Last night at The Union in Salt Lake City, I stood among a room full of people who have ridden this same strange, beautiful train for decades. Some were seeing the Bunnymen for the first time. Others, like me, have been aboard since the very beginning. And when the lights came up and that unmistakable swirl of guitar and bass filled the room, something deep inside clicked into place again. Not because it was the greatest show they’ve ever played — it wasn’t — but because it didn’t need to be. It was simply *them*, still here, still doing it. And for those of us who’ve carried their music through our entire adult lives, that was more than enough .I am not a casual fan. Echo & The Bunnymen were the first concert I ever saw — September 1987 at Park West with New Order and Gene Loves Jezebel. That night rewired my teenage brain. I stepped out of that venue a different person. I got on their train and never got off. I devoured every interview, every bootleg, every word. In 1989 I read the early books on the band and was absolutely devastated when Pete de Freitas died. I thought that was the end. Then in April 1990, at sixteen years old, I somehow got backstage at an Ian McCulloch solo show. I told him — this charming, impossibly cool Liverpool man — how his lyrics had given voice to things I couldn’t even explain to myself yet. He didn’t brush me off. He listened. He talked with me like I mattered. That conversation meant the universe to a lost kid from Utah. I was on my mission when *Electrafiction* came out and couldn’t connect with it. But in 1998 I was in Paris for *Evergreen* and somehow ended up spending three ridiculous, perfect hours backstage goofing off with Les and Will, and the keyboard player Henry Priestman (who I am still in contact with). They were absolute champs — funny, warm, human. I ended up on the guest list for the rest of that run through France, Belgium, and Holland. I rode the train from Paris to Brussels with Mac himself and somehow earned a nickname in the process. Those were pure coming-of-age moments I’ll carry forever. Years later I worked with a small media company filming a live DVD. I had a laminate and lost count of how many shows I saw — starting in Boston, cutting across the Midwest, then picking them up again on runs with the Psychedelic Furs. I have stories that still make me laugh: driving them to Walmart, to Guitar Center, just shooting the shit in my car like they weren’t legends. I’ve shot dozens of their shows over the decades — some transcendent, some rough around the edges. But even on the off nights, it never felt like a waste. Because these men were *there* for us when we needed them most. That’s the quiet truth a lot of us felt walking out of The Union last night. The band sticks mostly to the classics now, which is understandable but still a shame. *Siberia* and *Meteorites* are genuinely great records with songs that deserve to be heard live. I even interviewed Noel Burke once — the singer on *Reverberation* — and came away respecting how hard it is to step into those shoes. But here’s the deeper thing: last night wasn’t about technical perfection or deep cuts. Mac’s voice has its limits these days. The set was heavy on the hits. And yet… it was special. Cathartic. Philosophical, even. Because when you’ve followed a band for nearly forty years — through death, breakups, reunions, good albums, weird albums, and everything in between — the concert stops being just a concert. It becomes a reunion. A ritual. A living proof that the things that saved you as a kid are still out there, still breathing, still connecting .A lot of people online have been debating whether it was “worth going.” Whether the show was as good as the ones in the ’80s or ’90s. I get it. But for those of us who know the full story, the question isn’t really about vocal range or setlist depth anymore. It’s about presence. About showing up one more time. About standing in a room with strangers who understand exactly why these songs still matter. We didn’t need a flawless gig. We needed *them*. And they delivered something better than perfection: continuity. Gratitude. A reminder that the train keeps rolling, even when we’re all older, a little more broken, and a lot more aware of how rare this kind of connection actually is.So yes — it was worth it. Every single time. Last night included. Thank you, lads. For 1987. For 1990. For Paris and Brussels, New York, Boston, Amsterdam, and all the miles in between. For every time your music said the things I couldn’t. And for still being here in Salt Lake City in 2026, giving one more imperfect, absolutely perfect night to people who never stopped believing. The train rolls on. And I’m still on it.
