I have a different relationship with live music than most people. Big venues don't interest me. Big bands hold no intrigue. Interviewing an established artist who has done thousands of interviews is like plucking nose hairs. Photographing an act that has been on the cover of Rolling Stone is pointless. Writing about a performer who has been practicing their craft on stages all over the world is an insult to all involved. Simply navigating the bureaucracy of publicists and managers and tour managers and large venues is exhausting. So how did I end up here? I suspect it started in 1988 when I picked up a cassette with the intriguing title of Barbed Wire Kisses. Thirty-six years later it would push me to do something rare: show up at a sold-out 1,700-capacity Uptown Theater to cover a band.

Frankie Rose took the stage at 7pm under the cover of dim red lights. I'd known her as a cast member in Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Beverly, but I'd never seen her take the starring role. I was excited. For this project, Rose minimizes her garage rock predilections and instead focuses on shoegaze decorated by a thin layer of gloom. It's right in my wheelhouse and certainly en vogue. How it was realized live was hard to make out. Squinting, I could see Rose use a drum pad to trigger synth lines in the first few songs. I watched as she adjusted her vocal effects live. Maybe the harmonies came from that electronic wizardry, or maybe they came from backing tracks. After several songs she picked up a guitar, adding that to the mix. Throughout the set she was flanked by two musicians. Bass and guitar I suspect, but it was too dark to see. While Rose was sporadically illuminated by the synchronized black and white computer illustrations that shone against the wall, her cohorts remained in the shadows. After three songs I lost my position in the photo pit and was relocated to the middle of the room where I saw even less. My ears told me that Rose's vocals provided the melody, sitting buoyantly on waves of synth, as guitars and basses joined the propulsion provided by the programmed drum tracks. At times, the performers locked into entrancing motorik grooves. Rose wasn't chatty from her large stage separated from the large crowd by a large barrier, but there was still a connection, and the room remained engaged. At the end of the band's short eight-song set I heard several audience members exalting Rose. I hope she gives Kansas City a longer headlining turn at a more intimate venue soon. Maybe one where I'm allowed to capture video.

Between acts the hot topic in the theater was the order of the bill. Most seemed shocked to learn that the Jesus and Mary Chain were not the headliners. The venerable Scottish duo had never played Kansas City, and fans of the group were prepared to feel slighted. Well, except for those that were excited that they could go home early.

Since its formation in the mid-'80s, the Jesus and Mary Chain has been brothers Jim and William Reid. Together they set out to blend the guitar noise of the Stooges with the pop of Phil Spector. The duo's resulting wall of reverb has always kept them just out of mainstream success' reach (at least in the US), but it’s cemented their cult status. While the band's early material was especially loud and chaotic – as were its early performances – over time the brothers mellowed, burned through a dozen rhythm sections, released six albums, broke up, reformed, played the biggest festivals, and put out two later-career reunion albums of varying quality. If you want any more, read the duo's new memoir, Never Understood: The Jesus and Mary Chain.

For this concert, like most lately, Jim Reid handled all the vocals for the duo. He stood at the center of the Uptown Theater stage, backlit, and largely motionless as he sang. Often, he bent over, singing to his shoes. Photographers were warned to never shoot him straight on. William Reid played guitar. At 65, he still has an impressive mop of hair that shone white in front of the stage lights. He was similarly motionless, surrounded by monitors, and often consumed by the fog that rolled out from the wings. The live quintet was completed by a guitarist, bassist, and drummer who were just as hidden as the founders – especially from my prescribed position in the wings. As rumored, Jim's vocals still sounded good. The crowd tried to out-do him during favorite "Head On," but he bested the lot. Still, it wasn't until the mid-set trio of "Some Candy Talking," "Cracking Up," and "Far Gone and Out" that the performance really hit its stride. William's wailing guitar of the latter was an impressive highlight. Near the end of the set, Frankie Rose returned to duet on the band's only US hit, "Sometimes Always," igniting the audience once again. The not-headlining set ended after seventy minutes, having covered eighteen songs sampled from each of its albums. It was a long time coming, but the Jesus and Mary Chain did not disappoint.

Between acts I stopped to talk to several pods of friends. Much of Kansas City had turned out for the show. Many were chemically altered, attempting to meet JAMC on their own wavelength. Some weren't making sense, so I wandered the packed theater looking for a place to take my photographs of the headliner. The tour insisted photographs could only be taken from the house (and, expectedly, for only the first three songs). The four approved photographers scattered. I found myself in the reserved balcony. There’d be no close-ups, but, as I said, anyone who cares to know what the band looks like already knows.

The Psychedelic Furs was formed in 1977 by another set of brothers – vocalist Richard Butler and bassist Tim Butler. Despite the timing, they eschewed the punk sound that dominated London, and instead created tumultuous music that placed them as part of the nascent post-punk scene. In the '80s the band had success on both sides of the Atlantic, and in the ensuing years went through a dozen guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, and saxophonists, broke up, formed side projects, released solo albums, reformed, released an acclaimed reunion album, and now tours regularly. This was the fifth or sixth time it had played Kansas City in the last decade.

Although the two co-headlining (a dubious concept, in my opinion) acts have plenty in common, their stage shows could not have been more different. Richard Butler was a peacock, strutting about a well-lit stage, smiling and happily interacting with the fans, his brother, and the other members of the band. Tim Butler and the sextet's current guitarists also roamed the stage, frequently playing to the front rows while standing at the edge of the stage. They looked good, each in their smart coats, but the generational differences between new and original members highlighted those missing (notably guitarist John Ashton who is battling prostate cancer) and drew attention to Richard's age. At 68, the frontman's trademark rasp has lost a bit of its upper range, leaving cuts like "Forever Now" a bit thin. Thankfully his instrument still conveyed plenty of emotion, sounding particularly strong during "President Gas." And during 1980's "Pulse" it proved stout, teaming perfectly with his brother's propulsive bass line as rambunctious guitars replaced what were once saxophone solos. But the audience was there for the hits, finding less interest in deeper cuts, ones that stretched on too long, or ones that suffered under unnecessary guitar solos. It bounced to the stadium-sized telling of "Heartbreak Beat" nearly as much as it did for hits "Love My Way" and "Pretty in Pink." After fourteen songs that spanned six of the band's eight albums, the seventy-minute set ended with "Heaven." As if to prove a point, Richard demonstrated his vocal prowess by holding the final note for an impressively long time before leaving the stage amidst a riotous trashcan finale.

Outside I reflected on the show. About Frankie Rose attempting to enthuse an old crowd that had come for nostalgia. About the Jesus and Mary Chain attempting a victory lap on its own prickly terms. About the Psychedelic Furs able to enjoy time's march and the admiration of its fans. I pondered my non-role in the ordeal, experiencing bands that have no need for me, my photos, or my thoughts. And of seeing those hugely formative acts after decades of knowing them only through album covers and needle drops. Did I gain anything by seeing these heroes in this context? Were they even the same band? Yeah, I have a different relationship with live music than most people. If you've read this far, maybe you do too?