glow, moving through the grounds with compliments, totems, outfits, jokes and the occasional “Where’s Carl?” call floating through the air like part of the official soundtrack.

Local Spins another media team also had a team on the ground for opening day and did a great job capturing a wider view of Thursday, from the crowd movement and stage-hopping to the weather, Honeycomb, Tripolee and the first-night atmosphere. You can see their Day 1 coverage here.

Outside our own path, Thursday also carried a small thread worth noting. Another media team Bass n Babes published a preview spotlighting SHIMA, Oppidan, HerShe, Inji, Steller, Iniko and Sippy as artists to watch at Electric Forest 2026, with the outlet framing the list around queer, femme and underrepresented artists in the bass and electronic scene. SHIMA and HerShe landed on the Thursday schedule, both at The Observatory. SHIMA’s 8:00-8:45 p.m. set and HerShe’s 8:45-9:30 p.m. set gave that stage its own early-night draw, a reminder that Electric Forest’s best discoveries are not always waiting at the biggest fields or latest slots.

The 2026 lineup gave Thursday plenty to chase, and no two paths through opening night were going to look the same. Ranch Arena opened with EFFIN, rolled into Midnight Generation and then carried the late-night pull toward Excision’s 12:30 a.m. takeover. Sherwood Court had Eggy, Night Tapes, ALLEYCVT and Ganja White Night. Tripolee ran deep into the night with H&RRY, Close Friends Only, Jackie Hollander, Daniel Allan, Devault, Westend, D.O.D, Odd Mob and Eli Brown. The Observatory had its own odd little current with Dixon’s Violin, SHIMA, HerShe, JKYL & HYDE, ProbCause and the later all:Lo Collective block.

Time Travel Agency/Secret Room

Still, the best part of Electric Forest is that the schedule never tells the whole story.

While we were waiting on our scavenger passes at the Time Travel Agency, we were lucky enough to catch Levity playing an unscheduled set in the Forest. It was one of those moments that reminds you why people wander instead of marching from stage to stage with a rigid plan. Levity sounded great bouncing between the tree rows, loose and alive in a way that felt made for that exact pocket of the festival. Sometimes hearing music inside the Forest hits even better than hearing it at one of the big stages. The trees hold sound differently. They make it feel less like a performance being aimed at you and more like something you stumbled into at the right second.

This year things were made different by the hanger/dream emporium being completely gone and replaced by a maze. At the start of the festival i heard attendees talking about their worries of losing the dream emporium building. However by day 2 I didn’t hear anything else about those worries as the maze seemed to be a great change and hit to the crowd.

The first room we found felt like a mechanic shop for whatever part of your spirit gets worn down by arrival day. Instead of oil changes and tire rotations, the attendant was handing out moxie repairs with a massage gun, dressed like some futuristic pit-crew doctor who had been assigned to Sherwood Forest by mistake and decided to commit fully. Hope climbed onto the table for a quick tune up, and after an overnight drive, camp setup, gear hauling and the first real walk into the festival, it was exactly the kind of ridiculous relief that only Electric Forest could make feel completely normal. One minute you are chasing scavenger clues. The next, someone in orange is restoring your festival operating system one knot at a time.

The maze kept getting stranger in the best possible way. After the mechanic-style moxie repair, we found our way into Pearly’s Dentistry, where the whole bit was played perfectly, which only made it funnier.

There was a dentist chair, a full little set, attendants in character and the kind of commitment to nonsense that separates Electric Forest from festivals that only decorate their weirdness instead of performing it.

They cleaned your teeth, handed you a toothbrush to keep and sent you back into the Forest a little fresher than you arrived. It was absurd, oddly practical and somehow very on-brand. Only here can a scavenger hunt turn into light dental maintenance and still feel like part of the story.

The Luminaria story

Not every hidden corner of Electric Forest is built for a laugh. Some are there to make you stop moving for a minute.

One of the most quietly powerful spaces we came across told the story behind the Luminaria project. According to the sign inside the installation, the roots go back to Rothbury 2008, when a group of friends first found themselves changed by Sherwood Forest: the hammocks, the clustered trees, the visual art, the feeling that every turn opened into another piece of wonder. They left knowing they would come back.

One of them, Steve Fanning, never got that chance.

The story says Steve died after going back into a burning off-campus apartment to get the rest of his friends out. He was the last person out of the house, and he later succumbed to smoke inhalation. His friends remembered him as a hero, the “ultimate friend,” and someone whose spirit fit the Forest’s sense of community, connection and kindness.

When Rothbury 2009 came around, Steve’s mother, Margaret Fanning, reached out to the group. Steve had loved the Forest and talked about its magic, and she asked if some of his ashes could be spread there. His friends found a perfect place, gathered for one last goodbye and turned grief into something that could keep moving.

That is where the Luminaria project began.

The installation explains that the Luminarias became a way for people to keep souls alive in the Forest. Attendees are invited to create a Luminaria for someone who cannot make it to the Forest, someone they carry with them, someone they miss or someone they want remembered. Later, those bags light up Sherwood at night, turning private grief into a shared glow.

It hit differently standing there on Day 1. We had spent the afternoon chasing scavenger clues, laughing about our inTENTion and letting the Forest pull us toward its stranger corners. Then suddenly there was this reminder that the same place built for absurdity, bass and wonder also makes room for mourning. Electric Forest does not ask people to leave their real lives at the gate. It gives them a place to carry those lives differently.

Ranch Arena opens the night

Once the side quests had done their work, the night pointed us toward Ranch Arena.

There is a particular feeling when you approach that stage knowing a heavy hitter is coming later. The field holds anticipation differently. People move in and out during earlier sets, testing the night, calibrating their bodies, finding their people. Some are locked in from the jump. Some are conserving fuel. Some are already glowing in ways that have little to do with LEDs. Thursday at Ranch Arena felt like the festival stretching its limbs.

EFFIN started the evening’s Ranch run, and even if Day 1 logistics kept us from treating every set like a full critical sit-down, his placement helped open the night with weight. Midnight Generation brought a different pocket after that, with Local Spins describing the Mexico act’s Thursday appearance through its disco, funk and electronic blend. The schedule had Disco Lines listed for 9:45 p.m., but Local Spins reported that Disco Lines was under the weather and It’s Murph stepped in on short notice. That kind of swap could have left a hole in the night. Instead, it became another quiet example of the festival’s opening-day momentum, where the plan bends and the crowd keeps moving.

We were also lucky enough to catch part of EFFIN’s Ranch Arena set, which was high on our list from the jump. We have always enjoyed EFFIN, and our Editor-in-Chief does too, so we wanted to make sure we gave him some time. There was also a bigger reason to be there: EFFIN was not only making his Electric Forest debut, he was opening the festival’s main stage at Ranch Arena on Thursday. That is a serious slot to walk into, and he did not treat it like a warm-up.

Based in Nashville, EFFIN has built a following through inventive sampling, technical sound design, vintage-inspired aesthetics and the kind of internet-native creativity that gives his music personality without turning it into a gimmick. His Forest appearance landed in the middle of what has become the biggest year of his career, following standout performances at Bonnaroo, Okeechobee and GRIZTRONICS at The Gorge, plus a collaboration with GRiZ and support dates with Subtronics and Tape B. That context made sense once he was onstage. Electric Forest tends to bring out higher-end production from artists, the kind of polish that makes even an early slot feel like it has teeth, and EFFIN did not disappoint. He sounded as good as I have ever heard him this week, giving Ranch Arena a proper ignition point before the heavier late-night machinery rolled in.

Thursday’s Ranch schedule still had a smart shape to it, building from earlier motion into the kind of late-night pressure Excision requires.

We have been large Excision fans for years, with several Lost Lands trips in our past, so there was no treating this as a casual stop. Excision is not background music. His sets are built for impact, and at Electric Forest that impact lands in an especially interesting way. Forest has all this softness and mystery built into its identity, then Excision arrives and turns the air into machinery. The contrast works. The trees can hold tenderness and violence. The night can be beautiful and punishing in the same breath.

At Ranch Arena, the crowd tightened into that familiar pre-drop posture. Bodies angled forward. Phones rose. Conversations thinned. The stage became the center of the map.

The schedule had Disco Lines listed for 9:45 p.m. at Ranch Arena, but Local Spins reported that Disco Lines was under the weather and Nashville’s It’s Murph stepped in on short notice. Even when the plan bends, Electric Forest usually finds a way to keep the current moving.

You do not really “see everything” at this festival. You build a path, then accept the ghosts of the paths you did not take.

Then Excision took over.

Level passed

An Excision set is a physical event first and a musical one second, though the two are tangled too tightly to separate. The bass does not simply play. It arrives, occupies space and makes demands. You feel it in the ribs before your brain has time to name it.

For us, seeing Excision’s lasers cut across Electric Forest was a different kind of thrill than seeing that same force on the grounds of Lost Lands. We have spent years in that world too, where bass music feels like the whole kingdom. Forest is different. It has always pulled from more directions, more textures, more little pockets of sound and story. For a long time, it felt like people in this orbit were quietly choosing sides: Lost Lands or Electric Forest, full-send bass pilgrimage or genre-blending woodland myth. Watching Excision land early in the weekend at Ranch Arena felt like those borders softening a little.

It set a good tone for where these events seem to be heading. The Forest crowd wanted bass, and they made that clear fast. The lasers went up, the field answered and suddenly Excision did not feel like an outside force crashing the party. He felt like one more piece of the weekend’s evolution, proof that Electric Forest can still stretch without losing the strange, living pulse that makes it Electric Forest in the first place.

The people who helped us get back

Coverage like this does not happen by magic, even at a festival that seems built out of it. The drive, the gear, the camp setup, the long days, the late nights and the miles between South Dakota and Rothbury all take real support behind the scenes. This trip was possible because people and businesses believed in what we were trying to document: not only the stages, but the stories moving through the Forest.

A huge thank you goes out to our Electric Forest coverage sponsors: Herb N’ Legend, The Dakota Scout, Iron Trakks Media, RaveRunner, Total Drag and Common Sense. Each one helped make it possible for Intellectual Dissatisfaction to return to Electric Forest with enough stubborn curiosity to chase the weekend properly. Their support let us come back to a place that already meant something deeply personal to us and cover it with the care it deserved.

That support means more than a logo on a graphic. It means being able to tell the story from the ground, from the camp roads, from the hidden rooms, from the late-night crowds and from the little dirt-level details most people walk past on their way to the next stage.

Afterglow

Day 1 had already taken us through several versions of the festival. The practical Forest, with will call, credentials, car searches and camp setup. The domestic Forest, where two married people build a tent inside a tent and call it inTENTion. The agricultural Forest, where carrots and asparagus start whispering about the land’s past. The playful Forest, where time travelers send you into strange rooms and someone fixes your moxie with a massage gun. Then, finally, the full-volume Forest, where Excision flattens the remaining travel fog and reminds everyone why the big stages still have gravity.

Four years ago, this place held the beginning of a marriage. On Thursday, it handed us a new assignment: look closer, walk slower, follow the clues and write down what the Forest gives you before it changes shape again.

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