A Preacher, A Trucker, A High Roller. A Holy Roller Preaching Rolling Trucker. Yeah.
Clutch pops their Ann Arbor Cherry. Nate Bergman and Tyler Bryant spit on it first. Michigan Theater 2025.
With every rotation of the sun comes a Clutch tour. Maniacs in their own right, a forgotten bastion of civilized society, this fearsome foursome embodies the spirit of authentic being. Seemingly having it figured out, Dan, Tim, JP and Neil have tapped into and gained immeasurable strides against the collective conscious, doing what is the easiest survival tool in the whole damn thing which is, finding joy, and capitalizing on it. For over 30 years these maestros have been inundating the masses, or at least those smart enough to imbibe, with the purest, cleanest, unsteppeded on product you can find. That’s that Pure Rock Fury.
It’s no secret that I am a giant homer when it comes to Clutch. Give me 24 ounces of Pabst, half a gram, inhaled, of any positioned shelf weed, and 20 bucks in Touch Tunes credits, and I will give you the education your parents taxes wages couldn’t give you.
They fuck.
Never been a fan of that expression. But it is edgy, seeing as fuck is the star of the show. It does however, hit just a bit. Goddamn tongue roller. A crisp bite. So in layman’s terms, yea they are good.
I’ve had my fair share experiences with the fellas. Detroit, Toledo, Flint, Grand Rapids. I try and make it a point to not miss them. They are the greatest live rock and roll band working today. Hardest working even.
It is never anything but money well fucking spent.
And always something new.
For the 20 odd shows I’ve seen, Everytime I find myself saying…
Jesus Man, that’s the best set I’ve seen them deliver.
Maybe they are infallible? Or have held high ranking free masons hostage, courted with courtesy, the skirts or pant suits of the industry. Refusing to cut the product with mind numbing fillers. Nah man, They own and operate the entire operation.
Fucking renegades.
Anyways, they rolled through Ann Arbor, for the, get this, first fucking time. Over 30 years. I woulda thought they had jammed through the Blind Pig at least once if not twenty times in the early 90’s.
What a treat, popping the A2 cherry with the homies.
I was surprised with tickets at the 11th hour. My amazing partner, Brynn, surprised me with tickets for my birthday.
I had slept on acquisition when the gig was announced, thinking I got time. Tickets were sold out and only available on the scalper skate land that is the secondary market.
There was slight panic thinking the first clutch show I will
Miss in years is at a new to me and them venue.
My Woman keeps the good times locked down, and that panic was erased. We were in the building. Fuck yes.
The lineup was stacked, my buddy Nate Bergman, former frontman of Maryland natives Lionize, who has started a solo adventure that has been doing quite well was slated to open the gig.
Nate is a monster unlike no other, his pipes have always made me instantly hearken to the glory of Joe Cocker. That massive, booming, yet concise and regal in execution range he brings to the tape and stage would surely shine in this near hundred year old acoustic goldmine.
Nate warmed up the already seated and treated the incoming flock to hymns that Joseled and warmed the cockles of our collective souls. My boy has them galvanized pipes. He brought out JP from clutch and the boys from Tyler Bryant and the shake down to electrify his set with decorum. They railed on wish I was before winding down his sets
I met up with him after his set. Making sure I snagged a copy of his latest release Wish I Was on vinyl. Follow him on Instagram, Spotify, Paterson, Substack, and get hip.
Tyler Bryant was next, by way of Nashville Tennessee, they brought their southern skewered brand of rock and roll as a quality opener for Clutch, not their first time opening for these behemoths. They delivered a rousing set that kept the crowd entertained while waiting for the main show. I need to do a deep dive o their catalog. The live set was worthy of investigation. Impressed, intrigued, and ready to discover more is how they left me feeling.
After the theater ran outta booze. Dig this, fucking unleash a wicked piss, get in line to secure proper hydration for Clutch, line was obscene, but priorities. After the line cuts in half and ten minutes of waiting, an old timer stumbles by, announces “they are out of beer”
Goddamnit.
“They got them seltzers” I snickered to myself.
Gotta get Brynn a water, I’ll just double up on some lone drank or whatever the hell they were called. Turns out the obnoxious broads in front of me got them seltzers I last ones. With my fuzz filled Eyes I caught wind of a full cup of amber gold. “What’s that” I pointed, “someone didn’t want it cause it wasn’t cold enough” the drink gal offered, “I’ll buy it.” Cup of flat, room temp lager handed over with damn near zero hesitation, and a bottle of water. On the house. For my live standin troubles.
Originally this was supposed to be a celebration of 1995’s self titled effort. An audible was called before the tour took hold. Those fortunate to be there on this tour were treated to something even more special than a reimagining of that flawless record.
This Setlist was pristine. There is not a better vibe cultivator than the entity that is Clutch. Giving plenty of love to their self titled effort the set was littered with an array of gold, curated into the perfect soundtrack for this particular Friday night.
They gave us big news 1 and 2. Outlaw. John Wilkes booth. Animal farm. Peterbilt. Tapping into their more politically/socially charged tunes. I shit you not when I say this was an all timer set and golly do these guys just sound better and better with age. Tannins been breathing. Shit stays crispy. Notes of grit and electricity. With a subtle but forward spritz of pentatonic tenacity.
I lost my voice, drank piss warm beer, and ran through a tin and a half worth of Zyn. A beautiful night. If you take one piece of advice for the rest of your life, let it be this. Go see Clutch. You can go in completely blind, and you will not leave the gig without being a stark raving fan. I promise you.
They fuck.
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