All-ages punk show. Or whatever this was.

At 8:05, Heccra took the stage. I wrote about this masked man last summer when he first came out of hiding. Since then, the mysterious and nameless performer has popped up on a few bills, delivering a "fifth wave emo" sound that, in truth, pulled indiscriminately from every style imaginable. Hair metal solos, emo finger taps, and pre-programmed glitchy electronics all competed for attention. Sometimes Heccra's vocals leaned into emo's trademark off-key whine. Sometimes songs called for death metal's gutturals and growls. Dialogue samples either introduced compositions or played between them. Heccra liked it when the audience moved, and when they didn't move on their own, he recruited ten kids to act as bowling pins and careened into them. I think he only knocked down five, but those that remained upright scattered across the pit. Later, he asked the audience if they were okay with "jock violence" – then kicked a willing victim in the chest. During the death core-est of songs, the push pit opened up for several dancers to demonstrate their own spin kicks. This was made all the more confusing by Heccra's cowboy hat and boots. This happens more and more nowadays. Do we credit Beyoncé? Lest anyone be confused, the performer took to the mic to explain that despite his appearance, "trans lives matter," "abortion is healthcare," and "ACAB." Figuring that covered the bases, he spent the remainder of the set quoting Family Guy, melting faces, and inspiring devoted fans to sing along to hit "Camp Algonquin." Which left me with just one question: What the hell is this?

Dreamist played next. I've written about this band a lot. Always good things. The quartet was born playing on tiled floors in untraditional venues like this. In fact, I'm not sure if I've ever seen the musicians perform on a stage. It's a firm commitment to DIY. The project is fronted by Kole Waters. His vocals were sung, he had no monitors, and he was always on key. Simply ponderous. His effects-augmented guitar melded with that of Elisha Ruhman, though Ruhman typically played the leads. Some shows he thrashes about, but the audience stood tight up against the performers at this show, so instead Ruhman just lifted his guitar behind his head to add flash. Bassist Jacob Kingsley was a key part of the dynamics that saw the compositions swing from spacious twinkling emo to crushing post-rock. He danced by himself and sang along even though he had no microphone. The act's longtime drummer has moved on, and the group hasn't settled on a permanent replacement yet. A new guest drummer seems to pop up at every show. That is an insane thing to do when your songs are so expansive and involved. On this night debutante Brandon Miranda played it well – he hit a bit harder and took a few shortcuts that his predecessor might not have, but it was damn good for only a few practices. Ruhman's wife air-drummed the fills from the crowd. Maybe she's called "next." The half hour set featured only four numbers – all pulled from 2024's Shouldn't Be album. Dreamist isn't a hard band to understand, but the more time you invest, the more you'll discover.

While gear was moved about, breakbeat played. Or so I thought — Shazam insisted it was breakcore. Insulted, I spent the rest of the intermission on Reddit reading strangers argue about what BPM limits distinguish the two. Thankfully the next band was able to rescue me from that hole.

Worlds Greatest Dad are from Atlanta. Maddie Duncan (vocals/guitar) spoke fondly about previous shows in Kansas City, so I guess the act has toured through before. This time she was joined by Keagan Krogh (guitar/keyboard), Josh Willis (bass/backing vocals), and Matt Hendler (drums). Willis seems to be the newest of the lot, but the whole lineup was new to me. In its press, the band claims to be emotional indie rock. Fair enough. Though there is more than a whiff of Americana in there too. Fans of Chicago's Ratboys know this amalgamation. On a song or two there were keys and lap steel played by Krogh which only confirmed my assertion. Duncan wanted fans to come forward, and they did. "Taking One for the Team" from 2024's Better Luck Next Time led things off. This one has its origins in the death of Duncan's childhood dog. After five tunes an amp died, though diagnosing that issue took a while. Duncan kept their cool throughout, chatted with the audience, appeased the crowd by taking a request, and then hopped about the "stage" to reset the energy. Willis shouted his backing vocals in solidarity. This resurgence allowed the quartet to end its forty-minute (nae thirty-minute) set with a very emo – and characteristically confessional – song named for Duncan's cat, Mogis. I don't think all of Worlds Greatest Dad's material is about pets, but you can catch the band live and find out for yourself – the act is always on tour.

At this point, Howdy had presented the eclecticism of Heccra's fifth-wave emo, the transcendent post-rock of Dreamist, and the comfort of Worlds Greatest Dad's homespun indie rock. It only seemed right that the night would end with pop-punk. The all-ages (aka underage) crowd was up for it, with thirty or so hanging around for the local-enough headliner.

I first saw The Blast Monkeys three years ago, yet somehow it seems much much longer. The exurban Kansas kids have been through changes. So has their band. Now a trio built of Scott Vick (vocals/guitar), Kyle Chambers (drums), and Grant Schuck (bass), the project has options. The act is capable of textbook pop-punk with all the energy and frivolity and hooks the genre requires. This has always been the band's forté, and, as usual, it had the audience bouncing off each other happily for the full forty-minute set. But it also had them singing along with "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" – an emo song with more depth and a different sort of appeal. Newer numbers were introduced as well. Most still featured Schuck playing the root notes, following Vick up and down the fretboard, but a few bass runs were promising. I suspect Schuck may have been recruited for his ability to keep up with the founding duo comedically rather than musically. Fun's a key part of the act's live show. Both Vick and Chambers are more than affable. Their banter is full of inside jokes timed exquisitely by years together. Early in the set Chambers razzed Vick for not making a setlist, berating him for "not putting in the effort" required to take the band to the next level. Clearly, he hasn’t seen Vick’s expert recreation of Chuck Berry’s duck walk.

Even before Heccra joined the boys on stage for a cover of Blink-182's "First Date," the gig had begun to unravel into a party for friends. The fact that he didn't know the words was only apropos. But as I watched him pace the floor while the audience sang out with lifted heads, it was obvious that no matter what had happened over the last three hours, it was all fair game at all-ages punk show. And even when it leaves me scratching my head, I'm sure that there's nowhere else I'd rather be.