By Rob McCune

An 8-piece funk rock band of Egyptian mummies is on a tour of concert halls in middle America, and if you’re unfamiliar with them, I promise you do not know what you’re in for at one of their shows.

Bringing, to borrow the voice of Vincent Price, “the funk of 40,000 years and grizzly ghouls from every tomb,” the Mummies have a groove that’s hard to beat. And pity “whosoever shall be found without the soul for getting down.”

Some bands need a gimmick. The Mummies have a hell of one, but as skilled musicians don’t need it. The octet plays guitar, bass, drums, keys, bari and tenor sax, tambourine, trumpet, and more. At some point on the stage there might be six saxophones – including one in each hand of two of the Mummies, being played simultaneously.

And damn, do they jam.

Seemingly every Mummy also has a singing voice that variously makes one wonder if they aren’t in fact the reanimated corpses of great American funk and soul singers like Sam Cooke and James Brown.

That’s one great thing about the Mummy gimmick: anonymity. We don’t really know who’s under all that wrapping. The band members have names like Mummy Cass, Eddie Mummy, K.W. TuT, Spaz, Fingerbang, Dr. Yo, Highlander, H-POD.

Midnight Mummy is the Flavor Flav of the group, eventually wearing a tall fur cap – like those worn by British soldiers standing guard outside Westminster Palace, but with a comically large eyeball in the center of it – and white-frame sunglasses as he raps and jives across the stage.

The show starts with a drum line down the center aisle, a procession led by two Anubi – plural for the ancient Egyptian god with the heads of jackals – and a storm of streamers.

And then, just as you feel like maybe that’s plenty to be surprised over, you start to pay attention to the songs and the lyrics, which feature the flavor of dirty puns and innuendo – and blatantly sexual themes – that men in their 40s now might have found on records hidden in the back of their dad’s closet and stayed up late to sneak a snickering listen.

The set list for this show at The Kent Stage in Kent, Ohio, featured songs with seemingly innocuous titles like “Pants,” but lyrics like “I’m coming in my pants, my shirt, it’s my best suit baby … I’m so excited, I hope that I don’t come too soon.” Yea, you know what they’re talking about. And as if they needed to drive the point home, the song ends with a cannon blast of white streamers into the audience.

You start to see the nice, older couples (who you might’ve spoken with before the show) in a different, shadier light. They’re wearing the merch. Some are really decked out, wearing Egyptian headdresses. They dance in the aisles and squeal in delight at the performance. And you wonder how many of them attended those swinging “key parties” in the Sixties (and maybe still do), and how many have spent some time in nudist camps.

But if you don’t get carried away by such thoughts, and instead let the funk take over, you might find yourself mummified by the night’s end. “And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver, for no mere mortal can resist …”

Here Come the Mummies have booked tour stops through Illinois, Nebraska, Virginia, West Virginia, Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and even parts of Canada through late October.

Follow Rob McCune on Instagram (@Every_Thing_After_Photo) and listen to the “Every.Thing.After Podcast” on Spotify

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By Rob McCune

Sixty-eight-year-old Gary Numan, 50 years into a music career that has pushed punk into new and multitudinous directions, is an out-of-this-world villain with the charisma of Kahn and Palpatine-like reflexes for firing lightning from his fingers.

His spacey henchmen: Steve Harris on guitar and Tim Slade on bass are twin-like tentacles slapping the strings, while David Brooks masters the synths and Jimmu Lucido the drums.

With a lightshow rivaling the Borealis, Numan and his band blitzed the Cleveland House of Blues in late March on a tour that just wrapped up its North American leg in San Luis Obispo, California, and will head overseas this summer.

The Cleveland show was warmed up by L.A.’s Tremours, featuring Lauren Andino on guitar and vocals and Glenn Fryatt on drums.

The duo’s hazy, ominous overtures washed over the crowd, slowly building a tremorous rhythm in the soul of the venue.

Numan’s two-hour set features tracks from seven albums, including his breakout hit “Cars” from his 1979 debut solo record “The Pleasure Principle,” and two songs from his first band Tubeway Army. Halfway through, Gary turned lead mic over to his daughter Raven Numan and sang backup on her song “Nothing’s What It Seems.”

A two-song encore featured “The Gift,” off his 2021 album “Intruder,” and “My Name Is Ruin,” from 2017’s “Savage (Songs from a Broken World),” the music video for which casts Numan into the desert of a Dune-like world.

From ruin to ruler, Numan has dominated this world already, and has more still to conquer.

Follow Rob McCune on Instagram (@Every_Thing_After_Photo) and listen to the “Every.Thing.After Podcast” on Spotify.

February 11, 2026

Riviera Theatre

Chicago, IL

Mahrou Senoba

The February 11, 2026 Chicago stop landed early in the North American leg of Opeth’s The Last Will and Testament tour, and that “early‑tour energy” was unmistakable—focused, hungry, and carrying just enough unpredictability to feel electric. Outside the Riviera Theatre, a bundled‑up line stretched down the block, Chicago fans buzzing despite the cold.

Katatonia opened with a brooding, meticulously controlled set. Touring behind 2025’s Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State and adjusting to the departure of longtime guitarist Anders Nyström, the band leaned deeper into their atmospheric, clean‑vocal identity. The performance felt introspective and textural—less about weight, more about emotional contour—like a group quietly recalibrating its center of gravity in real time.

That restraint evaporated the moment Opeth walked onstage. Opening with “§1,” they signaled a band fully reawakened. Supporting their 2024 album The Last Will and Testament, Opeth reintroduced harsh vocals for the first time in over a decade, reconnecting with their death‑metal roots while preserving the progressive nuance they’ve honed since. The set moved like a living organism—quiet passages blooming into towering riffs before collapsing back into stillness. By the time “Deliverance” closed the night, its final riff spiraling into a hypnotic loop, the entire room felt caught in a shared exhale.

What makes this pairing resonate is history as much as sound. Katatonia and Opeth emerged from the same Swedish ’90s metal underground, bound by friendship, collaboration, and parallel evolution. Onstage, that lineage becomes tangible: Katatonia drawing inward, Opeth pushing outward, the two bands forming a dynamic emotional arc that neither could create alone.

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He opened with newer material, leaning into a darker, more experimental sound before easing into the records that made him a staple. The transition from moody, atmospheric tracks into classics like “Sure Thing” and “Adorn” felt seamless. When those opening notes hit, the entire crowd sang in unison — not just mouthing lyrics, but really belting them. It felt less like a concert and more like a shared experience.

Vocally, Miguel was locked in. His falsetto was smooth and controlled, and he wasn’t hiding behind backing tracks. He moved confidently across the stage, balancing rockstar energy with intimate moments where he slowed things down and let the emotion breathe. During the slower cuts, you could feel the room shift — phones lowered, people swaying, couples holding each other close.

The live band added depth, especially on the more guitar-driven tracks. The arrangements felt bigger and more raw than the studio versions, giving the performance an edge that kept things dynamic.

By the time he closed out the night, the Aragon was loud, sweaty, and fully satisfied. It wasn’t just a nostalgic run through hits — it was a reminder of why Miguel remains one of the most compelling live performers in R&B.

Columbus, OH

By Drew Latshaw
On a bitterly cold Monday night in Columbus, during one of the harshest winter stretches Ohio has seen in recent memory, Ghost arrived at Nationwide Arena to deliver a ritual for their devoted congregation.

I was granted a photo pass for the evening, though not a ticket to remain for the full performance. That meant my time inside was focused entirely on capturing the band in the brief window allotted to photographers, rather than absorbing the elaborate theatrics and spectacle Ghost is known for. My attention was fixed through a lens, chasing light, movement, and moments before they disappeared.

Still, one unexpected moment from the crowd left a lasting impression.

As I stood near the soundboard waiting for the show to begin, a young couple walked past me toward their seats. Both were clearly fans, but the young woman stood out immediately. She was dressed in a costume inspired by Papa V Perpetua, frontman Tobias Forge, and clutched a plush version of him in her arms.

She was visibly trembling. Over and over, she exclaimed in disbelief, “Are you serious?! OMG! Are you for real?!” Her excitement was uncontrollable. When they reached their seats, she wrapped her partner in a hug so intense it looked like he might need medical attention afterward. Through tears, she thanked him again and again.

It was a raw, unfiltered display of joy. Watching that moment stopped me in my tracks.
Over the years, I’ve been incredibly fortunate. I’ve photographed countless shows, stood in countless pits, and met artists I once only knew through headphones and album covers. Access becomes routine. Backstage hallways start to feel familiar. The extraordinary risks becoming ordinary.

That couple reminded me how rare and meaningful these experiences truly are. To her, this wasn’t just another concert. It was a dream realized. A memory she would carry for life. And in that instant, I was reminded why music matters so deeply, and why documenting it still feels like a privilege.

When the house music finally faded and the tattered curtain dropped, the arena erupted. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a collective exhale of anticipation. Ghost had arrived.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of losing myself in the performance. My focus remained on framing shots, adjusting settings, and making every second count. There was little time to absorb the music or the elaborate stage narrative unfolding in front of me.

While it was disappointing not to stay for the full show, the night still felt like a long awaited win.
In 2019, as Ghost was going astronomical on the global stage, I was offered the chance to cover them and declined. A conflicting commitment on the other side of the country made the decision unavoidable, but I regretted it immediately.

Since then, I’ve applied for eight different Ghost shows in various cities, hoping for another opportunity. This Columbus date was that opportunity.

Every mile traveled, every email sent, every application submitted was worth it. Standing there, camera in hand, finally capturing a band I’d waited years to photograph, felt like closing a long-open chapter.

Even from behind the lens, even in a limited window of time, Ghost delivered something powerful: not just spectacle, but connection. Between the roaring crowd, the devoted fans, and fleeting human moments that happen in the shadows of the stage, the night served as a reminder that live music is still one of the most emotionally charged spaces we have.

And sometimes, the most unforgettable moments don’t happen up on the stage and under the spotlight. They happen in the crowd, between two people, holding onto a memory they’ll never let go.

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KiaCenter

Orlando Florida  

Maya McKeefery

THE BAND GHOST formerly a Swedish rock band has taken over the US in a tour. Orlando Florida at the KiaCenter held over 20,000 fans covered in face paint to look like skeletons, hats like bishops, and clothing like you just left a goth party.  The show was very close to the fans as they did not allow any phones, they had to be locked in a pouch so they could have a personal one of a kind concert for every venue. At the Kia Center there was nothing less of loud drums, shredding of guitars and lots of acting out scenes following their personas.

GHOST is not shy with pyrotechnics and smoke as the arena filled with it, the heat from the fire you could feel from your seat. PAPA the lead singer controlled most of the floor with his vulgar comedic comments towards the crowd which they loved you could tell was a relationship they had formed over the years. Behind the band was a mural of stained glass they had made in software and played behind them. It broke as the sounds got stronger and the meaning got tougher in the songs.

The next song played it would build back up and a new set of graphics would show. Some meaning such as eat the rich and satan came up plenty of times. The band Ghost is known for  being a jokingly group where they are a satanic clergy Spreading anti religious messages, and deeper human themes. This show is not one you would take a beginner concert goer but someone that loves rock and metal mixed. The band was a well portrait version of if KISS and SLEEP TOKEN were mixed  for all the fellow theater kids out there

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Let’s face it: Most bands today who have had a fiercely faithful fan following for 30 years (or very nearly that) don’t look as hot as Hanson.
The pop rock band from Tulsa, Oklahoma, that is made up of brothers Isaac, Taylor and Zac has grown up a lot since 1997’s breakthrough “MMMBop” off their debut album. But that’s to be expected, seeing as the brothers were 16, 14 and 11, respectively, then.

Their music has matured as well through 11 studio albums, four live albums, six compilations, 25 EPs, and 26 singles. But the good news for Fansons (fans of Hanson) is that the songs still have the same youthful, bubblegum pop rock energy.
To be fair, even “MMMBop,” as frivolous (in a fun way) as it sounds, dealt with themes of introspection, asking the question we all eventually come to terms with: “When you get old and start losing your hair, who will still be there?”
Friendships sometimes fade. Family, you’re stuck with no matter what. But fandoms like the Fansons, they’re still there. For the Hansons, every handsome hair is also still there, but there may come a day … you know, what? Let’s not even think about it.
Hanson brought their dedicated fan base to MGM Northfield Park in Ohio for a show that really MMMBopped. There was dancing in the aisles, lots of singing along—to really every song—and even a physical altercation minutes before the show started (Fansons are serious).
The brothers showed off their incredible range of musical talent – through solos and instrument exchanges, with Zac and Taylor trading off between percussion and keys. They talked with gratitude about their families—wives and children—and the fans who have kept their band going for a generation.
They performed songs about love and heartbreak and dreams and ambition. One of the most powerful of these was the fist-pumping “I Was Born,” which lyrically continues “to do something no one’s ever done, no one’s ever done before!”
It felt like the theme of the night, and maybe of Hanson’s career. Because no one has ever been or will ever be you, anything you do, you’ll do differently than anyone else. You’ll do it as no ever has before.
Hanson accepts this as truth, and in their music at least, they’ve never tried to be anyone other than who they are.
And that’s really cool.
Rob McCune is Every_Thing_After_Photo on Instagram, where he shares his concert photography and reviews, as well as clips from his “Every.Thing.After” podcast, with interviews with musicians and bands.

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Jacob’s Pavilion

Cleveland, OH

By Drew Latshaw

CLEVELAND — On Friday, September 26th, the waterfront air at Jacob’s Pavilion carried something heavier than summer’s last warmth. It carried anticipation. Over 3,500 fans had crammed into the open-air venue for a lineup that promised not just volume, but transcendence: Peeling Flesh, Shadow of Intent, The Black Dahlia Murder, and the night’s headliner, Lorna Shore.

For the uninitiated, this world of guttural vocals, blast beats, and orchestrated chaos might seem indecipherable. But stand among the faithful — or behind a camera, as I did — and another truth reveals itself: this music is not about destruction. It’s about release, unity, and beauty carved out of brutality.

Peeling Flesh: The Spark

The night began with Peeling Flesh, an Oklahoma outfit who stripped things down to raw force. Their sound was relentless, primal — like being shoved headfirst into a storm. The mosh pits opened instantly, a monstrosity of movement that looked violent but felt oddly communal. For newcomers, this was the first lesson of heavy music: aggression can be a language of belonging.

Shadow of Intent: Precision Meets Majesty

If Peeling Flesh was a bare-knuckle brawl, Shadow of Intent was a symphony with teeth. Their brand of blackened deathcore added sweeping, cinematic layers that hung in the night air like a film score. Frontman Ben Duerr’s vocals cut through the atmosphere with surgical precision, and the crowd responded in kind — not just moshing, but chanting, singing, raising their arms as if pulled by invisible strings.

To watch them was to witness chaos in perfect rhythm. Even someone who has never set foot in a metal show could recognize the craft here — the sheer athleticism of the drumming, the almost operatic scope of the compositions.

The Black Dahlia Murder: Legacy Reforged

When The Black Dahlia Murder took the stage, the mood shifted to reverence. This was their first major tour since the loss of their beloved frontman Trevor Strnad, and with guitarist Brian Eschbach stepping up to the mic, the band proved that grief and resilience can coexist.

The Pavilion erupted for classics like “Everything Went Black” and “What a Horrible Night to Have a Curse.” Crowd surfers sailed by like offerings carried forward by the tide. For metal veterans, this was a healing moment. For outsiders, it was a glimpse into how a community can grieve loudly, together, and still find joy.

Lorna Shore: Beauty in the Inferno

Then came Lorna Shore. As the night on the river engulfed the pavilion, the stage ignited — smoke machines working overdrive, the blinding LED screens that blinded you, even with your eyes clinched shut — but all attention was focused on frontman Will Ramos. His voice, stretching from guttural lows to unearthly shrieks, seemed less human than elemental, as though the earth itself had found a way to scream.

They opened with “Oblivion,” and from that moment, the Pavilion was transformed into something more than a concert. During “Of the Abyss,” I saw tears streaking down faces illuminated by stage lights. Fans screamed every lyric not in anger, but in catharsis, their voices rising with Ramos’ in what felt almost like worship.

And then came “To the Hellfire.” If you’ve never heard it, imagine the sound of an orchestra falling into the abyss — and loving every second of descent. The crowd didn’t just move; it convulsed, surged, and swallowed itself whole. Throughout the night, there were two distinct mosh pits on either side of the stage, eventually they merged into one of the largest pits I’ve ever seen. The countless crowd surfers, horns held high, watching people being tossed like rag dolls was truly a spectacle I was not prepared to witness… but I am so happy that I did!

The Bigger Picture

To call this just a “metal show” would be to miss the point. On Friday night, Jacob’s Pavilion wasn’t just a venue. It was a proving ground for what heavy music has become: not niche, not noise, but an art form that welds ferocity with beauty, despair with resilience, and individuality with communion.

For the seasoned metalhead, it was a night of triumph. For the uninitiated, it was an invitation — to step closer, to see the poetry in the brutality, and maybe, just maybe, to walk away with a new band in their playlist.

Because in the roar of thousands, in the sweat and smoke and fury, something undeniable happened in Cleveland that night: chaos became communion

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– Auditorium Theatre

Chicago, IL

by Mahrou Senobar

In an era of viral hits and disposable anthems, The Swell Season showed Chicago what timeless music sounds like. On a humid July night at the historic Auditorium Theatre, Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová—better known together as The Swell Season—reunited onstage in support of their first new album in over 15 years. The result was a devastatingly beautiful performance that reminded longtime fans—and maybe even the artists themselves—why their music continues to resonate across generations. Their return was more than just a tour stop; it was a moment of emotional reconnection. Fans, many of whom first fell in love with their sound through the 2007 indie film Once, came ready to relive the heartbreak, the harmonies, and the haunting simplicity that made “Falling Slowly” an Academy Award-winning anthem—and a permanent fixture on playlists around the world.

A Reunion Rooted in Growth It’s been over a decade since the Irish-Czech duo last released music together, and even longer since their real-life romance quietly faded. But onstage in 2025, the chemistry remains electric—not romantic, perhaps, but rooted in mutual respect, shared history, and deep musical connection. Their new album, Forward, dropped in June 2025 to critical acclaim. With stripped-back arrangements, introspective lyrics, and a sense of quiet maturity, the project feels like the spiritual sequel to their earlier work—older, wiser, but no less emotionally potent. Songs like “Stuck in Reverse” and “People We Used to Be” carried the weight of time and distance. Yet, in the lush acoustics of the Auditorium Theatre, they felt immediate and raw—proving that the duo’s signature sound still has something powerful to say in today’s musical landscape.

A Setlist Built to Break and Heal The concert’s opening notes were met with a hush from the crowd—a reverent silence, as if everyone instinctively knew they were witnessing something rare. Hansard, with his rugged vocals and fiery guitar strums, set the tone early, while Irglová balanced the set with her soft-spoken elegance and soaring harmonies. They wove classic tracks like “If You Want Me,” “Gold,” and “When Your Mind’s Made Up” into a set that also spotlighted their new material. The transitions were seamless; the old and new speaking to one another like journal entries across time. Hansard’s stage presence remains magnetic—part troubadour, part preacher—while Irglová, seated behind the keys, brought a quiet gravitas that grounded the entire evening. The audience, a cross-generational mix of original fans and newcomers drawn in by social media buzz and playlist algorithms, hung on every note. Backing the duo was longtime Swell Season bassist Joe Doyle and new drummer Piero Perelli, whose sensitive touch on percussion elevated the songs without overpowering them. The result was a fuller sound that still felt intimately handmade.

Music That Lives in the Quiet Places There’s something singular about watching Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová share a stage. They don’t banter much. There’s no flash, no ego, no spectacle. Just two artists meeting one another again in a musical space that seems almost sacred. They may have gone their separate ways personally, but in performance, their connection is palpable—rooted in art, not artifice. Even after all these years, their music still whispers truths that most of us are too afraid to say out loud. That love is complicated. That time can both heal and haunt. That even if you move on, you don’t forget.

A Comeback That’s More Than Nostalgia While many reunion tours trade on sentimentality, The Swell Season’s 2025 comeback feels refreshingly forward-looking. The new album isn’t just a throwback—it’s a musical evolution, and their live performance reflects that. They’re not trying to be who they were in 2007. They’re embracing who they are now—seasoned, scarred, but still singing. And clearly, the world is listening. Their 2025 U.S. tour is generating buzz across streaming platforms, fan forums, and even TikTok, where younger audiences are discovering the power of acoustic storytelling all over again. If you get the chance to see The Swell Season live this year—don’t miss it. You may come for the nostalgia. But you’ll stay for the music that still cuts to the bone.

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July 26, 2025
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Cleveland OH
By Rob McCune

CLEVELAND — If comedy and rock had a baby, and that baby was raised on metal riffs, expired Yoo-hoo, and chaotic internet energy—it’d probably grow up to be Dave Hill.

The Cleveland-born comedian/guitar god/multi-hyphenate force of nature brought his gloriously unhinged brand of humor and hair-whipping rock to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on July 26, in a set that mashed stand-up, shredding, and straight-up absurdity into one loud, loving tribute to doing whatever the hell you want.

Hill, a cult favorite from viral reels and underground comedy stages alike, is the kind of performer who’ll teach you how to make cereal (“Get a bowl—any bowl. Mix with your hands”) before launching into a face-melting guitar solo worthy of a Dio deep cut. And if you’ve seen a video of a guy kicking over traffic cones to black metal while flipping the bird—you’ve already met him.

He’s opened for Tenacious D and jammed with Bill Murray’s band. He’s penned books about hockey, fake black metal bands (see: Witch Taint, the Norwegian outfit he completely fabricated to international outrage), and his Canadian heritage. He’s voiced cartoon creeps, played characters like “DJ Squeeb,” and most recently—he’s made a comic book about his own creative chaos.

“Honestly, everything I do is just to entertain myself,” Hill told the Every.Thing.After Podcast. Mission accomplished.

But before Hill hijacked the evening, the night kicked off with a fist-pumping set from local rockers Falling Stars. The Cleveland-bred quartet, led by vocalist/guitarist Christopher Allen and axe-slinger Tim Parnin (also the Rock Hall’s VP of digital tech—yes, really), tore through tracks from 2017’s Stranded in the Future, their 2019 EP, and 2023’s Lonely No More. Think Petty meets Gin Blossoms with just enough Rust Belt grit. Bonus points for a crowd-pleasing cover of “I Need to Know” and a head-banging closer: Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion,” joined by Hill, of course.

Then came Dave.

Part stand-up, part guitar assault, Hill’s set was like an Adam Sandler B-side cut filtered through Sabbath. He spit pickup lines tailored for Clevelanders, told stories about meat heists, rescue dogs, and getting punched by a girlfriend’s brother—then blew out the PA with guitar solos that would make a Viking weep.

Yes, the cones got kicked. Yes, the crowd howled. And yes—Grandpa’s Cheesebarn got the shoutout it richly deserves.

What’s next for the human fever dream that is Dave Hill? He’s heading back on tour with Bill Murray’s band this fall. And after that?

“I’d like to open for Metallica,” he deadpanned on the podcast. “I think I could do a better job than… well, I’m not gonna name names. But yeah, pretty much anyone.”

Ball’s in your court, Lars.

Rob McCune is Every_Thing_After_Photo on Instagram, where he posts his concert photography and reviews, as well as clips from the latest Every.Thing.After podcast, which is available to download on Apple Podcasts and Spotify. Watch the full podcast interview with Dave Hill on YouTube (@Every_Thing_After).

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