My younger self would be shook.
Twenty-two-thousand Deftones fans can’t be wrong—right?
The Enterprise Center in St. Louis was packed for the California alt-metal heroes’ recent swing through the Midwest. The collective transcendent bliss of the fans manifested in raised fists, closed eyes, parted lips. They sang along and swayed together. They were beautiful.
At 9:17 p.m., I sauntered past a whole lot of them on my way out the door, a song and a half into the set. By then, I’d seen what I came to see: the opening band, that is.
As a person who has been going to shows for more than 30 years, from DIY gigs in rank basements to massive stadium productions, leaving during the headliner felt both borderline criminal and exhilarating—a decadent, transgressive thrill of the highest order. I don’t think I could have made my legs carry me up and out of a show like that before entering my current era of hot flashes, chin whiskers, and big nothing-to-prove energy.
Going to concerts as a young person had almost as much to do with my personal cool factor as it did with the music. I enjoyed the trappings of the experience at the time, but the idea of going through all that now bores and exhausts me, and even makes me cringe a little bit.
There was the elaborate ritual of choosing the outfit, meant to convey in equal measure my remarkable sexiness as well as how frightfully hip I was. God forbid you commit the ultimate sin of earnestness by wearing the band’s own T-shirt to their show. No, never. But do you know how hard it is to figure out the band’s favorite band—let alone finding a T-shirt from that band—without the internet? (You read the acknowledgements at the end of the folded-up lyrics sheet in the cassette case and took a guess, that’s how. But good luck with the T-shirt sourcing in 1995.)
No matter how many encores a band plays, true fans stay until the bitter end. Only the lamest of posers has had enough and wants to beat traffic. At a 2012 show at the Peabody Opera House, Fiona Apple wrapped her set and said something like “OK, time travel! Let’s pretend I just went backstage and you all clapped and now I’m coming back out for the encore.” She popped off three more tunes and that was that. She was giving her all and having a blast, but she was probably ready to wrap it up and take her bra off too. Fiona, you’re a Gen X real one and we see you.
At 1995’s Outside World Tour, some of my high school pals wanted to hit the road back to the suburbs of Philadelphia after Nine Inch Nails slaughtered their opening set. I told them to have fun explaining to my parents why they left me behind in Camden, New Jersey, because there was no way I was leaving yet. This was less about me not yet realizing that you can leave a concert at any time you please and more about the headliner being David Fucking Bowie. My philistine pals were literal children, so let’s grant them some grace. But only a little.
At least I have never been douchey enough to let out one of those little yips that indie rock dudes love to make three notes into an Iron and Wine song so that everyone around them knows that they already know what song it is. You would too, if you were a real fan.
I have nothing against Deftones; in fact, I’m sure they’re wonderful. They’ve been touring since 1988 and thousands of people come to see them every time they play a show. Some of their biggest records came out during my prime new-music-discovering teens and 20s, but they never quite caught my ear. Yet I paid for a reasonably good ticket to their show.
I may not be a Deftones fan, but I have to hand it to them—they know how to pick an opener good enough to get me to their show.
Deftones’ supporting act IDLES have been putting out sweaty, muscular post-punk since forming in Bristol, England, in 2009. Their fifth studio album TANGK came out in 2024, and they recorded the soundtrack to Darren Aronofsky’s 2025 crime caper Caught Stealing.
The almighty algorithm nudged me toward them as I was bingeing YouTube live sets by Fontaines D.C., an Irish band I became dangerously obsessed with this year. IDLES hooked me hard after a few listens, and I’ve been feeling pretty hip for bookending my summer with shows from two current bands, despite needing to pop a naproxen before each one to keep my sciatica from ruining the show.
IDLES have a rabid following, but they’re not filling U.S. stadiums on their own quite yet. They were one of two openers for Deftones on their stop through St. Louis, and I was not going to miss them playing a show four miles from my house.
I was a little worried that the magic of IDLES would be diluted in a huge crowd that was mostly drumming its fingers waiting for Deftones, but that was not the case. It’s hard not to get on board with Joe Talbot and his merry band of maniacs, especially in person.
The veins in Talbot’s neck are in a near-constant state of throb and his lantern jaw and walrus mustache frame a huge mouthful of gappy smoke-stained teeth. The high-stepping, leather-lunged frontman’s incredible stage presence is only enhanced by his bandmates, especially guitarist Mark Bowen and his penchant for performing in ’80’s-style taffeta bridesmaid dresses. It was obvious they gained a lot of new fans in St. Louis that night.
IDLES forged their out-loud leftist ideology in the crucibles of Thatcherism and Brexit. They rail against white privilege, toxic masculinity, addiction, and state violence. But don’t mistake the passion against the ills of the world for joylessness—they’re also charming, absurd, and fun as hell. I defy you to keep still during Dancer, their candy-coated collaboration with LCD Soundsystem from TANGK. Mr. Motivator from 2020’s Ultra Mono winks hard at the conventions of posi-hardcore, even as it slides neatly into the genre. Good luck getting the bully-battering wordplay of Never Fight a Man With a Perm from 2018’s Joy as an Act of Resistance out of your head.
They’re exactly who I want soundtracking my morning train commute in this moment.
I went to the show by myself and I wore comfortable sneakers, a dowdy and practical dress with huge pockets, and not a lick of makeup. I got ma’am’d twice by the cute Gen Z lesbians next to me, coming and going on their expedition for nachos after the first opener. I flailed around in my chair and maybe cried for joy a little bit throughout the excellent and too-short 45-minute set.
IDLES vacated the stage and then, after fifteen minutes of an entire stadium holding its breath, Deftones came out to an immense, electric wave of palpable adoration. Chino Moreno ping-ponged around the stage in neon sneakers while everyone around me lost their minds. I challenged myself to stay for at least a little bit. What if I’ve been a secret Deftones fan this whole time and I just didn’t know it?
It turns out that my initial assessment was correct: I’m very much not a fan. Admitting that doesn’t take away from my quite modest cool factor one bit. Even ten years ago, though, I would have felt the need to stay stapled to that seat until the very end. The true fans I annoyed on my way out as I was ‘scuse-me-ing past their knees will barely remember my annoying exit in the context of their wonderful night.
Making my uncool early egress came with some excellent middle-aged-lady perks.
The merch line that was at least an hour long before the show started had like six people in it by the time I hopped on, two songs into the Deftones set. If I see IDLES again, you better believe I’m wearing that shirt. The security guard explained to me, very slowly, that I wouldn’t be able to come back in once I went out the door she was guarding. I caught a Lyft right outside the stadium in minutes flat. Surge pricing? I don’t know her.
I’m pretty sure Deftones played that one song I know at some point, and I bet it was great—but it’s none of my business. I was home on my couch in my jammies by 10 p.m.
It was glorious.
Want our stories delivered to you? Sign up for our newsletter, then follow us on Instagram, Threads, and Facebook for regular updates and a lot of other silliness.
