In a stunning display of unprofessionalism, I’ll admit that I shouldn’t be writing about this concert, and yet, here we are. It was a rough day. For most of the afternoon I thought I would just skip the gig. I wasn’t in the headspace. I’d never really given much thought to the headliner, and the opener seemed insipid. And it was raining. And I’d been to shows the previous three nights. And I was feeling sorry for myself. But this was the final night of Kosmic City's wandering "Dreams Never End" festival and since Too Much Rock’s mantra is “Just go to the show,” I did.

At 7:45, the room was already busy. I wiggled my way to the front, clumsily compacting the mega fans who had diligently claimed spots that they were now forced to share. At 8:00, Wingtip’s Hannah Avalon walked onto the stage from the side. Soon her cohort Vincent Segretario pushed past me, entering from the front. The duo now stood on opposite sides of the stage, separated by keyboards and electronic whatnots. The stage lights never came up; instead, they held a dim purple hue that only defined the fog that was already thick in the air. Without a word, the set began. Floor lights illuminated the ankles of the duo, leaving the rest hidden in shadows. While the programmed light bars and flashing strobes occasionally provided a glimpse of the performers, shadows remained key. My quick sampling of the band before the show told me to expect pop. I may have even sneered at the “goth pop” label favored by the act. After all, it just sounded like lots of synth, lots of bouncing beats, sung vocals, and standard structures. But that’s not Wingtips today, maybe it never was. The synth was darker and ominous, and the bounce was actually a pounding crash. It was still eminently danceable (though few did), but this was much darker than anything that can be called pop music. The ‘80s synth pop I thought I heard in my sampling was nowhere to be found, and instead there was an eastern European roughness. Maybe it was the way Segretario chanted his lyrics. Maybe it was his distorted guitar that often sounded like anything but a guitar. I was halfway through the set before I was able to see that the otherworldly leads I heard were coming from Segretario's fingers. Well not all of them – some leads came from Avalon, but more often her synth lines were mere candy on top of already built compositions. Similarly, her electronic percussion added emphasis rather than carrying responsibility. The bulk of the steady rhythms and synthesized melodies came from backing tracks. When she got a turn on vocals, however, songs became bigger and brighter, highlighting the shimmer that made appearances in a few late-set cuts such as this year's "The Verdict." I arrived at the show determined to be grumpy, but my bad attitude began to waiver during the opener's long forty-minute set. How would it fare as the night continued?

Between sets DJ Kimmie Queen was spinning darkwave. Surely the heavy hitters were featured at some point in the night, but I mostly recall deep cut selections, including a favorite by Killing Joke and a Wire track ("Ahead") that I hadn't heard in ages. I nearly smiled, but then I remembered my feet hurt and I couldn't find a place to sit and even though the stage being ready for the headliner at 9:00 it sat vacant until 9:15 and I couldn't even do the NYT Crossword puzzle as the paper's techies are on strike and I don't cross picket lines. I had followed the rules and gone to the show, but I was still in full-blown Eeyore mode.

My internal grousing continued as I waited in a packed room. How could it be this crowded for The Chameleons? I mean, the band had no hits, its albums are out of print, it had broken up several times, disputes led to versions of the act performing under different names, the back catalog has been milked with rarities and acoustic remakes and live albums, and several original members have died, leaving the current touring quintet with only vocalist/bassist Mark Burgess and guitarist Reg Smithies. Oh, and the album the band is playing through on this tour, 1986's Strange Times, isn't even available on US streaming services. And yet, there I was, packed against the stage at Record Bar, sandwiched between a twenty-year-old fan who knew every word to every song, and a plethora of fifty-somethings pumping their fists in unison with strangers. What the hell is going on? Let's dig in.

The Chameleons formed in 1981 in Manchester, playing what its members still insist is post-punk, not goth – despite that frequent categorization. Either way, by 1986's Strange Times it wasn't entirely post-punk either, as the band had already moved into alternative rock, shoegaze, and dream pop. Fast forward to 2024, and the project is simply a rock band – one that I discovered was capable of delivering dense and textured songs in unexpectedly clever ways. Over the course of the night I slowly came to see the bass of Burgess and the guitar of Smithies as puzzle pieces that locked together without ever mimicking the other. Other puzzle pieces included the guitar of Stephen Rice that colored on top of the duo, the keyboards of Danny Ashberry that settled underneath, and drummer Todd Demma left alone to provide the act's steadying, rock foundation.

While I snapped blurry photographs of the players on the dark stage, I tried to discern its songs. It was no good. Too muddy. After escaping the scrum, I moved to the side of the stage, but I was still just as mystified. Even after retreating to the back of the room and taking out my earplugs, I wasn't able to bring the band's songs into focus. "Soul in Isolation" further perplexed me as it became a medley with bits of The Doors and The Beatles tunes lifted and dropped into the song to create a long – very long – medley of sorts. Then there was a moment of clarity. A jangling guitar rose out of "Swamp Thing" and the audience cheered. From there it only got better. "Childhood" was a dreamy pop song that balanced bounding bass with sparking and shimmering guitars. The set reached its peak when the quintet arrived at the album's closer, "I'll Remember." The live arrangement transcended its gauzy dream pop roots to become a churning highlight. It was to be the closer, but the quintet instead opted to close the set with its new single, propulsive rocker "Where Are You?" And then the performers left the stage forcing the audience to call for an encore. Eventually the band returned, offering four more songs from its very early career. "In Shreds" (1982) and "Don't Fall" (1983) bookended the encore, revealing those post-punk (and dare I say "goth rock") roots with driving rhythms that moved behind the intent of militaristic drums. This four-song coda provided a satisfying, albeit dissimilar, ending to the fifteen song, ninety-five-minute set that had earlier been so thick and composed.

Revelations aside, I still forced myself to grumble the whole walk home. I wondered if "just go to the show" needed some sort of asterisk or caveat. Bothered, I put myself to bed rather than working with my photos. And then something happened. As if elves had come in during the night, when I looked at my video the next morning it was good – not my cinematography (no, it was all askew) – but the songs, the performances, the lights, the crowd, the whole show. The Wingtips were, infact, engaging and entertaining. In the photos the "irksome" fog and floor lights made the duo look as if they were rising out of the mist. The muddy rock of The Chameleons that I couldn't decode was now obviously post-punk that presciently balanced art and swagger. Watching my videos, I realized the act's long songs had purpose and delivered subtle gifts throughout. So yes, just go to the show, but if it's your fourth show in four days and you're over fifty, maybe get in a good nap before heading out.