There I stood, 16-dollar Aperol spritz in hand, arguing with the Rogers Arena lady. It was a Saturday night in September, in the year of our lord 2026. Pyrotechnics blasted up from the stage as Rivers Cuomo wailed through that iconic “Hash Pipe” chorus, with Scott Shriner plugging away on the bass behind him. In front of me, a four-foot-tall kid was trying to catch a glimpse of Weezer from row 20, a seat ahead of me. And here was the establishment — Ms. Rogers Arena herself — telling him he couldn’t stand in the aisle to see the band.
“This is the concert of a lifetime!” I called over the music. “He can’t see!” Did I know this anonymous, four-foot child and his accompanying father? No, I sure did not. But in some strange way, I was that seven-year-old kid once again, listening to Weezer in the garage (alias: Rogers Arena) with my dad. And by golly, this kid was going to see the show.
Rogers’ lady walked away, but returned a few minutes later. “How many are you?” she asked, assuming that my friend, the four-foot child, his father, and I were together.
“Four,” I replied.
“There’s free seats in row four.”
And that, dear reader, is how I bitched my way into row four of Weezer’s The Gathering tour.
The night had started in disappointment. We arrived just as the openers, Silversun Pickups, took the stage and were immediately underwhelmed. I could hardly hear the vocals, the lead guitar overshadowed everything else, and it was just — quiet. For such an enormous space, you’d think a band like the Pickups, who had hits featured in both Jennifer’s Body (2009) and Rock Band 2 (2008), would be treated with some level of professionalism. This was the band I’d been most excited to see, and for some reason the Rogers concert gods had stacked the sound fates against me. The Pickups’ mix fell flat on an already flat audience, and with (seemingly) no overhead speakers on, it was totally pigeonholed to the stage. Sure, they’re not as popular as The Shins, who were up next, or the headliner Weezer, but they’re a band with die-hard fans, damnit!
Their 25-minute set was a whirlwind of passive foot-tapping and overly generous gulps from my double-fisted drinks. My poor, inner, depressed teenage soul felt fully slapped in the face by this insult and brooded. Fine. Let them overlook this underrated band. It wasn’t for them, anyway.
Next was The Shins. I have to admit, I can only name one song from the band. Regardless, they were tight, and the sound crew clearly liked them more than their predecessors. The dynamic technical boost gave the set plenty of bravado, but I couldn’t help feeling like they were out of place, sandwiched between these two crunchy, alt-rock bands.
But then — Weezer took the stage. After my final boss battle against the Rogers lady, I became thoroughly immersed in the rich, pyrotechnic masterpiece theater of a Weezer concert from the fourth row. They brought the stage to life with a prop house, white picket fence, mailbox, and even a full-sized powerline. They channelled all the late 90s suburban drudgery they always have. With energy and precision, Weezer put their all into a full-bodied performance, even bringing out Silversun Pickups bassist Nikki Monninger for an epic three-song collab. Ah, how I love a redemption arc!
And by Buddy Holly, I found myself a nine-year-old girl, dancing around my room again. Then I was 14, riding my bike through the farmlands of Langley listening to “Island in the Sun” on my iPod Nano, and lastly 22, mid-breakup and finally appreciating “Undone — the Sweater Song”. I was transported through the ages, like the rest of the crowd — young and old, carried by these ironically upbeat, eff-you-establishment songs.
I settled into the show, and with the start of the semester it was exactly what I needed. It reminded me of all the messiness I’ve been through and survived — survived because of the music I love, because of those few bands who pour their all into their craft, and share it with the rest of us. I hope, too, that my four-foot-tall friend grows up loving a band that continuously proves itself worth arguing with a Rogers Arena boss lady over. Rock on, little man — rock on for me.
Darien Johnsen is a UFV alumni who obtained her Bachelor of Arts degree with double extended minors in Global Development Studies and Sociology in 2020. She started writing for The Cascade in 2018, taking on the role of features editor shortly after. She’s passionate about justice, sustainable development, and education.