All Posts

Karen Bunney missed Amp this week, leaving the historical documentation of Thursday night entirely in the hands of a guy sprinting back and forth between The Alley and a short-staffed Backyard. In hindsight, that may have been the most appropriate possible setup for a band called All The Things. Every time I stopped moving long enough to look up, something else was happening. Near the Bud Light Stage, kids danced in circles directly in front of the monitors while lon

Whiskey Run usually plays later in the Amp the Alley season, but this year they volunteered for the portion of the calendar where every Thursday forecast threatens some sort of Old Testament storm. Hard to believe we just escaped the “will it ever rain again?” season only to step directly into the “maybe we should start building an ark” season, but that’s South Carolina for you. The forecast spent most of the week looking rough enough to scare people into backup plans, but

If you saw Ethan Stallings Group last year, you probably walked away blown out by how different it sounded—and how good those guys are. This past week, you might’ve caught yourself asking who the new guy was. No bassist, Beaver on lead vocals, keys covering the low end—and the bigger shift is the set list. Songs people already know, choruses that hit without a runway, reactions that happen right away. It’s the same core of players with a key swap up front—and it chan

I used to get hired to shoot bar crawls on Broad Street in Augusta. They’d advertise them like a badge of honor—ten stops, twelve stops, as many bars as they could stack into one night. What they didn’t tell you was how much of that night you’d spend getting between them. You’d start down at Joe’s Underground, end up somewhere near Sky City, and in between… you walked. Not casually. Not conveniently. You covered ground. Long stretches where the music dropped off,

There were a few moments Thursday night where things shifted. Not in a way that felt off… just unexpected enough to make you look up. Rob called a change midstream at one point and you could see it ripple across the stage. A glance, a half-step, then everyone leaned into it like that turn had been sitting there waiting the whole time. That’s the trick. It’s not that everything goes exactly how you think it will. It’s that everyone’s ready when it doesn’t. That

Last year didn’t happen. It rained all day. Not the kind you wait out either—just steady, committed, no breaks in it. By the time it would’ve mattered, there wasn’t If you were walking through for the first time, you might wonder what you’re looking at. Chairs set up with nobody in them. Pockets of people instead of a crowd. No one lined up waiting on the band. Looks like something hasn’t started yet. But it has. The regulars know the rhythm. Chairs go down to cla

There’s always that early stretch at Amp where the night’s already underway… it’s just scattered across The Alley. Not empty. Not full. Just… moving between places. If you were walking through for the first time, you might wonder what you’re looking at. Chairs set up with nobody in them. Pockets of people instead of a crowd. No one lined up waiting on the band. Looks like something hasn’t started yet. But it has. The regulars know the rhythm. Chairs go down to cla

Ryan Abel is always getting help from his friends — but that’s kind of his superpower. He’s the boisterous ring-leader of Augusta’s music scene, the guy who can rally a couple dozen pros from different projects and somehow make them sound like they’ve been touring together for years. Thursday night on the Bud Light Stage, he did it again. This time it was Michael Baideme on guitar, Brooks Andrews on bass, and Russell Jarad on drums — a lineup pulled from a web of bands that s

What even counts as “classic” anymore? The other day I heard Green Day on a classic rock station, and it felt like catching a glimpse of your own reflection in a shop window — familiar but older than you remembered. Somewhere along the way, “classic” stopped being a genre and became a moving target. Maybe it’s not about the decade at all. Maybe “classic” just means it still hits. And Black Dawg hit hard — they might’ve been playing the classics, but there wasn’t a single thin

Last year Johnathan Wilson got about halfway through his set before the sky decided it wanted a solo. Rain came in sideways, short-circuited the night, and left everyone wondering what might’ve been. This time the weather held, and Wilson came back with the same crew and a clear plan—to rinse off the bad luck and finish what he started. What followed wasn’t so much a setlist as a ritual. From a distance, it might’ve looked like some kind of musical séance—the stage lit by amp

Nights like this are why we built Amp the Alley. The heat finally broke, the air easy again, and people started showing up early — chairs under their arms, drinks in hand, catching up while the band tuned up. It wasn’t chaos; it was rhythm — that steady build of chatter and movement as the crowd settled in and the day started to fade. You could feel it settling in, that downtown heartbeat that always seems to find its groove right before the sun dips low. And when Whiskey Run

The weather apps played coy all week—never promising clear skies, but never flashing the kind of warnings that would call things off either. The morning started calm enough, but by mid-afternoon the signs crept in, and every refresh of the radar told a different story. I gave up and stuck with the one app that agreed with me. It said we were fine, and I decided that was the truth. The regulars seemed to share the same conviction. Around here, a passing storm just means duckin

County Road 49 made their Amp debut last Thursday, and the first thing that hit wasn’t flash or fire, but precision. They carried the stage with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly where every note belongs. It wasn’t a show built on gimmicks or spectacle — it was built on craft. Brandon Kelly, Paul’s son, looked every bit the wild youngster you’d expect to see tearing up a green room with Skynyrd — but when he hit the stage, it was another story. He played

This week was hard. I didn’t even really want to do this. I thought about just posting the gallery, typing “the band did a good job,” and calling it a day. Not out of duty. Not for any noble purpose. Just out of exhaustion. It’s been an onslaught since before Savannah Sunday even showed up to load in. First the pundits I probably watch too much. Then the self-anointed pundits, who I probably read too much. And last week was different. It was the anniversary of 9/11. The

If you want to know where Aiken’s heartbeat can be felt loudest, you only had to be in The Alley last Thursday night. Chairs lined up before sound check, anticipation building with every passing hour until Heart & Soul returned to the Bud Light Stage. By showtime, the crowd was alive, dotted with bright red Randa’s Roadies shirts—a surprise fan club from Randa Berry’s church that cheered every note she sang.

Dave “Muz” Mercer has always been hard to pin down. Some nights he’s a one-man loop-pedal show. Other nights he’s side-by-side with Josh Pierce in Guns for Hire. He’s backed Chris Ndeti, sat in with Kenny George, and now he’s fronting his own power trio with Jo Bone and JT Smith. And with the Trio, it wasn’t just Mercer on display — it was the chemistry. Think Pantera soaked in turpentine. The layers peeled back, stripped raw, but every now and then a flash of 3 young m

Hurricane Erin was spinning well north in the Atlantic, but she still had Aiken on edge. When I got downtown, the puddles told the story—they’d already taken a soaking. I pulled out the tarps anyway, because nothing keeps the rain away quite li Their set list was a hall of echoes — Robert Johnson’s “Crossroads” and “Sweet Home Chicago,” Son House’s “Death Letter Blues,” Elmore James’ “Shake Your Money Maker.” Songs born in the Delta nearly a century ago, but carried forward

Blues isn’t a relic — it’s a current. It runs through generations, and by the time it reaches us it carries the echoes of everything it’s passed along the way. Last Thursday, Edward & The Blue dropped us into that current, right here in Aiken. Their set list was a hall of echoes — Robert Johnson’s “Crossroads” and “Sweet Home Chicago,” Son House’s “Death Letter Blues,” Elmore James’ “Shake Your Money Maker.” Songs born in the Delta nearly a century ago, but carried forward

Last October, we thought we were finally getting Trae Pierce & The T-Stones on the Bud Light Stage. The weather had other plans. Hurricane Helene carved a wide path across the Southeast, canceling not just that week’s show (Low Country Locals, 9/26/24) but also the following week’s (OGR, 10/3/24). By the third week, we were finally getting back to business with Trae & The T-Stones on the calendar for October 10, 2024 — and the skies even looked like they might cooperate.

It's felt like some cruel joke as I've started writing this and it is 68° outside! I immediately mowed the lawn and started a bonfire anticipating the rubberband snap of nature that seems to have us wondering every week if we will be victims of some solar revenge or some mythic flood that sunk Atlantis. Also, I'm in my office typing instead of being outside an enjoying it. It's probably a smart move so that I'm not too spoiled yet... but it's coming. Cool air, football, h