glassjaw
Detroit is a cruel, metallic animal. It hums in the low gear of a rusted V8, breathing burnt oil and bad decisions. I rolled in from Columbus on a straight shot of caffeine, bad gas station coffee, and the kind of blind faith you reserve for your favorite bands. Poison the Well was on the marquee, their name echoing through the skulls of hardcore purists everywhere. I’ll admit it — I missed their boat entirely. My ship was headed for only one port tonight: Glassjaw.
Brooklyn’s crooked sons. The band your favorite band prays to when the lights go out. My baptism didn’t come until 2004, three years after Worship and Tribute carved its place into the early-2000s bloodstream. Too late to be there at the creation, but early enough to understand the religion. Since then I’ve seen them more than once, but never through a lens — never with my finger on the trigger and my mind wired into their chaos. The crown jewel of my record shelf, their Coloring Book EP original pressing, stared down at me from home like some holy relic.
Tonight they tore through a set like a hit list: Cut and Run, Tip Your Bartender, You Think You’re (John Fucking Lennon), Pink Roses, Mu Empire, Ape Dos Mil, The Gillette Cavalcade of Sports, Harlem, Shira, and Siberian Kiss. Each song was a controlled demolition — the room swelled, bodies heaved, and the air got heavier with every note.
Shooting it felt like trying to photograph lightning in a burning building. Daryl Palumbo howled and twisted like he was exorcising something unspeakable. Beck’s bass rattled through the floorboards. And me — I was somewhere between participant and witness, holding on for dear life while trying to bottle the thing without killing it.
Glassjaw doesn’t just play shows. They make moments that smell like sweat, gasoline, and something sharp in the blood. Detroit got all of it that night. So did I.
