The Great Nowhere, Somewhere in Ohio: Between the Buried and Me in Columbus
There are moments in life when time folds in on itself—when something you’ve carried with you for decades suddenly stands in front of you, louder, sharper, alive. For me, that something was Between the Buried and Me.
I was sixteen when a friend sprinted up to me in the hallway of our high school, breathless, clutching a burnt CD labeled ALASKA in black Sharpie. “You have to hear this,” he said, and my world cracked open. That was the first time I experienced Between the Buried and Me—an introduction that came with the intensity of a revelation. Twenty years and countless failed guitar attempts later, I finally stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the warm hum of Newport Music Hall, waiting for the lights to drop. The universe had conspired against me long enough.
Delta Sleep opened the night like a band you underestimate for all of five minutes—then they start to unravel your assumptions one chord at a time. Their first song lulled the crowd into a false sense of calm before erupting into a sprawling jam that hit somewhere between meditative and manic. The drummer played like he was settling old debts, and by the end, everyone was in on the racket—singing, swaying, or just standing still, wide-eyed. They weren’t there to show off. Delta Sleep were there to feel something—and they made sure you did too.
Then came Hail the Sun. I’ll admit, I walked in blind. Never heard them, never Googled them, nothing. But that ended fast. They came in swinging—tight, furious, and laser-focused. Their frontman commanded the room with a voice that cut through the mix like it had something to prove. Halfway through the set, he slid behind the drum kit and tore into it like a man possessed. The crowd lost it. I lost it. There’s no faking that kind of control, that kind of conviction. I’ve had them on repeat since.
And then—Between the Buried and Me.
The room darkened, swallowed by red light and fog. The first notes of “Disease, Injury, Madness” hit, and twenty years of anticipation collapsed into that singular moment. BTBAM is more than a band; they’re a study in musical shape-shifting. They weave jazz into metal, serenity into madness, and somehow make it all sound inevitable. Watching them live is like witnessing alchemy—you don’t fully understand how it’s happening, you just know you’re watching something rare.
Every member had their moment—an unspoken rotation of mastery. Solos bled into transitions so seamless it felt like sleight of hand. The new material from The Blue Nowhere didn’t just hold up against their classics—it elevated the set. It’s clear they’re still exploring, still tearing down their own walls after two decades, and their fans are right there with them, eager to see where the next detour leads.
By the end of the night, I wasn’t just checking a box on some adolescent bucket list. I was standing in the middle of a full-circle moment—older, maybe a little jaded, but still chasing the same feeling that burned into me from that scratched-up CD in 2005.
And for a couple of hours on a Tuesday night in Columbus, I found it again.
BETWEEN THE BURIED AND ME | WEBSITE | INSTAGRAM | FACEBOOK | YOUTUBE
