Howdy is an all-ages venue – except for when it’s a thrift store or a yoga studio or a skill share space or anything else that can serve its community. However, it's not a place for music connoisseurs. With no elevated stage, only those standing in the first few rows – or the exceptionally tall – can see the bands. Even then, patrons struggle to see much with only one lightbulb to illuminate the performance area. Those up front haven't won the lottery though – they're behind the venue’s speakers, and thus unable to hear the vocals. Fans pick their poison at Howdy. But wait, there's more. There are no monitors to provide performers with a reference mix, making vocal harmonies sound particularly rough. And Howdy doesn't amplify instruments, meaning that artists must create their own mix for the audience. If it's so bad for music aficionados, why does anyone see a show there at all? Well, let’s find out, starting with the opening act.

Nightosphere kicked off the gig not long after 8pm. The room was already full. All-ages crowds aren't like bar crowds – they get to the gig early and they want to see all the bands. Nightosphere are regulars at Howdy and its sister venue next door, Farewell, but the trio has been off on tour with Chatpile for the last month, so this was a homecoming gig. The trio features Claire Hannah, Brittany Sawtelle, and Dekota "Hop" Trogdon. While Trogdon stays true to his drums, the other two players shift between bass and guitar, and each offer lead and counterbalancing vocals. The act is nominally slowcore, but there are noisy eruptions, as well as still-quiet moments that are more complicated than sparse. Genre isn't a concern for the band. The trio was tight – a long tour will do that for a band. When the group first hit the scene, its transitions from quiet moments to loud ones were awkward, but it has since solved that issue. Now the musicians deftly introduce volume and energy to compositions without hesitation, making these sorts of seismic punches sound better in older songs, and hit harder in the new ones the band has started playing. There wasn't much banter from the trio, but before closing with current single, "Poverty Policy," Hannah did call for universal healthcare. I stayed up front, unsatisfied with the sound, but happy to see a local band that has been gone too long.

Usually there's an exhausting sound check between bands, but not at Howdy – Minneapolis' She's Green was ready to go only minutes after slicing through the crowd. The act is a five-piece consisting of vocalist Zofia Smith, guitarists Liam Armstrong and Raines Lucus, bassist Teddy Nordvold, and drummer Kevin Seeback. The band is shoegaze from the dream pop side of town, offering pretty moments not far from genre progenitors Cocteau Twins. In these quiet moments Smith's buoyant vocals sat between them, her tambourine keeping time while one guitar provided washes and the other twinkles. But there were also moments when the band built to something immense. Guitars created a wall of sound, drums pounded relentlessly, and Nordvold came to life. If I were to venture a guess, Nordvold really likes volume. While Smith's vocals were lost to those standing up front in these moments, the cathartic explosions provided the audience with a different kind of kinetic joy. The group's short twenty-five-minute performance covered only six songs – three from its 2023 debut EP Wisteria, and three unhomed digital singles including current offering "Graze." That was nearly everything the three-year-old project has recorded. Between numbers exceptionally polite banter came from Smith and Nordvold. That's probably not the reason that kids packed the room, but I think there's something to Minnesota nice.

There was no turning back at this point. The packed room had already pushed the headliner deep into the corner, and if anyone in the audience were to leave their spot for a smoke or to peek in on the show next door, they would have forfeited their space for the night. So, there we stood, focused on the band as it fussed with equipment. Soundman Deano Erickson (himself a nice Minnesotan) told the group there was no rush and that he wanted everything to be right for them. The problem was Aislinn Ritchie's malfunctioning in-ear monitors, and without stage monitors, the situation was approaching dire. After a half hour of testing every cable, port, and setting permutation, they finally fixed the issue. The night could continue.

Glixen is also a shoegaze act, but one from the impossibly loud side of town that favors the crushing volumes introduced to the genre by My Bloody Valentine. Along with Ritchie, the band features Estaban Santana (guitar), Sonia Garcia (bass), and Keire Johnson (drums). The quartet started with current digital single "All Tied Up." In the studio Ritchie's voice is deep and staid, subtly following her own rhythm guitar low in the mix, on stage her voice was swallowed by Santana's howling guitar and Johnson's pummeling onslaught. Throughout the set Johnson was active. Some shoegazers favor a courteous drum machine; Glixen opted for a shirtless beast. His percussion bashed against the band's sonic wall, creating an intriguing war throughout the group's forty-five minute set. After snapping some perfunctory photographs of the foursome, I gathered my gear and slipped to the back of the room, ready to trade visual delights for aural ones. I'll admit, it did sound good in the back. There, Ritchie's voice rose above the din, never commanding it, but certainly joining forces with it. Her banter was short and her speaking voice small, so instead of chit chat, the spaces between compositions were filled with atmospheric swells that ensured a continual sonic assault. Late in the eight-song set the band played "Lust" – a positively crushing number that only appears in a live form captured at a 2023 Audiotree session. From my new location, I couldn't see the players, but their music enveloped me entirely, providing a disconnected but satisfying experience.

The night ended just before eleven o'clock. Kansas City wouldn’t get the two-song encore that most other cities got (likely due to the technical difficulties), but no one was slighted. Those up front were treated to a show – one that included either musicians coaxing honied tones from their instruments or performers creating heavy crashing chaos. What they couldn't hear, they felt. Meanwhile, those in the back heard the interplay of vocals and reverb-drenched guitars that either resulted in feathery beds or intense moments akin to being under a weighted blanket. What they couldn't see, they felt. And that's why Howdy exists – not to mimic expensive recording studios or well-lit sound stages, but to bring music to audiences in a honest and direct way. And that's why fans go to shows at Howdy, to experience the music.