Heading Goes Here And Can Be Anything You Want

The lot was already humming when the first taper pole went up, like the air itself was tuning to open G. Someone was slinging grilled cheese out of a camp stove, somebody else was debating the merits of a 2008 second set versus last summer’s festival run, and a stranger in a dusty tour shirt handed me a sticker like it was a backstage laminate.

Inside, the lights dropped and the room turned into one big shared inhale. The band hit a familiar motif, then immediately took the exit ramp into a left-turn cloud of delay pedals and organ swells, like they were chasing a comet through a field of glow sticks. A couple rows back, someone started calling the song wrong with full confidence, a classic move, while the rail riders held steady like they were anchored to the stage with invisible bungees.

Afterward, the post-show migration spilled back into the lot—heady trades, setlist autopsies, and the sacred ritual of trying to remember what actually happened during the spacey middle section. A guy with a cooler offered “mystery seltzer,” which felt like a terrible idea and also the most on-brand hospitality imaginable.