Music Travel Repeat! › The Restless, The Hopeful, and The Broken
The 4th of July isn’t just a date on the calendar.
For some of us, it’s a reminder of what it actually means to be free.
Not the social media kind of freedom. Not the “say whatever you want and call it a personality” kind. I mean the real thing—the heavy, lived-in kind. The kind you only understand after you’ve watched life chew people up, after you’ve seen what ego can do to a room, after you’ve held your own discipline steady when your emotions wanted to sprint. I'm talking about being truly free.
And yeah—free to be loud.
Because some freedom is a hymn.
And some freedom is a breakdown.
Some freedom is fireworks and flags.
And some freedom is standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers at Gallagher Square at Petco Park in San Diego, California, while guitars hit like an emotional defibrillator and you remember how to breathe again.
That’s what Summer of Loud 2025 felt like to me.
A reminder.
A reset.
A holy kind of noise.
The show started at 2 PM on July 2nd, close enough to the 4th that you could smell the hot dogs and hamburgers in the air—even if nobody was grilling yet. It felt like the kickoff to something sacred: a celebration of freedom, loud guitars, and shared connection.
And for once, I wasn’t there to work.
I wasn’t there in “professional mode.”
I was there to be fully present.
To experience the music with the people I love.
To soak in every wild, beautiful moment.
Because this is the part of my life that makes the rest of it make sense.
This?
This is the reward.
Guitars wailed into the night.
I stood in the chaos, breathing in the sound, the sweat, the stories.
Thinking how lucky I am to do this. To live this. To be part of something that makes people feel something real.
And even better?
GQ The Heartbeat was there.
And so was one of her friends—who we affectionately refer to as The Filipino Bombshell.
It was her first concert ever.
And if you’ve ever watched someone experience their first concert—like truly experience it—then you know what I mean when I say:
That’s not entertainment.
That’s initiation.
It’s watching a human being realize, in real time, that they’re allowed to feel this much. That they’re allowed to take up space. That there’s a community in the world where strangers will scream the same lyrics you scream and somehow make your private pain feel survivable.
Having them both with me reminded me that this isn’t just my journey anymore.
It’s ours.
It added a layer of meaning that no backstage pass ever could.
And after seeing 52 concerts last year and nearly as many in half the time this year… this is the only entry I’ve started off by calling out security.
But some things just need to be said.
Because as incredible as Summer of Loud 2025 was, there was one moment—right at the beginning—that didn’t hit the right note.
It was the guy at the door.
And somehow?
I’ll remember him longer than the opening act.
Before we get to the door guy, I want to anchor the setting for anyone who wasn’t there—because Summer of Loud 2025 at Gallagher Square at Petco Park wasn’t just a show.
It was a whole atmosphere.
Gallagher Square is one of those spaces that knows what it is. It’s open-air, it’s big enough to hold thousands, but it still feels intimate in that way festivals sometimes do when the energy is right. The kind of place where the sun can beat down on you at 2 PM and you still stand there smiling because you know what’s coming.
San Diego did what San Diego does—beautiful sky, coastal air, that specific mixture of sun and salt and city. But the crowd brought the real weather.
The crowd was anticipation.
People in black tees and band merch. People with tattoos that look like timelines. Couples holding hands like they’re heading into church. Groups of friends who have been counting down this day like it’s their personal holiday. And then the first-timers—eyes wide, posture unsure, trying to act chill while their heart is doing laps.
Summer of Loud wasn’t just a lineup.
It was a statement.
A stacked, relentless lineup built for people who treat heavy music like therapy.
It promised a day where the volume would be high, the emotions would be real, and nobody would ask you to be polished.
And that’s why what happened at the entry gate mattered so much.
Because when people show up to a festival like this, they’re not just paying for music.
They’re paying for a feeling.
They’re paying to be safe enough to be fully alive.
Which brings us back to the one man who decided to treat the front gate like his personal kingdom.
Let me tell you about the only part of Summer of Loud 2025 that didn’t hit the right note.
The door guy was posted up front like he was the gatekeeper to heaven—except this particular saint had no halo, no patience, and absolutely no grasp on how to treat people.
He kept saying the same thing, like a broken record stuck on a power trip:
“Your bag is too big. Step to the side or you’ll be denied entry.”
“Step to the side or you’ll be denied entry.”
“Step to the side…”
And at one point—what I’d call a physical check.
In any other context, if you put hands on someone the way he did, we don’t call it “doing your job.”
We call it what it is.
Assault.
And just so we’re clear:
The problem wasn’t the size of the bag.
The problem was that Petco Park enforces a clear bag policy, and Door Guy couldn’t be bothered to communicate that like a professional—or even like a human being.
It would’ve taken ten seconds to say:
“Hey—Petco Park has a clear bag policy. We can’t allow that tote bag inside. Here are your options.”
That’s it. Ten seconds.
Instead, he chose intimidation.
And here’s why that matters:
When you are the first face people see at the gate, you are not just “security.”
This door Guy didn’t do security.
He did insecurity—in a branded polo shirt.
Now let me introduce you properly to the real victim in this story.
Mr. Blue Baller.
My trusty little tote bag.
He’s been to nearly 800 concerts over the last four years.
He’s been slung over my shoulder in Denver dive bars, squeezed through Philly GA pits, bounced around in Baltimore basements, and scanned at Salt Lake security.
I always allow him to be searched without fail.
Sometimes the snacks end up being consumed by Security as a “Dad Tax.”
No problems at all.
The only thing different about this show?
I was the one carrying Mr. Blue Baller.
Not GQ.
And somehow the bag became the threat.
Poor Mr. Blue Baller. He never saw it coming.
But here’s the part Door Guy didn’t know:
And he sure as hell didn’t know this:
If he were on my team, he’d be gone before the gates opened.
Because when you’re the first face at the door, you are not a bouncer.
You are a steward of the experience.
And what he did wasn’t security.
It was ego.
Too many big dudes think their size is enough.
But in my world?
If size is all you have, you have nothing.
You think you can push your way through every problem?
Most of the biggest guys I’ve seen in security have never been in a real confrontation. They’ve never had to control a situation without control being given to them.
They rely on bulk instead of brains.
Intimidation instead of intention.
Posture instead of professionalism.
And that’s a recipe for disaster.
Because here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud:
When you treat people like threats long enough… eventually you’ll meet someone who decides to become one.
And when that happens, your size won’t save you.
Your ego will get someone hurt.
But then something remarkable happened.
Tyler showed up.
Smaller guy. Younger. Lighter build.
Didn’t puff up. Didn’t posture.
And he didn’t use authority as a weapon—he used it as a beacon of grace.
He didn’t have to flex his title.
Because true leadership doesn’t need a bullhorn.
Tyler didn’t try to dominate the moment.
He de-escalated it.
He found a way to make things happen.
And that, my friends, is why this story ends with grace instead of a permanent grudge.
Because it would’ve been easy to name drop in that moment.
I could’ve rattled off my job title.
The company I work for.
What I make.
The people I’ve protected.
The cities I’ve shut down.
The backstage doors I walk through without question.
Hell—standing beside me was GQ, who has more power in her pinky than my entire body, quietly watching me handle it without ego, without flexing.
But I didn’t need to prove anything.
Because real power doesn’t bark.
Tyler displayed that too.
And I’m going to say something that matters:
Tyler is the reason we’ll come back to Petco Park.
Tyler.
Because one kind, capable person stepped in and showed what good leadership looks like when no one’s watching.
If I were running staffing there?
I’d promote Tyler.
Clone Tyler.
Build the entry team around Tyler.
And to the guy at the gate who thought he was the main event?
I hope you read this.
I hope someone sits you down and teaches you what your job really means.
Because those people you were barking at?
They weren’t the problem.
They were your purpose.
Security isn’t about looking tough.
It’s about making people feel safe.
And when you do that well?
People come back.
Not just for the show.
But for the way they were treated on the way in.
And I want to talk about something most people don’t understand until they’ve lived it:
When you work a door—especially at a massive venue—your job is not to “win.”
Your job is to prevent moments from becoming stories.
Because it’s all bark and bravado until you put your hands on the wrong person.
The kind of person who isn’t just angry, but armed.
The kind of person who didn’t come for the music—they came for something else.
You think you’re big?
You think you can muscle your way through a misunderstanding?
That works until the bag you’re barking about has a gun tucked inside it.
Until the man you body-checked has a knife clipped to his waistband and a chip on his shoulder that’s been there for years.
Until the person you treated like a threat decides to become one.
I’ve seen what happens when ego gets involved where intellect should’ve stepped in.
I’ve seen a man get shot in the head in Baltimore—five feet from where I stood—because some rookie security guard thought his voice and size gave him control over the room.
It didn’t.
And someone paid the price.
That kind of moment strips the Hollywood right out of your illusions.
It reminds you that real protection is not domination.
It’s discernment.
I once watched a guy get jumped just for pretending to be something he wasn’t—claimed a gang he didn’t belong to, wore the wrong colors, ran his mouth loud enough for the real ones to hear.
His attempt to look tough cost him everything.
That’s how fast ego can write a check your body can’t cash.
When you’re working security, you are walking a tightrope between peace and escalation.
You don’t get to lean on tone or size or intimidation.
You get one shot to read the room.
One shot to calm the energy.
Because when the wrong energy meets the wrong person?
Somebody doesn’t go home.
And you will wish to God you led with kindness instead of chest-puffing.
Every time I walk into a venue, I assume someone in that crowd is carrying.
Whether it’s legal or not.
Whether it’s a blade or something worse.
That’s not paranoia.
That’s protection.
And when someone in a security shirt thinks they can shove people around because they’re 6’3” and the first point of contact, I want to pull them aside and ask:
“What happens when the person you shove… doesn’t flinch?
What happens when they’re not scared—they’re calculating?”
Because I know what happens.
And I don’t ever want to be anywhere near that kind of story again—especially not at the gates of a concert, where people are just trying to feel something human.
So let me say this as clearly as I can:
Train your people.
Teach de-escalation.
Hire humility, not height.
And remember:
The most dangerous thing in a crowd isn’t always a weapon.
It’s an unchecked ego in a position of power.
You want to protect people?
Start by protecting their dignity.
And the rest will follow.
And I’ll tell you something else:
The door guy was lucky it was me.
Lucky the guy he body-checked wasn’t someone looking for a reason.
Lucky it wasn’t the wrong person on the wrong day with a lifetime of rage looking for an outlet.
He was lucky I was calm.
That I’ve been trained not to answer childish egos with life-changing consequences.
But don’t confuse that with softness.
Don’t confuse patience with passivity.
Don’t mistake restraint for weakness.
Because behind that stillness is a man who’s seen real violence—and made a vow not to let it win.
Your taller frame doesn’t scare a real man.
It just makes him feel sorry for you.
Once we cleared the gate and the air opened up, Summer of Loud 2025 did what festivals are supposed to do:
It took the world off our shoulders and replaced it with sound.
The lineup wasn’t just stacked.
It was relentless—from the first scream to the final chord.
TX2 kicked things off like a fire starter. One guy, one mic, and a field full of people waking up from the inside out.
He didn’t just warm up the crowd—he cracked it wide open.
Raw. Unfiltered. Unapologetically real.
There’s something powerful about an opener who doesn’t act like an opener—who acts like the first punch in a fight you didn’t know you needed.
At 2 PM, under full daylight, he made it feel like nighttime inside our chests.
And I looked over at The Filipino Bombshell—her first concert ever—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, trying to process the fact that this many people can scream together and nobody thinks it’s weird.
And then she smiled.
That kind of smile that only shows up when something deep inside you wakes up.
GQ nudged me and whispered, “She’s hooked now.”
And honestly?
That moment hit me harder than any headliner could.
Because no matter how many bands I see or miles I travel, watching someone fall in love with live music for the first time?
That’s the real magic.
That’s why I keep showing up.
Alpha Wolf took the torch and ran straight into the flames.
Brutal. Hypnotic. Precise.
The kind of set that makes your rib cage feel like a snare drum.
The kind of heaviness that doesn’t just sound aggressive—it sounds disciplined.
Controlled violence, executed like art.
The Amity Affliction followed, layering emotion and heaviness like they always do—an avalanche of grief and hope disguised as post-hardcore perfection.
You don’t just hear their music.
You feel it pull you under…
And then somehow teach you to breathe there.
That’s the Amity gift: they don’t just scream for you, they scream with you.
The Devil Wears Prada hit next, blending chaos and clarity like seasoned veterans of the breakdown gospel.
Their set felt like controlled demolition.
Like they’ve learned how to build something holy out of rage without letting rage be the only story.
By the time Killswitch Engage stepped out, the sun was lower, the air heavier, and the crowd ready to rupture.
They brought legacy, heart, heaviness.
Their sound doesn’t just hit.
It heals.
There’s something about Killswitch that feels like permission:
Standing between GQ and The Filipino Bombshell, I felt riffs climb up through my shoes and settle into my chest like a second heartbeat.
And I kept thinking how long it took me to get here.
I used to chase this feeling through all the wrong things.
Tonight wasn’t about escaping.
It was about arriving.
Then came Beartooth.
And man…it felt like home.
Caleb tore through every lyric like he had something to prove to the version of himself that almost didn’t make it.
For us, it was personal.
We first saw them with Breaking Benjamin back in Newark, New Jersey at The Prudential Center w. Dorothy, Sevendust & The Pretty Reckless during WDHA's Rock The Rockfest in 2023.
This?
This was the loudest kind of reunion.
At one point the stage erupted—jets of flame timed to the beat.
And it didn’t feel like gimmick.
It felt like metaphor:
Pain.
Release.
Combustion.
Parkway Drive followed with a performance that was half cinematic, half soul-purging.
They didn’t just perform.
They conjured.
Every song felt orchestrated like a ritual.
Fire shot up like war drums made visible.
Winston roared like a man both haunted and healed.
And during one of their heaviest tracks, I looked over at The Filipino Bombshell—tears forming, fists in the air, face flushed.
That exact moment of discovery.
That’s what it looks like when someone finds their place in the world.
Right here—between a scream and a spotlight.
And just when we thought we had nothing left to feel, I Prevail took the stage.
Not to perform.
To finish what everyone else started.
Their set wasn’t a finale.
It was a reckoning.
People we’d never met threw arms around each other like we’d all survived the same storm.
“Blank Space” didn’t just hit—it landed.
And when they tore into “Hurricane,” it felt like the entire venue cracked open with catharsis.
Flames shot up again during breakdowns.
Not spectacle.
Ritual.
Because sometimes the loudest nights don’t just rattle your ears.
They rebuild your center.
By the final note, we weren’t just fans.
We were survivors.
Testifiers.
Believers in noise and light and second chances.
And without a single firework in the sky…
The whole place still burned.
What no one tells you about festivals is that sometimes the loudest thing you hear isn’t the band.
It’s the silence in between.
The weight in the air.
The names that aren’t on stage… but still echo through it.
This year, that name was Dave Shapiro.
If you were there, you felt it—even if you didn’t know the full story.
The tribute was woven into everything: the pauses, the thank-yous, the way bands looked out into the crowd like they were holding someone in the moment a little longer.
Because Dave wasn’t just some industry guy.
He was their guy.
You could feel that reverence ripple through the day.
And when the final flames rose near the end of the night, it didn’t feel like a goodbye.
It felt like a passing of the torch.
Because people like Dave don’t fade.
They reverberate.
I used to think freedom was loud in a different way.
Back then, I thought freedom lived in motion.
And for a while?
It worked.
I could outrun the silence.
Mask the ache.
Convince myself that numbing it was healing.
But there’s a moment—slowly, not all at once—when you realize you’re not moving forward anymore.
You’re just spinning.
Burning out, not burning bright.
Running in circles, not chasing anything sacred.
When that moment hits, the real kind of freedom starts to whisper.
At Summer of Loud 2025, I heard that whisper even as the music roared.
And I thought: neither did I. Not really. Not like this.
Because this time, I wasn’t chasing the feeling.
I was receiving it.
Freedom now looks different.
Presence without panic.
Love without conditions.
For a long time, I thought freedom meant not being accountable to anything.
No plans. No people. No strings.
I called it independence, but it was really avoidance with a cooler name.
Now?
Freedom is accountability without shame.
It’s knowing who you are—really—and choosing to show up anyway.
It’s being able to look someone you love in the eyes and say:
“I’m here. I mean it. And I’m not leaving when it gets hard.”
That’s the kind of freedom nobody advertises because it doesn’t photograph well.
But it feels like oxygen.
I watched people reclaim that kind of freedom with every note that day.
I used to think freedom was found out there.
Now I know it’s right here.
In this body.
In this moment.
In this messy, beautiful, unfinished life.
And if I can stay here long enough—soft enough, clear enough—maybe I don’t have to keep rewriting the word “freedom.”
Because I’m finally learning how to live it.
Let’s talk about the pit.
Because if you weren’t in it… you definitely watched it with wide eyes and a mixture of awe, respect, and maybe a little fear.
And if you were in it?
You already know what I’m about to say.
The mosh pit at Summer of Loud 2025 wasn’t just wild.
It was something otherworldly.
A swirling storm of sound, sweat, limbs, and love.
And yeah—I said love.
Because what happened out there was more than movement.
It was communion.
From the moment TX2 lit the fuse, the pit stretched like it had no borders.
Not just a circle.
A living organism.
Every band fed it.
Every breakdown breathed fire into it.
And every person who stepped into it brought something sacred with them:
Respect.
I’ve seen pits where it’s all aggression and ego.
This wasn’t that.
This was family in motion.
Someone fell? Four hands lifted them before the next riff hit.
Lost a shoe? It got passed back like a sacred artifact.
Out of breath? Somebody cleared space.
Too overwhelmed? A stranger guided you gently to the rail.
Because that’s what heavy music communities do when they’re healthy.
They make room.
You want to know what unity looks like?
It’s not a handshake in a boardroom.
It’s a mosh pit where no one’s a stranger.
Somewhere during Beartooth, The Filipino Bombshell stared at it and asked:
“Is this… normal?”
And all I could say was:
“No. It’s better.”
Because it wasn’t just adrenaline out there.
It was proof that even in chaos, kindness can lead.
That even in fury, gentleness can exist.
The loudest part of the night wasn’t the amps.
It was the way the pit taught us what community really looks like:
Messy. Sweaty. Loud.
And infinitely kind.
The morning after a concert like that doesn’t hit you like a wave.
It creeps in quietly.
We didn’t rush to get up.
No one was in a hurry to beat traffic or check email or make plans.
Because nights like Summer of Loud earn you the right to pause.
You can’t come back from that kind of experience and pretend you’re the same.
You have to give your heart a second to catch up to your body.
We ended up at a little café a few blocks from the venue.
Old brick. Chipped mugs. Wobbly tables. A waitress who called everyone “sweetheart.”
Sunlight spilling in like a soft apology for everything hard in the world.
It was just the three of us:
None of us said much at first.
Because sometimes the most sacred things don’t need narration.
They just need time.
We were sore in that good kind of way.
That I-danced-too-hard-and-didn’t-care kind of sore.
Throats raw. Faces sunburned.
And hearts tender in all the right places.
The Filipino Bombshell was the first to speak.
Oversized band hoodie. Both hands around a mug like it was anchoring her to the present.
She looked up—eyes glassy but calm—and said:
“I didn’t expect to cry during Parkway Drive.
I didn’t expect to scream that loud.
I didn’t expect to feel so… alive.”
And there it was.
The truth.
Served warm.
She said the word alive like she wasn’t used to saying it out loud.
Like she was testing it.
Like it had been shelved for a while and she finally had the courage to dust it off and wear it again.
GQ reached across the table and held her hand.
Not to fix her.
Not to console her.
Just to be there.
Because sometimes that’s all we really need.
To be witnessed in our aliveness.
To be reminded it’s not too late to feel again.
We started sharing favorite moments.
It wasn’t conversation.
It was confession dressed up as brunch.
GQ said Beartooth hit her harder than she expected.
Something about Caleb’s voice—raw, desperate, brave—felt like someone naming her own hidden battles.
“It was like he was screaming the words I didn’t know I needed,” she said.
“And for once, I didn’t feel like I had to be strong.”
I said TX2 cracked something open in me.
There was a moment before his third song where he paused, looked out into the crowd like we weren’t a mass of people but individuals holding pain, and said:
“You don’t have to be perfect to show up.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it echoed back to me over pancakes.
The Filipino Bombshell didn’t pick a song.
She picked a moment.
“During the changeover,” she said softly, “I looked around… and I didn’t feel like an outsider anymore. I felt part of it.”
And I could barely swallow my bite.
Because isn’t that it?
The real reason we keep coming back?
Summer of Loud 2025 was that kind of show.
And when we finally stepped back into the world—back into traffic, emails, algorithms, expectations—we weren’t the same people who walked into Petco Park.
We were carrying something sacred.
Something quiet and holy and loud all at once.
If you ask me my favorite part of Summer of Loud 2025, I’ll tell you:
That table.
Those eyes.
That quiet, undeniable truth:
We were there.
We were together.
And we are not the same.
Pack your bag. Grab your free tickets. Let's Go!
Catch You In The Chaos,
Haha Bailey
If you want to trace your steps back, the last story is still here @ Between Matches & Melodies: Make Little Moments
If this one stayed with you, the next story is already waiting @ Another Year Older: Notes From the Messy Middle