By: Evan J. Thomas

I recently came across one of the coolest fucking music video's I have seen in a while.  The video for STORM by GENER8TION and featuring Yung Lean is less of a traditional music video and more of a full scale audiovisual riot. Dark, hypnotic, unsettling, and strangely beautiful, “STORM” feels like watching the collapse of modern civilization through a toxic infused fever dream.

Directed with chaotic precision, the visual experience throws viewers into a world that feels simultaneously futuristic and primitive. Massive crowds of masked youth surge through streets like a revolutionary movement born from internet culture, social unrest, and pure adrenaline. Every frame feels alive with tension. Fires burn, bodies collide, and the atmosphere constantly feels one second away from complete destruction.

At the center of the madness is Yung Lean, whose detached yet magnetic presence perfectly matches the visual tone. He doesn’t dominate the screen through traditional performance energy instead, he drifts through the chaos like a ghost observing the downfall of society in real time. That cold, almost emotionless delivery somehow makes the entire thing even more intense.

What makes “STORM” so impactful is its refusal to play safe. The video is aggressive, artistic, uncomfortable, and mesmerizing all at once. It blends riot imagery, underground fashion aesthetics, genious cinematography, choreography at it's best, and experimental storytelling into something that feels bigger than music itself. There’s an almost documentary style realism underneath the surrealism that gives the visuals a dangerous edge.

Musically, the pounding production from GENER8ION creates the perfect soundtrack for the chaos unfolding onscreen. The beat doesn’t just support the visuals it feels like it controls them. Every bass hit lands like another crack in the foundation of the world the video creates.

“STORM” succeeds because it captures a feeling more than a narrative: anger, rebellion, alienation, youth culture, and the overwhelming noise of modern existence. It is the kind of video that leaves viewers disturbed, energized, and unable to look away.
​
The video still feels ahead of its time an art piece disguised as a music video and a visual experience that continues to stand out in an era oversaturated with forgettable content.  “STORM” isn’t meant to be comfortable.  It’s meant to hit like a riot.

By: Evan J. Thomas

There’s something unmistakable about Crobot. You hear it before you can even describe it, that swampy dirty groove, that fuzz drenched swagger, that unapologetic grit. It’s the kind of sound that doesn’t ask for permission. It kicks the door in, punches you in the mouth, cranks the amp, and reminds you exactly what rock music is supposed to feel like and the guys know how to do it.  

With their latest release, Supermoon, the boys in Crobot aren’t just continuing their legacy, they’re doubling down on it. In a time where rock often leans polished or predictable, Crobot is dragging it back into the dirt, where it belongs.

The new album, Supermoon isn’t clean. It’s not safe. And that’s exactly the point. This record thrives in the space between chaos and control where bluesy undertones collide with thick, riff heavy rock and just enough psychedelic edge to keep things unpredictable. It’s the sound of a band that understands its roots but refuses to be boxed in by them.

"Supermoon marks Crobot's  return to their Dirty Groove Rock roots, heavy riffs, swaggering blues grit, and undeniable hooks sharpened by years on the road and deeper self-reflection." says the members of Crobot about the new album. 

Crobot have always lived in that groove forward lane, but Supermoon pushes it further. The rhythms hit harder. The hooks sink deeper. And the overall energy feels more alive... like a band feeding off its own momentum.  There’s a rawness here that can’t be faked. It’s earned.

Part of what makes Supermoon hit differently is the evolution within the band itself. With new additions joining the lineup, brothers Willie Jansen on the bass and Nico Jensen rocking the kit, Crobot have injected fresh blood into an already powerful machine as vocalist Brandon Yeagley and guitarist Chris Bishop are the driving force of this ship. The new energy doesn’t dilute their identity it sharpens it.

The chemistry is immediate. You can hear it in the tightness of the grooves, the confidence in the transitions, and the way the songs breathe without losing their punch. It’s not a reinvention it’s a reinforcement.  This is a band that knows exactly who they are, now with even more firepower behind them.

If there’s one place Crobot truly comes alive, it’s on stage and that is what made me fall in love with seeing them live. And that relentless touring grind is etched into every second of Supermoon.
This isn’t a studio crafted illusion it’s road tested rock.  Long nights, loud crowds, endless miles away from home, Crobot have lived it, and you can feel that mileage in the music. There’s a lived in quality to the album, like each track has already been played in a sweaty club somewhere before it ever hit your speakers.

Touring hasn’t just shaped their sound it’s sharpened their identity. They’re tighter. Louder. Hungrier and they bring it every single night. 

Crobot could have played it safe. They’ve built a reputation, carved out a lane, and earned their place. But Supermoon proves they’re not interested in coasting on past success.  Instead, they lean harder into what makes them different. That groove. That grit. That unmistakable, dirty rock ‘n’ roll energy permeates through your speakers.

In a music scene that often feels overproduced and overthought, Crobot are a reminder of something simple but powerful: Rock music is supposed to move you. Not just emotionally but physically. It should make your head nod, your foot tap, your volume knob turn all the way up and Supermoon does exactly that.

It’s not just an album it’s a statement. A loud, unapologetic reminder that Dirty. Groove. Rock. isn’t dead… it’s just been waiting for the right band to bring it back to life.
And Crobot?  They didn’t just bring it back.  They made it better and made it louder. 

By: Evan J. Thomas

Bands and musicians have a LOT to deal with in this broken economy.  For decades, touring has been the lifeblood of working musicians. It’s where bands build audiences, sell merch, and more often than not make the majority of their income. But in recent years and especially lately, something has shifted. More and more artists are canceling tours, pulling out of dates, or stepping away from the road entirely.  And it’s not because they don’t want to play. It’s because they can’t afford to.


Touring used to be a grind but at least a manageable one. Now, it’s a financial gamble that many bands simply can’t justify.  Fuel costs are up. Van rentals and maintenance are up. Flights, hotels, and visas have skyrocketed. Crew wages and equipment costs continue to rise.


At the same time, guarantees from venues haven’t kept pace. Ticket splits remain tight, and for many mid level and developing artists, there’s little margin for error. One bad night or even one average night can wipe out profits for an entire leg of a tour.


For smaller and independent bands, it’s even more brutal. I've seen this first hand as many artists are paying out of pocket just to stay on the road.


Streaming doesn't pay the bills and it was supposed to replace declining album sales. In reality, it’s become a visibility tool not a revenue stream for most artists.


Millions of streams often translate into only modest payouts. For most artists, that income isn’t enough to fund recording, promotion, and certainly not touring. Residual style earnings that once came from physical sales or radio play have been diluted in the streaming era. That means touring has become less of a supplement and more of a necessity. But when touring itself becomes unsustainable, the entire system starts to break down.


For years, merch sales helped keep tours afloat. A good night at the table could offset weak ticket sales or low guarantees. Now, even that is under pressure. Some venues take a percentage of merch sales which I think is straight bullshit.  Fans are spending less due to rising costs of living. Production costs for shirts, vinyl, and other items have increased. What was once a reliable revenue stream is now inconsistent and in some cases, diminished.


Here is a domino effect to what happens when a band cancels a tour, the impact goes far beyond that one announcement. 
Venues lose nights that could have brought in revenue. 
Local openers lose opportunities to play and grow. 
Promoters absorb financial losses.
Fans lose trust and excitement around future shows.
It creates a ripple effect across the entire live music ecosystem.
For venues already operating on thin margins, repeated cancellations can be devastating. For emerging artists, fewer touring opportunities mean fewer chances to build a career.


Beyond finances, there’s a human cost.  Touring is physically exhausting and mentally demanding. When you add financial stress on top of that wondering if each show is putting you further into debt it becomes unsustainable.  More artists are choosing to step back rather than burn out. And that decision, while necessary for their well being, highlights just how broken the system has become.


If this current trends continue, the music industry could face a serious shift:
Fewer mid-level touring acts
More reliance on major headliners and festivals
A shrinking pipeline for developing artists
Less diversity in live music lineups


The middle class of music, the bands that build scenes, support tours, and connect directly with fans is at risk of disappearing and that is a scary thought. 


What can be fixed or changed to save it? There’s no single solution, but there are conversations happening:
Fairer streaming payouts
Better guarantees and ticket structures
Reduced venue cuts on merch
Stronger support for independent artists
The industry has to adapt, forward thinking from the minds and bosses needs to change. Because without sustainable touring, the entire foundation of live music starts to crack.


When a band cancels a tour, it’s easy to see it as a disappointment. But more often than not, it’s a warning, a scary sign that something deeper isn’t working. Because artists don’t cancel shows lightly.  They cancel when the passion is still there but the math no longer makes sense.

By: Evan J. Thomas

It usually happens quietly. A post on social media. A handwritten note on the door. Maybe one last show where the room feels heavier than usual not just from the amps, but from the realization that something irreplaceable is ending. A local music venue closes, and on the surface, it looks like just another business shutting down.  

But it’s never just that.

A venue isn’t just four walls and a stage. It’s an ecosystem, a scene, a gathering place. And when it disappears, the impact ripples far beyond the room where the music once lived and it is happening at a more alarming rate.  

For local and emerging bands, venues are everything. They’re proving grounds. They’re where bands learn how to perform, connect, fail, improve, and build a following. When a venue closes, it removes one of the few accessible entry points into the live music world.

Suddenly, there are fewer stages. Fewer opportunities. Fewer chances to be seen.  That means new bands struggle to get their first shows, mid level acts fight harder for limited slots and touring bands skip the area or city entirely.  

Momentum slows. Growth stalls. Scenes shrink.  

What or who is to blame?  The aftermath of covid?  The high ticket prices?  Lack of interest?  Oversaturation of  bands?  Distance?  Crappy management and booking people?  Maybe a bit of all the above. 

Behind every show is someone making it happen... local promoters, talent buyers, and independent organizers. When a venue closes, their entire operation is disrupted.

They lose a reliable space, built in audiences and a trusted staff and infrastructure of a local music scene. Rebuilding that from scratch isn’t easy. Some pivot. Some relocate. Some disappear altogether. And when they go, they take relationships, connections, and opportunities with them.

​A venue supports more than just musicians. It feeds into the local economy in ways that often go unnoticed until they’re gone.  Think about a single show night.  Bartenders, security, sound and lighting engineers, and door staff are working.  Nearby restaurants and bars see increased traffic. Rideshare drivers, parking attendants, and local shops benefit.  Multiply that by dozens or hundreds of events per year, and the impact becomes clear. When the venue closes, that steady flow of economic activity dries up and not only does it hurt the music scene, it hurts the local economy.  

Local venues are cultural anchors. They give a city identity. They create scenes. They’re where communities form where people find “their place.”  I personally have a few favorite venues that I frequent and they all have their own unique style that makes them a desirable destination. 
Take that away, and something intangible disappears.  A sense of belonging, a hub for creativity, a space for expression.  Scenes don’t just relocate overnight. They fracture. People drift. Energy dissipates.
Without venues, there’s no pipeline.  Today’s local opener is tomorrow’s headliner but only if they have somewhere to play. When young artists don’t have access to stages, fewer of them stick it out. The barrier to entry becomes too high, too frustrating, too limiting. That means fewer bands, fewer risks, fewer voices. And eventually, fewer breakthroughs.
Cities often underestimate the value of independent venues until they’re gone. What looks like a small closure is actually a long-term loss in cultural capital.  A strong music scene attracts tourism, draws in creative industries, enhances the city’s reputation and without it, a city becomes quieter not just in sound, but in identity.

The closure of a local venue isn’t just an isolated event. It’s the start of a chain reaction that affects artists, workers, businesses, and entire communities.
It’s easy to take these spaces for granted when they’re there. But once they’re gone, rebuilding what they represented is exponentially harder than keeping them alive in the first place.
Because at the end of the day, venues don’t just host music, they host history, they host memories.  The venues are the place that creates it.