Tag: Macklemore

Another Innings Festival is in the books — although, as luck would have it, we’ve got a new second weekend of music, Extra Innings, hot on its heels on March 1 and 2.

But for the moment, let’s look back and reflect on what we heard on Feb. 23 and 24 at Tempe Beach Park: the new and exciting, the familiar and comforting, and the bad. Like very, very bad.

Here are recaps of some of the sets at Innings Festival, plus photos of the action and the fans.

Breakup Shoes, 12:50 p.m. at Right Field

We’ve written about the unenviable spot of your average festival opener; although many people are likely to miss their set, there’s still this unspoken expectation that the band are setting the tone for the weekend. And the Valley’s own Breakup Shoes excelled brilliantly in this somewhat harrowing role. The local band were clearly used to smaller and/or distracted audiences, and they leaned into that by doing what they do best: a sometimes sentimental, always energetic set of their shiny brand of pop rock. But more than just rolling with the punches, as it were, Breakup Shoes felt like the perfect musical encapsulation for this weird little niche fest. They have the kind of vaguely Gen X-appeasing sound that’s beloved by the demographic of Innings Festival. But they’re also young and cool enough to speak to an audience who came here not for booze and baseball but the purer rock music. That skill of riding the line defined their entire set, and proved that the right attitude and just enough pop magic can make for a successful set no matter who happens to catch all or even just some of it. Chris Coplan

The Beaches, 2 p.m. at Right Field

Festivals are all about smashing your own perceptions, right? In my case, I had an idea of The Beaches based on their excellent 2021 EP, “Future Lovers.” But across their set, with the sun wreaking havoc on the crowd, the Canadian rockers showed that they were nothing if not multifaceted. At various parts of their set, they played like a combo of Sleep and Led Zeppelin; Wilson Phillips and Haim; and even The Go-Go’s and The Bangles (if both were surf-punks, of course). But regardless of the crutches you’d use to describe them, The Beaches maddeningly and joyously defied most categories and connotations. They checked so many sonic boxes because they’re just generally charming; irreverent and a little silly (like how they played it off when they accidentally started the wrong song); technically proficient to a T; and just the right balance of tight and hungry, indulgent and dramatic. The Beaches displayed themselves as the thing that matters most: a solid festival undercard, and the kind of unassuming act that steals the show no matter what headliner most folks were waiting to hear. CC

Bully, 2:50 p.m. at Home Plate

Sometimes sets can act as a reminder that live music is about time and place. In the case of Bully, I couldn’t shake the notion that they’d be a better fit for a dark nightclub gig — their feisty, punk-indebted take on alt-rock would be a treat as it echoed off exposed brick. (Also, it was so toasty that I would have given my left arm to be somewhere cooler and with a more robust cocktail menu.) But we all have to play the hand in life that we’re assigned, and Bully delivered with a straightforward set heavy on the crunchy ballads and light on the preening and circumstance that comes with many outdoor gigs. In that way, their performance wasn’t nearly as grand as some other outings — I got the feeling the band were actively fighting the heat and all that space with as much piss and vinegar as possible. They made clear that they were meant to be here no matter how nasty the weather, how much some fans talked and how lacking the set felt in intimacy, and enough of the crowd saw what Bully had to offer in a set that demanded attention and rewarded us with a midday release of sorts. CC

311, 4:35 p.m. at Home Plate

I spent the week or so before the festival texting my wife some variation of, “I’m about to come original.” That tendency spoke to my twin loves of annoying my spouse and the unmatched excitement of seeing the premier ’90s reggae-rap-band from Nebraska. The irony of this situation was not lost on me: it’s 2024 and the likely highlight of my entire fest was going to be the guys who sang “Beautiful Disaster.” But here we are, and that kind of nostalgia-colored joy is sort of the reason why we have Innings in the first place. But all of this begs the question of whether 311 were any good in this day and age, or was my eagerness better left in 1996? For the most part, a band who are pushing 34 years old is decidedly sharp and crisp. Frontman Nick Hexum was especially effective in facilitating this process — he’s clearly been performing these songs forever, and yet he still has a clear sense of joy and fulfillment from bringing these songs out with the same intensity to increasingly older (and also younger) audiences. At the same time, though, there’s no denying that 311 lean heavily into the nostalgia shtick, including their extra-sentimental cover of The Cure’s “Love Song” that they’ve been unpacking for years. That doesn’t mean, though, that nostalgic setlists don’t have an upside (beyond quieting our existential dread). The end result was a set that clearly had some strategic mission and purpose while still trying its best to feel endearing to an audience with varied expectations from the band. It was a show that maybe has existed a few hundred other times before, but that doesn’t mean it’s not wildly entertaining given just how much the band cares each time they roll out the ol’ routine. Oh, and they did play “Come Original,” and it was pretty darn life-changing. CC

Phantogram, 5:45 p.m. at Right Field

It’s weird to think I came to Phantogram in 2010 with “Mouthful of Diamonds,” and then I saw them in a field in 2024. Sure, they’re not exactly in the headlining spot I’d assumed they would ascend to back then, but being the last band before the likes of Greta Van Fleet and Red Hot Chili Peppers ain’t anything to sneeze at, either. But all those years of experience as “indie darlings” meant that Phantogram handled their position with grace and precision. They’re clearly the best kind of band to hear when the sun is setting — their concoction of sleek, sexy electronica and rock music is about bringing the mood down to a point while still leaving enough space to whip the crowd into a controlled frenzy. That dichotomy really defines the whole Phantogram stage show; they can hit you with a peppy ballad or turn things up a bit with some more sturdy anthem. Either way, you’re ensnared in their little trap. They’re one of those attractions that people know well enough or often not enough, and it usually doesn’t matter when they have such a solid command of the proceedings. If anything, coming in blind may be the best bet given how Phantogram have such a varied and dynamic setlist with so many textures and random nuggets to uncover your own. Meanwhile, us “old heads” got to re-experience some old-school cut in new and brilliant life in a rather idyllic setting. CC

Greta Van Fleet, 6:50 p.m. at Home Plate

Some people love Greta Van Fleet because of their musical similarities to Led Zeppelin. On the other hand, that’s precisely why some people don’t like them, casting a stinkeye upon the four brothers from Detroit for the perceived sin of imitation. (Hey, we hear it’s the sincerest form of flattery.) But while the echoes of Plant and Page can never truly be shut out of a Greta Van Fleet set, the quartet mostly just sounded like themselves on the first night of the festival: young, raucous and exuberant. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but I have a pretty good idea,” singer Josh Kiszka quipped to the crowd, who screamed joyously in return. The set probably would have packed more power if we weren’t so damn far away from the stage; getting anywhere close to the music for the nighttime acts at Innings requires missing other sets, an iron bladder and a lack of crowd fear that we don’t possess. Not that that was a problem for everyone; the guy who just stood there and screamed “WOOOO!” for most of the set wasn’t anywhere near the front, and he seemed like he was having a great time. Jennifer Goldberg

Jimmy Eat World, 8:10 p.m. at Right Field

For years, my go-to celebrity story was that I had hummus with Jim Adkins at Carly’s Bistro. (Really, I just stood behind him and his party while they dined and drank.) I told that story because I never got to see Jimmy Eat World — which felt like a veritable crime from someone who actually grew up in Phoenix. But all of that changed Friday night, and seeing them reach into their rich discography got me thinking hard about my little hummus story. The thing that resonated with me about seeing Adkins at a Phoenix eatery is the mix of approachability and intimacy of encountering a famous rocker at your favorite local eatery. Their actual set felt like a proper reflection of that disjointed but compelling experience.

Because they’ve always been our collective band, and when they played tracks off “Clarity,” you got the sense of just how much they were inspired by and inspiring to the unique rock scene across our fair city. But then they played proper jams like “Bleed America” and “The Middle,” and you remember (even for a moment) that the band were this big-ish national act and they did us proud even if it meant they didn’t quite belong to Arizona in quite the same ways. So, really, we got something of a crash course, or maybe a career-spanning musical history lesson, about these dichotomous ideas that have informed the band’s decidedly interesting career arc and general creative efforts. It was a smorgasbord not just of great rock sounds but also something that felt like a snapshot of what made this city culturally relevant and how that sometimes exists on the national stage.

Of course, to the average attendee, they just got a great show from a band that continue to imbue their songs with new levels of joy and heart every time they hit the stage. So, I don’t really have one Jimmy Eat World story anymore that seems worthwhile to tell folks. Instead, I have a great memory of the band romancing a whole park with some of the finest rock made this side of the Mississippi. CC

Red Hot Chili Peppers, 9:15 p.m. at Home Plate

Concert reviewer problems: The more you’ve seen a band live, the more you tend to compare the set you’re watching to the ones you’ve seen before. When I saw the Red Hot Chili Peppers in 2023 at State Farm Stadium, my point of reference was a most unusual gig: I was there when they closed out Woodstock ’99, and the memory of that set has faded in comparison with the recollection of trying to get to the front gate amid fires and rioting. By comparison, the State Farm show was a breath of fresh air; almost 25 years later, the band delivered a fantastic set packed with hits in an atmosphere with decidedly less chaos. As the closers on Friday night, RHCP were not quite as sharp as they were in Glendale in 2023; singer Anthony Kiedis had some stops and starts, and overall the performance was a little loosey-goose. But comparison is the thief of joy, as they say, and taken on its own merits, the Chilis seemed to delight everyone in the crowd with 30 years of hits such “Give It Away,” “Can’t Stop” and “Californication.” If it wasn’t their best set ever, it still made a tired, happy crowd ever happier, and what more can you ask than that (other than a rendition of “Under the Bridge,” which the band also skipped in Glendale)? Not much. JG

Saturday, Feb. 24

Young the Giant, 5 p.m. at Home Plate

I actually had to Google it, but Young The Giant formed in 2004. It seemed like just yesterday when “Cough Syrup” came out in 2008, and here we are in 2024 with the band acting as a kind of old guard for indie pop in general. As far as deserving that kind of longevity, Young The Giant are clearly up there — they’ve spent the whole time doing really interesting things with pop and rock, bridging the mainstream and psychedelic divide with generally infectious ballads. And when translated live, those same tunes feel all the more compelling and endearing, the result of a band who have continually found new life and cause in their songs every time they’ve gotten to spin them up live. Yet the whole “Young The Giant? More like Old The Giant” shtick got me thinking about how legends are made. There had to be some time in the careers of The Rolling Stones, Phish, CCR, etc. where they’d been going for some time and yet hadn’t exactly cemented their status as proper vets with all of the accompanying honors and glories. And while I wouldn’t compare Young The Giant to those acts per se, they’ve got a string of hits — including the TikTok-resurrected “Mind Over Matter” from 2020 — that should firm up their importance. Then, add in that aforementioned live show (and, really, just their general road-heavy status) and maybe this is how legends really are forged. Not by some magic divination but through hard work from a really compelling outfit. Or, maybe I’m just working through what was a darn good set, and that charisma, chutzpah and all-over showmanship just gets you so excited that you’re thinking about legacies, nostalgia and the future. That to me is the real sign of a band actually doing interesting things with their music. CC

Macklemore, 7:10 p.m. at Home Plate

I want the following to carry the weight of having professionally covered music since July 2009:

Macklemore was the worst concert I’ve ever attended.

Ever.

I did my due diligence or whatever by trying to come in with a mostly open mind. Luckily, there were instances when that was actually rewarded. The live version of “Thrift Shop,” for instance, was a charming-enough rendition and played up just the right level of nostalgia. Plus, some of the stage banter from the man born Ben Haggerty was effective enough in building a rapport. I mean, sure, telling the crowd he spent the week playing glow-in-the-dark mini-golf in Scottsdale felt like the cheapest of ploys, but I’ll take it for an artist actually celebrating something novel about the Valley that isn’t just sunshine. And I nearly got goosebumps when he stood up for Palestine as a segue into his other big song, “One Love.” These moments demonstrated the only way that one can only truly enjoy Macklemore: by embracing his corniness as a feature and trying to celebrate that accordingly.

The problem is, then, that he just overdid it for the rest of the set, and it all started feeling less like some goofy artist was winning me over and instead I was watching the world’s least serious man have some momentary pops of significance. For one, a large portion of his remaining songs — the more recent stuff and not his hits —seemed like one-note dance ballads. That shtick not only gets quite old real fast, but it’s clear that Macklemore heard maybe one EDM song once and thought he could make a new career arc out of half-hearted gimmick infringement. Oh, and speaking of terrible gimmicks, don’t even get me started on the whole “British dance club mystic” that Macklemore plays for the equally hacky “And We Danced.” I’ve not seen a worse alter ego since Garth Brooks/Christopher Gaines. Yet as awful as all that truly was, it somehow was topped when he decided to break curfew just to play “Can’t Hold Us.” Anyone else busting out that very baller response of “Fuck it, I’ll pay the fine,” would be a proper hero, but with Macklemore it was more over-inflated hype from someone who comes off less genuine and more like a living, breathing show on a bad Carnival cruise. I seriously thought his trumpet players were fake at one point, and I wouldn’t put that past him given the off-Broadway levels of cheese I experienced in just one hour.

Now, I get I’m supposed to do a better job of giving things the benefit of the doubt. Or, that I should do a good job of reading the crowd and basing my own assumptions on their reaction. (Which if I actually did would mean that this show was a genuine success.) But in this one instance, I just can’t do it, and despite any brief upsides, this set made me angry, stripped away any energy or momentum, and generally reminded me that sometimes the worst kinds of people end up getting famous enough. It was the only set where I’ve willingly tried to be as harsh and one-sided as possible as to reflect the sheer bile now circulating through my heart. I’d say he’s forever changed my opinion of live music, but it’s my hope that this show quickly fades into the realm of a bad nightmare where it belongs. Or, that it becomes a testament to why organic displays of humanity and a general sense of care and subtlety will always define what makes a really good show — a proper life lesson akin to not dating a used car salesman or something. If nothing else, this show freed some part of me that maybe needed to lash out, and perhaps that’s a function for some of these more poppy headliners. Because it sure as hell ain’t the dancing, the lame light show, the janky dance songs, and the third-rate stage banter. CC

Hozier, 9:20 p.m. at Home Plate

There’s this expectation that critics are supposed to be the experts, when the truth is that we’re trying to sort it all out the best we can, often as effectively as your average fan. That certainly was the case for Hozier on Saturday nights

Because, on paper, an Irish folk crooner doesn’t make a lick of sense at this specific but wide-reaching fest. Even when some of his music has those grandiose tendencies — I’d liken it to a more poppy Bruce Springsteen, even if that isn’t totally right — it’s still far better suited for more intimate settings. However, you just can’t deny the fact that Innings often plays against type in regards to closers/headliners, and while that doesn’t always work (cough Macklemore cough), Hozier has the pure charisma and bubbling passion to make a solid enough case for why he should’ve always been the one to close down the weekend. Maybe it wasn’t an intentional move by anyone involved to opt for a slower, more sensuous finale, but maybe there’s a bit more conscious effort in giving Hozier over an hour to fully romance the crowd.

That, of course, ignores the the reason Hozier likely was booked to begin with: The man is a star. There’s this perception of him — especially online and in digital circles like TikTok — as a white-hot sex symbol. Or that women — and young folks in general — flock to him for simply being a more earnest version of Tom Jones or something. In that sense, it made brilliant sense to pick him for a headlining gig: Even if that online fame doesn’t always translate so effectively IRL, it’s still savvy to give the crowd a closer with the kind of influence and growing profile to unite as many people as possible in a late-night celebration of love and life. There’s also something to be said of Hozier’s own status as an online hero, as the man doesn’t really play into the type. Instead, he’s just as likely to downplay his rise in a really charming and altogether endearing fashion. His entire set further proved that notion as he focused on a cross-section of hits and deep cuts to show the pure range and forcefulness of spirit that brought him to the dance.

That last bit perhaps speaks even deeper to Hozier’s headlining status and general success: He’s a real good dude. Not to speak ill of Macklemore — just kidding, I’d love to do even more of that — but Hozier spent a good five minutes engaging with the rapper’s own comments. It was an extended show of solidarity for the people of Palestine and an even more organic way to share and connect with people. It was a tiny moment for sure, but Hozier came off more real and earnest than not only his “opener,” but a lot of other acts of the weekend. A quiet, unrehearsed moment to engage with a massive crowd in a way that made it all about simple acts of devotion and peace, a sentiment that really connected with and rounded out his set. They’re not just folksy love songs but also these dispatches to a better, more caring world.

So, all of these factors and insights prove that perhaps the story of Hozier’s time at Innings is more complicated than we might have ever fully expected. That there were energies and decisions made outside the artist’s purview as much as it was him and his band making the case with deeply powerful music. In that way, it demonstrates that big moments like this have a unique path, and that their ultimate value may be harder to discern for good reason. It’s not just about the music but the story of it all, and how we consider heaps of context in trying to tell a tale about the evening that reflects it all so perfectly.

So that whole involved process alone has to likely prove that Hozier was a proper success. Things might have set out to help him — just as much as there were clearly things working against him — but the big difference-maker was the shimmery passion that he used to reach out and touch the fans. The fact that enough people reached back — even as some folks were filing out mid-performance — means that an experience was had that truly transcends even the most ardent criteria of your most thoughtful critic. In short, it was good, and that’s all that really mattered. CC