Rockers’ show trip back in time
I’m writing from the morning after a Greta Van Fleet show.
If you’re not familiar with Greta Van Fleet, let me introduce you. The rock band, composed of three brothers and a childhood friend, hails from Frankenmuth, Mich. Their band name was inspired by an octogenarian resident of Frankenmuth named “Gretna Van Fleet.” If you think their name is strange, wait till you hear them.
Although the four members are all still in their late 20s, Greta Van Fleet channels pure classic rock vibes. Imagine if Led Zeppelin merged with Queen and dressed up like David Bowie, and you’re getting close to what these young rockers have pulled off.
Despite their obvious influences, last night’s show was, quite frankly, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
It started with a curtain, a huge black sheet that came down from the rafters while the roadies set up the stage. The curtain heightened the suspense, the mystery, before the show ever got started.
When it did start, it went off with a literal bang.
Orchestra music gave way to fireworks and a dizzying pyrotechnic display. I stood in awe, waiting for the curtain to drop, but it didn’t. The sheet remained, dangling over the now silent, smoky stage. I thought maybe there’d been a malfunction. I was wrong.
A voice came over the loudspeakers, saying, “We’ve got a flair for the dramatic, don’t we?”
And then, of course, the curtain came down, revealing the four young musicians in all their bedazzled-jumpsuit-wearing glory. The voice from before climbed to an ear-splitting, alien octave as the band came in behind him.
The singer’s name is Josh Kiska, and to say he stole the show would be putting it mildly. The only way I can think to describe Josh’s voice is some sort of mix between Robert Plant and Freddie Mercury, but even such a lofty comparison falls short.
Josh is his own thing, through and through. He’s an enigma, a shot-taking ball of unbridled energy packed into a 5-foot 5-inch frame. Did I mention he has some sort of curly mohawk hairdo? Oh, and he changed outfits five times over the course of the two-hour show.
The rest of the band was impressive as well. Each member had his moment in the sun. All flatout shined.
The drum solo lasted 10 minutes. The guitar solo a solid 15. And the bassist also played a mean piano.
The whole experience felt like something from another time. Like I’d been transported back to the ’60s or ’70s and was watching Jethro Tull or Uriah Heep in their prime.
Thanks to my dad, I grew up on classic rock. We listened to Magic 105 and The Point, 94.1. By the time I was a teenager, I could name every song, every artist that played through the speakers in Dad’s old Ford.
For years, I yearned for bands like that. I wanted something that had the same verve, the same musicality I’d grown up with, and last night, I found it.
It’s morning now, just a little past 9. I’m cotton-mouthed, sandy-eyed, and in a few more hours, I’m scheduled to proctor a final exam. It’s all good. I’ll survive. The show, as they say, must go on.
Eli Cranor is the nationally bestselling, Edgar-Award-winning author of “Don’t Know Tough” and “Ozark Dogs.” He can be reached using the “Contact” page at elicranor.com and found on X (formerly Twitter) @ elicranor.