Another sunny Sunday, another pilgrimage from Columbus to Detroit. There’s something about Detroit that feels like an old friend. As a kid, I made countless trips up here—Mexicantown for the food, Comerica Park for the Tigers. I haven’t been to a game in over 20 years, but tonight, as I pull up to The Fillmore, Comerica stares me down from across the street. An omen? Probably not. But maybe.
Tonight, it’s Joyce Manor and The Gaslight Anthem. The Fillmore is one of those quirky, beautiful theaters—perfect lighting, spacious, built so everyone, even in the far back, can see the stage. But for me, there’s no back row. There’s no seat at all. I’m in the pit, inches from the stage, my camera ready for war.
Joyce Manor: Controlled Chaos in 30-Second Bursts
It’s just me and another photographer in the pit. To be honest I'm not sure he knew anything about Joyce Manor. He asked me who she was. Poor guy doesn’t know what he’s in for—because this is Joyce Manor we’re talking about, a band that doesn’t waste a damn second. The crowd is already revved up before the first chord even strikes. This is a Joyce Manor crowd. And what’s not to love? These guys rip through songs like they’re trying to outrun the devil.
Joyce Manor storms the stage, kicking off with all the fury of a band that knows exactly what the hell they’re doing. Vocalist Barry Johnson has this infectious energy about him—he attacks his guitar, spits into the mic with a smirk that says he knows something you don’t. Song after song, the set feels like it’s over before it even starts. Every track hits with a punch, short and brutal, but somehow satisfying.
Sometimes, I wonder if Johnson’s lyrics are autobiographical or just a wild fiction, but part of me hopes they’re real. If they are, then he’s had one hell of a ride. The crowd clearly believes in it—they’re singing along to every word, shouting like their lives depend on it. I’m usually a harsh critic of
mosh pits outside of hardcore shows, but this one? This was beautiful chaos. It was violent, raw, and perfect. It was the kind of pit that made you remember why people love live music in the first place.
Joyce Manor didn’t bother with pleasantries. There were a few moments of small talk, sure, but mostly they came to play, and play they did. No frills, no bullshit—just pure, uncut rock. By the time their set ended, the crowd scattered like ants, searching for beer, food, lovers, or the nearest nicotine fix. And just like that, it was time for the headliner.
The Gaslight Anthem: A Feverish Reverence
As the stage crew set up for The Gaslight Anthem, I noticed something strange. The energy in the room shifted. It was subtle, but palpable. This crowd was here for something different. Sure, they loved Joyce Manor, but there was a shift from chaotic enthusiasm to a kind of feverish reverence. This was their church, and Brian Fallon was their preacher.
The lights dimmed, and the opening beat of "American Slang" rang out. The crowd hummed, then buzzed, and by the time the first chorus hit, they erupted. This wasn’t just nostalgia. This was a community coming together, unified in their devotion to a band that had helped define a generation.
The Gaslight Anthem is a staple in the circles I run in. Mention The Menzingers, Japandroids, or any number of punk-tinged rock bands, and inevitably, someone will bring up The Gaslight Anthem. And I get it—there’s a sincerity in Fallon’s voice that’s hard to fake. It’s real. It’s raw. And it’s the kind of authenticity that cuts through the noise in a world overflowing with manufactured hits. The Gaslight Anthem is like a family recipe passed down through the years. No matter how many times you taste it, the sauce is always perfect.
There’s something magical about how this band can control a crowd without even being on stage. Before they ever played a note, the vibe in the room was theirs. And when Fallon sings, the audience feels every note. When he hurts, they hurt. When he rejoices, they rejoice. It’s the kind of connection that’s rare, and when you witness it firsthand, it reminds you why music matters.
The Gaslight Anthem showed why they’ve maintained such a loyal following over the years. They’re the kind of band that understands rock 'n' roll at its core: a sad song, a guitar, and a crowd that’s willing to bleed for you.
There’s something about live music that no recording can ever capture. The sweat, the energy, the way a band can command a room with nothing but raw talent and emotion—it’s primal. Tonight, Joyce Manor and The Gaslight Anthem gave us two different sides of the same coin. Joyce Manor was a controlled explosion, a fury of short, sharp songs that left you breathless. The Gaslight Anthem, on the other hand, was a masterclass in storytelling, showing us that rock isn’t just about noise—it’s about heart.
Standing in that photo pit, camera in hand, I felt lucky to be a part of it all. Detroit, you’ve done it again. Maybe I’ll catch a Tigers game next time. But tonight, I was exactly where I needed to be.
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