Smoke, Sauce, and a Surf Champion’s Smile
Wildwood Smokehouse and Saloon, Iowa City, Iowa, January 9, 2026
A quick editor note before we get greasy with it. Huge thanks to our show correspondent Caleb Hauser for jumping in on short notice when our originally scheduled correspondent had family plans pop up. Caleb handled real-life logistics, knocked out a couple car maintenance things, wrangled his kids’ schedule, and still made the drive so this night didn’t go uncovered. That is the job. That is also love. Also huge thanks to Kate Lichter with First Fleet Concerts for help lining this one up!
The chandelier over the dance floor
I drove to this one with my expectations set to “small, fun Friday night.” Another coworker was originally on the assignment, and the setting read like a restaurant that sometimes hosts music rather than a music room that sometimes hosts food.
Then I got there about forty minutes before the first set, and the place immediately reintroduced itself.
This was rustic in the exact way you want it to be when you’re about to spend money on barbecue. Not fake-barn chic. Not sterile. The real stuff. The walls were blanketed with posters from past shows. The front entrance looked like a long-running yearbook, permanent marker autographs from bands and patrons layered on top of each other like rings in a tree.
Upstairs there was a gallery with seating and a clear view of the stage. Small but pleasant. And then there was the part that really made my brain do the cartoon blink.
A giant crystal chandelier, hanging over a venue floor you can tell has years of concert-goers in it. The kind of floor that remembers boots. The kind that, on weeks without bands, turns into a line-dancing floor like it’s the most normal thing in the world. That’s Midwest enjoyment done properly. And yes, this is the same building that will feed you award-winning BBQ and then hit you with live music like a polite ambush.
As people settled in, it felt like everyone was willing to talk to anyone. I don’t mean the forced “nice weather” thing. I mean actual conversation. It’s rare, even for me as a concert regular, to watch a room collectively agree that whatever differences they walked in with are weaker than the simple fact that everybody’s got a story, and everybody is here because they love live music.
Then the lights went dark, drink orders all but stopped, and the first artist came out like they were late to a fire.
MAKUA lit the fuse
MAKUA rushed onstage with the kind of energy that does not ask permission.
Their singer, Makua Rothman, came out in a hoodie like a normal human who understands weather, then quickly shed it once the band turned up the heat. This was a three-piece, and it didn’t take long to deduce there wasn’t a bassist. You don’t need a spreadsheet to notice what isn’t there.
What shocked me was how little it mattered.
They played with an unspeakable rhythm and presence. They didn’t even need a bass player, and as a bassist, that is hard for me to say without feeling like I’m committing a small betrayal. But the pocket was real. The drive was real. The crowd moved.
Makua bounced across the stage with the excitement of someone who grew up surfing off the coast of Hawaii. That’s not a cute metaphor. He’s a World Surf League big wave world champion.
And he carried himself like a guy who learned early that fear is a conversation you can refuse to have.
There’s a quote floating around from him that I ran into while digging around afterward. “I figured that the guy who was having the most fun would win so I guess I was having the most fun.” I’m quoting it exactly because it landed like a mission statement.
That was the whole set. Fun as strategy. Joy as a weapon.
They did “I say you say” chants. They taught the room its parts. They didn’t perform at the crowd, they recruited the crowd. It felt like watching a band turn a room full of strangers into a temporary choir without making it corny.
By the end of their set, I felt like I’d already made friends with them. All three of them had distinct personalities, and every one of them seemed like the kind of guy you could go have a beer with and not regret it later.
The nicest Jedi in the room
After MAKUA, the crowd had just enough time for refreshers and autographs. That’s when I got to meet some of the Wildwood Smokehouse and Saloon staff at the bar. Every single one of them was cordial, friendly, and on it.
They took my jacket because I didn’t have anywhere to put it. That sounds small, but it’s the kind of small that tells you everything. It didn’t go unnoticed.
I went back to the front of the stage to grab a good photo spot. The dance floor was filling again, and fellow concert-goers literally waved me forward so I could get better shots. That’s the vibe. That’s the kind of kindness that makes you protect a room like it’s your cousin’s wedding.
Then the venue lights and the set-change soundtrack dropped again, and the room tightened its focus like somebody turned the “together” knob up.
I’ve got to give flowers to Wildwood here, because the technical side of this night was absurdly good. Stage manager, sound manager, lights, emcee, all of them ran the show flawlessly. They handled their tools like some sort of live music Jedi.
And here’s the thing. Spaces like this, “restaurant-type venues,” are not always sound-friendly. Hard surfaces, weird corners, bodies shifting, all the stuff that can turn a mix into a muddy soup.
Not tonight.
The sound was controlled, balanced, and clean in a way that made me keep looking around like, who is responsible for this competence. I would see a show here again even taking into consideration the three-hour drive. It was simply extraordinary.
Worth noting for readers planning ahead, Wildwood lists itself as all-ages until 10 pm, then 18 plus after.
The Special Sauce tasted like it belonged there
Then the main event hit.
G. Love and Special Sauce is an appropriately perfect name for a band playing at a barbecue joint. And their music was nothing less than delicious.
They walked on like they’d been doing this forever, because they have, and they play into each other’s strengths like they’re reading the same book without needing to turn the pages.
Song after song, they got deeper into their pocket, despite being in their groove right out the gate. I’ll be honest. I didn’t walk into this as a long-time fan who can call every song by the first snare hit. I couldn’t tell you every title they played.
But I can tell you, without a hitch, every one of them was good.
Some were easy to deduce, like “Peace, Love and Happiness,” “Baby’s Got Sauce,” and “Cold Beverage.” Others I never figured out the names for. It didn’t matter. Every track was pleasant, the set flowed, and it didn’t take long for the lyrics to start sticking in my head like smoke in a hoodie.
It’s a very specific kind of magic when you leave a venue humming something you didn’t know you needed.
There was also a beautiful little layer of real-life humanity baked into this performance. The band had a sit-in bassist, Nate Edgar, stepping in because their usual bassist, Jimi “Jazz” Prescott, was injured.
The tour kept moving. Nate stepped into a moving vehicle and somehow made it look like he owned the seat.
Nate Edgar, the kind of pro you remember
After the show, Nate struck up a conversation with me like I was an old friend he expected to see. That part costs nothing and is worth everything.
His ability to fit into the band on short notice is what every musician dreams about. But his willingness to talk to a wallflower during load-out is what every musician should actually be dreaming about.
Being personable goes a long way in the music business. Talent opens the door. Being a good human keeps it open.
For readers who like to chase rabbit trails, Nate Edgar has history as a Boston-based bassist, including time with John Brown’s Body.
And for me personally, the aftermath has been predictable. I’ve added G. Love and Special Sauce on Spotify and Makua Rothman on Spotify into the daily driver playlist. I’ve also been digging into Nate’s other projects, because that’s what happens when a musician makes you feel the work instead of just hear it.
Also, next time I’m at Wildwood, I’m trying the food. The venue already earned my respect on the music side. Now I want the full sermon. Wildwood needs a proper music-notes food review done sooner rather than later.
Afterglow
I drove to Iowa City with no real expectations.
I drove home with lyrics stuck in my head, new bands in my rotation, and that old, almost-forgotten feeling that the world still knows how to be kind in public.
The chandelier didn’t feel ironic by the end of the night. It felt symbolic. Fancy light over a scuffed dance floor. High sparkle over honest wear. A room where strangers wave you forward so you can get your shot. A staff that takes your jacket without making you feel like a burden.
A Hawaiian surf champion grinning like fun is a competitive sport. A blues-hip-hop-rock band called Special Sauce sounding like they were born for a barbecue joint stage.
Midwest nice is still here.
Sometimes it’s hiding in the wildest places, signing the door in permanent marker, and turning the drink orders quiet when the lights go out.
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