LIVE REVIEW + PHOTOS: Brian Jonestown Massacre in Cambridge, MA (09.12.25)
There’s something surreal about seeing The Brian Jonestown Massacre live. It’s not just a gig it’s a slow descent into a dream-state, a haze of repetition, detuned elegance, and the sort of quiet chaos that only Anton Newcombe and his band of psychedelic drifters can conjure. Last night at The Sinclair in Cambridge, that atmosphere was alive and vibrating, wrapped in deep red lighting and a kind of reverence you don’t often see anymore.
The Sinclair itself felt like a character in the story: packed, pulsing, and bathed in oppressive crimson that did no favors for cameras (a nightmare for any photographer, truly). I’d never shot here before, and honestly, the venue alone was a whole vibe. No bouncers hovering, no nonsense at the door, just a sea of older fans who clearly didn’t just wander in they came for this. For him.
You don’t go to a Brian Jonestown Massacre show expecting precision or tight transitions. You go expecting something weird. Something off. Something human. And that’s exactly what unfolded. As I made my way through clusters of chatting fans shoutout to the guy who refused to move and forced me to reroute to find a higher vantage point (seriously?) the band slowly eased into their set. One track folded into the next, like pages of a book stuck together. At times it was hard to tell when one song ended and another began, but that seemed to be the point.
Anton Newcombe, perched stage right with an iPad (because yes, apparently he forgets lyrics and needs the digital assist), looked every bit the reluctant prophet. At one point, he mentioned it took him two minutes to remember a song in New York. Another time, he dropped a strange aside about Bob Dylan best left unquoted and offered up a gem about this being “your grandmother’s music.” Delivered without irony, I think. Probably.
There was a moment when a string snapped. A real “is this part of the show?” kind of pause. But no, this was real life. As the band worked to patch things up, the crowd leaned into the moment half bemused, half entranced. It was oddly beautiful. This band doesn’t fake their rawness; they live in it.
Much like in their Manchester performance earlier this year, there’s a push and pull between structure and collapse. The songs stretch and spiral, teetering on the edge of falling apart completely and sometimes they do. But that’s the BJM effect. It’s never about polished performance; it’s about chasing something half-formed, fragile, and fleeting.
There’s no encore. There’s barely even a goodbye. But somehow, everyone leaves feeling like they’ve seen something real. Maybe even spiritual. Or maybe it was just the hypnotic effect of standing in a room soaked in feedback, drone, and distorted tambourine jangle, watching a band that refuses to make sense in any traditional way.
And honestly? That’s the magic.
Photos – Brian Jonestown Massacre at The Sinclair in Cambridge, MA on September 12th:
