Saturday night at Stage AE felt like stepping straight into a mixtape from the glory days of 90’s and 2000’s rock, where weird met wild and anything could happen. On one side of the night stood Modest Mouse, the brooding architects of off-kilter indie anthems, letting their songs speak in crooked poetry and unshakable grooves. On the other, The Flaming Lips rolled in like a technicolour circus on a mission to out-weird the universe. Together on the Good Times Are Killing Me Tour, they turned the North Shore into a sprawling collision of grit, beauty, and unfiltered joy.
Chicago-based Friko kicked off the show with a burst of youthful fire and classic punk rock vibes. Their set was feisty and passionate, filled with anthemic choruses that seemed to reach beyond the edges of the venue. The band’s chemistry was immediate, and their urgency was infectious. It was the kind of opening performance that makes you want to find their entire discography before you even get home, the perfect appetizer before the two radically different flavours that would follow.
When Modest Mouse took the stage, they did so without fanfare, slipping into their first song as if they were already mid-conversation. The music did most of the talking. Last year they celebrated the twentieth anniversary of Good News For People Who Love Bad News, and the influence of that album was still felt in their setlist. “Float On” became a communal singalong, while “Bukowski” pulled the crowd into their idiosyncratic rhythms and crooked melodies. It was a performance rooted in mood, not spectacle, a slow burn that rewarded anyone willing to let the music sink in.
Isaac Brock, never one for showmanship in the traditional sense, still held the audience in a strange kind of grip. His voice wavered between a half-snarl and a fragile quiver, cutting through the thick summer air. The band’s arrangements felt loose but purposeful, as if they were teetering on the edge of collapse without ever actually tipping over. It was music for people who like their beauty imperfect, their rock songs a little bit frayed around the edges. By the time they left the stage, the crowd had been lulled into a trance, only to be immediately snapped out of it by what came next.
And snapped out of it they were. The Flaming Lips wasted no time in turning the evening into a kaleidoscopic fever dream. They have been celebrating the twentieth anniversary of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots for a few years now, and their set still felt like a joyous continuation of that party. Giant inflatable robots towered over Wayne Coyne, who was armed with confetti guns and the kind of unshakable grin that makes you believe he was having just as much fun as the crowd. And this was only the beginning of the shenanigans.
The spectacle was relentless. Confetti burst without warning, shimmering against the night sky and illuminated by bright strobes. Neary every song featured something new to keep everyone on their toes. A sun and aliens dancing to a cover of The Chemical Brothers “The Golden Path,” giant eyeballs and lips giving a larger-than-life feel to “The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song (With All Your Power),” even a very fitting Wonder Woman costume for “Waitin’ for a Superman.” The antics kept you guessing, and yet, it all felt perfectly natural. Coyne’s gratitude poured out between nearly every song,relentlessly thanking Pittsburgh, the crew, life itself for giving them nights like this. The shenanigans were non-stop, but never at the expense of the music. Tracks from every inch of The Flaming Lips’ discography soared through the speakers, each one wrapped in glitter and pure joy. It was a set that made you forget where you were for a while, lost in the carnival atmosphere they so effortlessly create.
The encore blurred the line between the two worlds that had defined the night. Isaac Brock joined The Flaming Lips for a thunderous, deeply emotional rendition of “War Pigs,” dedicated to the freaks we’ve lost, from Wayne Coyne’s fallen friends to the late Prince of Darkness himself. The weight of the dedication hung heavy, but the performance itself was electrifying. Brock’s gritty delivery meshed perfectly with Coyne’s theatrical presence, and the crowd roared with every pounding riff.
Without missing a beat, the band rolled straight into “Race For The Prize,” the final explosion of the evening. Giant balloons floated over the stage, spelling out “Fuck Yeah Pittsburgh” in gleaming letters, a cheeky and perfect tribute to the city. Confetti swirled, strangers hugged, the whole place felt like it was vibrating with pure joy. It was the kind of ending that made you want to stay in that moment forever, a night where indie introspection met psychedelic absurdity and yet, somehow, together, they created magic.
August 9th, 2025
