Amp Recap

Last year, the Kenny George Band got squeezed into a corner downstairs at Electric Eats after weather forced Amp indoors. Looking back at the photos now, it’s honestly impressive they fit everybody in there at all, let alone Randy Borawski, who looked like the winner of the Powerball splurged on a stuffed grizzly bear for the corner of his 800 square foot studio apartment… after responsibly paying off his 2012 Prius first, of course. Kenny joked Thursday night they may hav

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

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

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

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

Alright, I owe Tom Reed & The Tandem an apology. Last week, I said it was their first time playing Amp. It wasn’t. They played here back in 2018—before I was writing these blogs, before I was even really involved with the series. Which is probably why I didn’t remember. I was too busy helping open Whiskey Alley to notice what was happening just outside the front door. But looking back now, that version of The Alley feels like a different lifetime entirely. Davoirs wa

These three don’t need big intros anymore. Ruskin, Cam, and Brannon have been playing Amp for years—in King Size and every other local supergroup worth its strings. You’ve seen ‘em at full volume and in different costumes, but what never changes is the way they land with this crowd. King Size didn’t just play a show. They upcycle memories into new ones. From a boombox being held over your head, to detention with the brat pack, anarchy symbols written in white out on a bla

Sometimes the most electric shows come in the most unexpected packages: a three-piece band in a barbecue joint during a thunderstorm. Sometimes, the best way to support downtown isn’t by planning perfectly—it’s by adapting relentlessly. Because at the end of the day, it's not about the weather—it’s about who’s willing to pivot, hustle, and make it happen anyway. That’s what happened last Thursday when we moved Amp the Alley indoors to Southbound Smokehouse. The radar

I thought I had it this week. After months of second-guessing Doppler radars, relocating bands last-minute, and watching the sky like a paranoid farmer, we were finally looking at a Thursday with no threat of rain. I even considered starting this blog with something wild like “Hey, everything went smoothly!” But just to be safe, I still stopped at Harbor Freight before load-in and bought two emergency tarps. Because you and I both know what usually happens when I don’t.

Last Thursday had all the markings of another weather curveball. Kenny and I had the gear loaded in, tuned up, and ready to roll. The skies were clear. Spirits were high. Then, just as showtime neared—a soaking downpour. Quick, but heavy. The kind that makes you question everything. That’s exactly where Anna Hudson found herself. After a week full of setbacks—her guitar broke, her car died, she borrowed a friend’s car only to get a flat on the way—she pushed through it