The recently restored Brooklyn Paramount was the scene of my first-ever Bush concert. Third time for me in that building. I’d already broken it in with Liam Gallagher and John Squire back in ’24, then Beto Cuevas earlier this year. Those two shows were fucking amazing.
I’d been trying to catch Bush for years, but life, work, chaos, the usual bullshit kept getting in the way. They played Madison Square Garden a while back, during The Art of Survival tour, but I’ve got my own petty, long-standing beef with that place. Let’s just call it a boycott. Either way, I wasn’t going. So this felt like the perfect venue to see them for the first time.
I showed up early. That’s the move if you actually care. Beat the lines, grab the merch before the good stuff sells out. And find a good spot near the stage to catch the openers before the place fills up.
First band up—some young killers out of South Wales. James and the Cold Gun. No frills, just loud, sharp, unapologetic rock played like they’ve got something to prove—which, to be fair, they do. And it worked. I was all in. Hook, line, and sinker. I found myself at their merch table. Bought a T-shirt, their latest vinyl, and a tour poster. The whole ritual. They signed it all too. You can tell this band is hungry to become a household name. Plus, after I purchased their stuff, they were gracious enough to take a photo with me — You don’t see enough of that anymore.
Then came Mammoth, fronted by Wolfgang Van Halen—son of Eddie Van Halen. Rock royalty, whether he likes it or not. I never saw Van Halen live. But watching Wolfgang out there—locked in, ripping through riffs with that same DNA running through his veins—it felt like catching an echo of something bigger. like inheritance…..And yeah, the kid can play. No question about it.
But everyone was there for Bush. And the second those gritty, power chords of “Machinehead” hit as their opening song. The whole room snapped to attention. Man, it was magical.
Gavin Rossdale high energy is impressive and inspiring. At 60, he is out there moving like a man half that age—still got the voice, still got the look, still got that slightly dangerous, brooding frontman energy that made him a rockstar in the 90s. At one point he jumps into the crowd—because of course he does—running through the bodies, posing for selfies, hugging strangers, singing like he’s trying to personally remind everyone why they showed up in the first place.
The crowd? A beautiful mess of Gen X lifers who never really left the ‘90s—shoulder to shoulder with kids who probably discovered this stuff on streaming algorithms and somehow they showed up, and got it. Everyone singing along to “Comedown,” “Swallowed,” “Everything Zen,” “Glycerine,” “Little Things,” “Chemicals Between Us”—songs that have no business hitting that hard this many years later… but they do. They really fucking do.
And of course, the newer hits performed live were incredible. Tunes like “Human Sand,” “More Than Machines,” “The Land of Milk and Honey,” and “I Best Loneliness” were absolute bangers. However, I wanted to hear “Love Remains the Same”from Gavin’s solo album Wanderlust. Didn’t happen. I knew it was a long shot. But hoping for it, was part of the game.
Bush delivered the goods. Their brand of 90s grunge, meets alt-rock, meets modern rock was beyond exceptional. The kind of night where guitars matter and nobody is pretending otherwise. Big, unapologetic riffs. No messing about, just tunes I forgot about until they hit me hard again. The whole experience took me straight back to the mid to late 90s. It brought me back to a version of myself I thought I’d outgrown. And maybe I have. But for a couple of hours, I felt like that same person again.
And in a world that seems increasingly allergic to real rock bands—bands like Foo Fighters, Oasis, Green Day, and others from the same era—the ones who actually meant something, who still mean something—it’s almost defiant to see it done right. Bush Live at the Brooklyn Paramount was an unforgettable night. The kind of night where you leave with your ears ringing and your faith in rock ‘n roll slightly restored.
Rod Rioja 