Fans of the LA band Failure may have wondered where they could go next after 2021’s Wild Type Droid, and whether the band’s Space Rock stylings will continue to be an integral part of their sound. With their newest, Location Lost, the answer is yes and no. The spaceier aspects are still there, but there’s plenty more to unpack on their 7th release.
Crash Test Delayed opens the album with an electronic-tinged intro that makes one think of the short “Segues” they are known to intersperse throughout previous releases.
The Rising Skylinefeatures a guest appearance by Hayley Williams of Paramore in a heartfelt duet. Williams has stated that failure is a major influence in her musical evolution. This song pays loving appreciation to her inspiration.
Solid State smacks of Fantastic Planet-era material such as Stuck On You, while The Air’s On Fire has a vocal delivery that makes me think of Alice In Chains.
Someday Soon has an almost reggae feel to its rhythm, making the song a fun ride. I’m personally surprised that it wasn’t selected as a single.
While Location Lost isn’t as in your face as earlier releases, it’s no less energetic in its own way. If only all the alternative bands from the ’90s Aged so well.
Some tours feel like reunions with old friends you haven’t seen in decades. Others feel like full-circle moments where the soundtrack of your youth comes roaring back to life, proving it still has every bit of the power it held when you first heard it on the radio or saw it on grainy VHS tapes. The Generations Tour 2026, bringing together three absolute titans of British New Wave — Soft Cell, Alison Moyet, and The Human League — at Salt Lake City’s beautiful Red Butte Gardens was precisely that kind of magical evening. For those of us who lived and breathed the scene in the late ’70s through the ’80s, this was a dream bill: three groundbreaking acts on one stage, delivering the synth-driven, emotionally charged sound that defined an era.
New Wave wasn’t just music — it was a movement. It blended pop hooks with electronic innovation, fashion-forward visuals, and lyrics that captured everything from teenage angst to dance-floor escapism. In Salt Lake City, we had “The Wave” radio station keeping that flame alive for years, playing the classics alongside newer discoveries for both longtime fans and fresh generations. When the station was bought and shut down last year, it felt like the end of an era. But the community stayed connected, and when this tour was announced, tickets sold out in hours. The gardens were packed with a multi-generational crowd of dedicated wavers, all there to celebrate the legacy of the music that shaped us.
This night wasn’t about fleeting trends. It was about enduring artistry, masterful songcraft, and the way these sounds still transport us back to roller rinks, basement parties, and late-night drives with the radio blasting. And it delivered far beyond expectations.
Soft Cell: Pioneers of Synthpop Edge and Emotional Depth
Soft Cell kicked off the evening with the kind of raw energy that reminded everyone why they were trailblazers in the early synthpop explosion. Formed in the late ’70s, Marc Almond and Dave Ball created a sound that was both danceable and deeply theatrical, blending electronic minimalism with bold, confessional lyrics. I first heard “Tainted Love” at age eight in the back of the family car, mesmerized by the pulsing synths and Almond’s distinctive voice. At that age, I didn’t understand the full weight of the lyrics, but the urgency and drama hooked me instantly. It wasn’t long before I realized how many of those early radio hits shared the word “Love” in the title — it was the era’s dominant theme.
Later, I dove deeper. I picked up their album *Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret*, which was packed with charged tracks like “Sex Dwarf” — songs full of innuendo, attitude, and unfiltered storytelling that pushed boundaries for the time. I even scored a 7” vinyl of “Tainted Love” from a stack at a closed-down radio station, a prized possession that still sits in my collection. Their catalog is massive and endlessly rewarding for anyone willing to explore beyond the hits. Marc Almond’s evolution into a sophisticated crooner, especially on releases like *The Stars We Are*, showed his vocal range and emotional maturity, earning him comparisons to legends like Sinatra. (Yes, I really did just say that)
The shadow of Dave Ball’s passing in 2025 hung over the set in a poignant way. Knowing he had worked on new material right up until the end made the performance feel like a proper farewell and celebration all at once. They opened strong with “Memorabilia,” the crowd already on its feet and dancing. Then they moved into “Danceteria,” the fresh title track, which carried that classic Soft Cell energy while sounding vital and current.
Marc Almond commanded the stage with charisma, sporting sunglasses against the lingering daylight. He guided the audience through a lively Madonna medley, keeping the energy high and interactive. We got “Torch” from 1983 (was 1983 really that long ago?) — a song that still feels timeless — and “A Man Could Get Lost,” which transported the entire venue straight back to those dark, neon-lit clubs of the past. His voice sounded remarkably strong and smooth, delivering every line with the precision and soul of his prime years. It was easy to forget how many decades had passed; the performance felt alive and immediate.
COPright JEREMY CLOWARDA(
Deeper cuts and more recent material like “Nostalgia Machine” from 2021 proved the band’s staying power. Then came the emotional high point: “Say Hello Wave Goodbye,” followed by the inevitable “Tainted Love.” The whole garden clapped along to that iconic beat, singing every word as if no time had passed. It was better than any club night from the old days. They tapered off with “Where Did Our Love Go?,” giving Salt Lake the satisfying fix it had waited decades to receive. Even without Dave Ball on stage, the legacy felt fully honored. Soft Cell reminded us why they remain synthpop royalty.
Alison Moyet: A Voice of Power, Soul, and Timeless Connection
The anticipation for Alison Moyet’s set had been building to near-sacred levels among fans for months. After Vince Clarke left Depeche Mode, he teamed with Moyet to form Yazoo (Yaz in the US), creating a dark, haunting sound that helped define the synthpop era. Their hit “Only You” remains on nearly everyone’s all-time favorites list — a perfect marriage of emotional depth and electronic innovation. After just two albums, Moyet launched a solo career that has consistently delivered powerhouse performances and heartfelt songwriting.
I’ve been a die-hard fan for decades. Out of all the female vocalists I’ve followed, Alison Moyet has earned more playtime on my speakers than anyone else. Her voice — rich, powerful, and full of soul — has the ability to crush you emotionally while lifting you up at the same time. In the UK she’s a household name, and for those of us who grew up with her music, seeing her live felt like a long-awaited pilgrimage.
She walked out to massive cheers, radiating confidence and warmth. She opened with “Footsteps,” and I was instantly starstruck. Then she introduced a song she wrote as a teenager: “Nobody’s Diary.” The entire crowd sang along note for note and word for word — a testament to how deeply this catalog is embedded in Salt Lake’s new wave DNA. During “Changeling,” I signed “Thank You” and bowed, trying to express decades of appreciation.
She shouted out her Grammy-nominated track, launching into “It Won’t Be Long.” For a fan like me, this was a bucket-list moment I had dreamed about for nearly 35 years, as this is my all time favorite song of hers. The jazz-tinged guitar and her commanding delivery made it feel metaphysical — one of those rare concert experiences where time stands still and everything aligns perfectly. “Midnight” followed, a song that feels like a lost Ronnie Spector ballad dropped into a synthpop framework, exploring regret and loss with raw honesty. The audience became a massive chorus, swaying and singing along.
The emotional peak arrived with “Only You.” The opening synths triggered a roar from the crowd. Alison delivered it with pure soul and richness, and during the instrumental bridge, the venue erupted in a spontaneous, thunderous ovation — pure love and gratitude pouring out. It was a holy musical moment that could have ended the set right there and still left everyone fulfilled.
She took us darker with “Winter Kills,” then flipped the script and got everyone dancing with “Situation,” showing off her own moves while the crowd grooved to this 40-year-old radio staple. “Love Resurrection” had thousands singing at full volume, and she closed with “Don’t Go,” leaving the audience grateful and emotionally charged. The consensus was unanimous: we could have happily had Alison perform for two more hours. Her set was a masterclass in vocal excellence and connection to the material that defined an era.
The Human League: Synthpop Innovators and Enduring Showmen
By the time The Human League took the stage, the energy was sky-high and the sun was beginning to set. I had seen some video clips from earlier tour dates that left me slightly concerned about energy levels, but those doubts disappeared immediately. This was a tight, animated, and thoroughly entertaining performance that honored their pioneering status.
The Human League were pushing synthpop boundaries before the term was even widely used. Phil Oakey’s memorable response to a critic — “Show me which button, so I can push it” — perfectly captured their innovative spirit. I first heard “Don’t You Want Me” in my aunt’s car as a six-year-old, and it has stayed with me ever since. Fond memories include watching the “Fascination” video on the big screen at the Reston Roller Rink in summer 1983, complete with those early boyhood crushes on Joanne and Susan.
They launched with “The Sound of the Crowd,” the intro building tension before Susan and Joanne took their places. The lighting was excellent, and Phil, dressed sharply in black, was surprisingly animated and engaging despite the heat. “Mirror Man” highlighted his impressive vocal range, moving from smooth lows to distinctive delivery that had the crowd fully engaged. They dug into “Louise” from the album *Hysteria* — a welcome surprise that many fans hadn’t expected.
One of the most powerful moments was “The Lebanon.” The unforgettable bassline kicked in, and I found myself instinctively counting along on the videos later. The song’s driving anxiety and emotional weight, inspired by real-world events, still hits hard more than four decades later. The band poured everything into it, delivering a performance worthy of its place in new wave history.
Susan’s “One Man in My Life” brought a wave of nostalgia, stirring up memories from my teenage years. As darkness fell, “Human” created a romantic, swaying atmosphere perfect for the gardens setting. Phil’s legendary style shone through multiple costume changes — futuristic, sci-fi-inspired looks that added visual flair and kept the show dynamic. “Tell Me When” had the whole crowd participating, and “(Keep Feeling) Fascination” turned the amphitheater into one giant dance party. Everyone sang their parts — the men booming the iconic choruses — creating a massive, communal sing-along that felt like the old days reborn.
The main set closed with the eternal hit “Don’t You Want Me,” leaving everyone satisfied. But the band wasn’t done. They returned for an encore with the raw early track “Being Boiled” and the dreamy “Together in Electric Dreams,” providing a perfect, uplifting finale.
A Lasting Legacy Night for New Wave Fans
Looking back, this was a bucket-list evening for so many of us who had waited decades to see these acts. Soft Cell brought their signature edgy synth sound and showmanship. Alison Moyet delivered vocal mastery and emotional resonance that reminded everyone why she stands among the greats, and has since been crowned “The Queen of Salt Lake”. The Human League proved they could still command a stage with energy, hits, and innovation intact.
In Salt Lake City, under the stars at Red Butte Gardens, three generations of new wave fans came together as one big, happy family. The music that filled our formative years — the synth lines, the hooks, the fashion, and the attitude — sounded as fresh and vital as ever. These artists helped define not just a genre but a cultural moment that continues to influence music today.
If you grew up on this sound, do whatever it takes to catch The Generations Tour. It’s a rare chance to celebrate the old-school legacy of New Wave with the acts that made it legendary. Salt Lake delivered, the artists delivered, and we all left with full hearts, sore feet from dancing, and memories that will last another forty years.
This was more than a concert. It was a testament to the enduring power of great music and the communities it creates. All the best wavers were here, and the night was pure magic.
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.
If any band ever dragged one long, twisted chapter of my life full circle and slammed the door with a distorted guitar chord, it was finally crossing off the sacred concert bucket list item: The Bolshoi Brothers.
If you don’t know The Bolshoi — those madmen who stormed into the darkwave underworld in ’86-’87 — then you’ve been hiding under a very large, very boring rock. They hit us with a strange, beautiful hybrid: folk-laced darkwave soaked in melodic, moody keyboard strings and Trevor Tanner’s razor-sharp guitar. Albums like Friends, the absolute masterpiece Lindy’s Party, and the long-lost Country Life (finally exhumed in 2015) left generations of us starving for more.
Last year, Trevor Tanner and Paul Clark rose again under the banner of “The Bolshoi Brothers”— injecting a fresh prog-rock edge into their classic English dark-folk DNA. I had them on the show and it was pure electricity. Then, after 36 goddamn years (I fell hard for them in ’88), I finally nailed it: April 5th at Portland’s Star Theater.
The second I stumbled into the smoking area, there they were — sitting on a bench like darkwave royalty. I blurted “Hi Paul” and he hit me with, “Now there’s a voice I recognize.” Handshakes with both of them. I told them how long I’d been waiting for this night. Paul immediately brought up our interview chat about their gloriously unconventional songwriting — those off-meter poetic shifts mid-verse that I fucking “adore”. He actually appreciated that I got it. Beautiful.
They signed myLindy’s Party LP. That moment alone was worth the decades.
I asked about the opening act, Theater of Hate, after watching their sax player wander off. They pointed out that drummer Chris Bell had also just stepped away. “Is that the Chris Bell from Gene Loves Jezebel?” I asked. Hell yes it was. When he came back we dialed my old high school friend — whose favorite band on earth is Gene Loves Jezebel — and let wish her happy birthday on her voice mail. Chris Bell is an absolute champ.
Then Trevor leaned in and mentioned something at the merch table: a single about David Bowie. Minutes later, some guy walked straight up to me in the hall and said, “Hey Jeremy, I got a present for ya from Trevor.” I asked how the hell he knew who I was. “Trevor described you — guy with a camera and a New Model Army t-shirt.” He handed me Trevor Tanner’s limited 10” single “Goodbye Ziggy Stardust” (a.k.a. “The Day That Bowie Died”). It’s a gut-punch tribute that hits like a velvet hammer. Go buy it. Seriously. I also grabbed the double LP of Trevor’s Bolshoi Jazz versions — and yeah, it’s got extra tracks the streaming services don’t. Buy the vinyl, you won’t regret it.
Theater of Hate came out swinging like a post-punk wrecking ball.
These legends — the same band that gave Billy Duffy his first TV appearance on Top of the Pops with “Westworld” — opened for ChameleonsVox back in 2019 and nearly blew the roof off. Stand them next to early U2 in 1980 and you’d swear they were twins, except Theater of Hate had a sax ripping through the guitar lines like a switchblade. Kirk Brandon on vocals and guitar, Stan Stammers on bass, Clive Osbourne on sax, and Chris Bell on drums — a four-piece this night, but they still hit like a goddamn freight train.
They opened with “Judgement Hymn,” tore through “Nero” and “Original Sin,” and closed with the immortal “Do You Believe In The Westworld.” Kirk’s voice cut through like a broken cathedral bell — intense, aggressive, melodramatic, operatic. If you’ve never seen them, fix that immediately. If you’ve never heard them, fire up YouTube right now. You’re welcome.
Then the lights dropped low. The Bolshoi Brothers took the stage in near darkness, exactly as they should — obscure, shadowy, ready to drag you through sonic wastelands.
They opened with “Beautiful Creature,” pulling us deep into the new darkwave-prog-rock beast. Classic Bolshoi guitar and lyrics riding on a sci-fi undercurrent that made you wonder if Trevor had a cute little space alien chained up somewhere. “Built in Obsolescence” came next with a nasty Killing Joke snarl, minor-key piano, and Paul Clark’s signature unsettling synths straight out of the old days.
Trevor grinned and said the next song was written for its time, but if they wrote it today it’d be called “iPhone Man.” Then they launched into the *Lindy’s Party* classic “T.V. Man,” with the whole room counting off “1, 2, 3 — Hail TV!” while grinning like idiots. For a few glorious minutes I was 13 again, sitting in my buddy’s basement, imagining this exact moment.
From there they took us on a full journey — new material that sits somewhere between The Bolshoi, King Crimson, Emerson Lake & Palmer, and a Pink Floyd fever dream. Paul’s synths and Trevor’s guitar wove pure magic. “Mr Ridiculous” felt like a dark, twisted Beatles b-side from a haunted Sgt. Pepper universe. “A Way” rang out and carried us next door without missing a step. “Cowboy Chords” paid strange, beautiful tribute to country & western.
Then the bleak, glorious piano of “Sunday Morning” hit — that “I’m going to scare the hell out of you” intro still sends chills. “This Town” rolled in with its Baba O’Riley chords and Twin Peaks strings (Paul lives in Seattle, so maybe it soaked in). We got “Country Life,” and finally the beloved “Please,” with everyone dancing to that infectious bass groove that still kicks after nearly 40 years.
They closed with “Suburbs” from the new album — slow, haunting, and quietly menacing, unpacking the quiet terror of ordinary life.
I walked out of the Star Theater completely blown away. The new material is strong as hell, Trevor’s lyrics are still razor-sharp, and live… Christ, they’re magical. After 36 years, the circle closed in Portland smoke and pulsing synths.
If you’ve loved these guys as long as I have, the Bolshoi Brothers project is absolutely worth your time — and seeing them live is mandatory.
Truth be told, I wasn’t even planning on writing a review of tonight’s show. By the time I arrived, I had already missed the opening acts and I was in a bad mood. Long story.
All Photos: Patrick Dickson
Besides, I had already seen TKK many moons ago back in the 90s. Twice. From the minimalist twin drummer assault to the sexy/sleazy cabaret, every TKK performance was different. And even though my memory from those free-spirited days during the Clinton Administration may suffer from, shall we say, substance-altered recollection, TKK brings back a great sense of nostalgia.
So my question was: How does the band hold up after 30 plus years? How much have they changed? How much have I changed? These are the things running through my mind as I walked into the Music Box on this Friday night.
My concerns were for naught.
Not only does TKK still deliver the goods, but this was by far the best I’ve seen them live!
The lineup is stripped down to the quartet of Groovie Mann, Buzz McCoy, Mimi Star and Justin Bennett. Simplicity works well for TKK in this straightforward approach.
The set was comprised of career highlights that kept the crowd pleased, but this was no crusty nostalgic stroll down memory lane as much as a showcase of why the band has indeed endured for so long. There was nothing schmaltzy about this. Nothing over the hill. Not even the crowd, as many younger faces mixed in with the more obvious longtime fans.
Fresh energy was brought to long-standing classics with power and enthusiasm that newer bands could stand to take heed.
