On November 20th 2025, I saw Cap’n Jazz at The Wiltern in Los Angeles, CA and then immediately drove to Las Vegas. The familiar five hour, starlit drive through the glowing blue Mojave Desert served as a catalyst for my mind to wander and wonder…is time travel real? What the hell just happened at the Cap’n Jazz show?
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As Southern California was being drenched by a rare storm, a weird-ass but perfectly curated variety show was going down on Wilshire Blvd. The curiously stacked lineup looked like any one of the mixed CDs I would have made in high school. Some thoughtfully burned acid jazz courtesy of Digable Planets, an angsty AFI track, “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats. A perfect compilation. I would take a sharpie and scribble “Trix Mix” or something equally dumb on the white surface, but man would that tracklist hit hard on the bus ride to school. Here at The Wiltern, Cap’n Jazz invited four wildly eclectic supporting bands to the bill, as well as four different DJs buffering the sets.
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Anthony Family, a new project led by Ceremony founding guitarist Anthony Anzaldo with Karlis Musik on keys, coaxes us in from the rain by warming our brittle bones with delicate pastels of soulful pop (and possibly giving fans of Anthony’s other work whiplash, in the most wonderful way). At the end of their dreamy set, a touching cover of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” acts as a nice kiss goodnight from the duo.
On-again/off-again Wisconsin emo peers Rainer Maria were next with a short but punchy set. Caithlin De Marrias’ vocals are as clear and concise as her bass line. Kaia Fischer’s light arpeggios wind through the dynamic shifts driven by Williams Kuehn’s drumming. A mini push pit breaks out as the nervous energy builds up in the theatre.
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Legendary experimental act The Red Krayola are on third to add an avant-garde flavor to the mix, playing their first show in over a decade. With sole original member vocalist/guitarist Mayo Thompson at the helm, backed by an ever-evolving and always impressive lineup currently consisting of Tom Watson on guitar, Bill Bowman on bass, Raul Morales on drums and Connor Gallaher rounding them out on pedal steel, The Red Krayola churn out a warm blend of comfort and intrigue before signing off with a warning we were all too familiar with here in SoCal: “don’t let the ICE man getchya.” Amen.
Next and nearly co-headlining the whole damn thing is sludgy Oklahoma City cinephiles, Chat Pile. This was my second time this year seeing Chat Pile, with the first being at Zebulon where the entire venue would fit neatly on the stage of the Wiltern. But it doesn’t matter where you see Chat Pile, there is no escaping them. Your body will be fully annihilated by guitarist Luther Manhole’s anxiety-inducing riffs and Stin’s apocalyptic low end. Vocalist Raygun Busch alternates between prose-like, uncomfortably strained spoken word and chilling shrieking as he paints ugly scenes with uglier questions. Meanwhile drummer Cap’n Ron buries you deep into the horror flick they’ve put on. Head banging turns into full-blown body hurling as we lose ourselves in the bloodthirsty scene. Between songs, Raygun throws you fun movie facts ensuring you will leave a Chat Pile show smarter than when you entered.
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It had already been a really big night but we hadn’t experienced even the half of it yet. Between sets I people watched. The crowd itself was as interesting as the bill, with generations from every so-called wave of emo, from first to fifth if we’re subscribing to that sort of nonsense. The elders watching from the balcony above. The 30 to 40-something-year olds with sore lower backs shooting jealous glances towards the elders but we just can’t do it yet. Proud parents taking on their newfound position as pit guards. Impressively large groups of colorfully-haired high schoolers ensuring the merch booth will be completely sold out of vinyl records and size small t-shirts by the end of the night. But as my mind drifts, the theatre darkens. It’s Cap’n Jazz time.
Brothers Tim and Mike Kinsella, their cousin Nate Kinsella, Victor Villarreal and Sam Zurick walk out on stage and something surreal happens. Suddenly the entire theatre is filled only with kids. It doesn’t matter how old you are when you get your ticket scanned, the second these guys stand in front of you, you become Benjamin fucking Button. It’s a full circle moment back to mood rings and baggy jeans.
Everyone loses their shit right away because off the bat they hit us with “Basil’s Kite.” The sandy grit, the earnestness, Tim’s meandering French horn solo interrupting the feverish but carefully curated chaos (including possibly the best one-second scream known to mankind). It’s already almost too much for me to handle. I love this song. It might be my favorite Cap’n Jazz song.
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This energy carries through the entire set with perfectly timed audience participation when it matters and it matters all of the time. During the natural break in the middle of “In the Clear,” Sam’s bass amp needs some attention but the crowd already knows what to do. “A! B! C! D!” All these kids shout in unison but the problem isn’t fixed yet. After more fiddling and a round of nods on stage, Tim spins his finger around and mumbles into the mic “okay do that thing again” and everyone dutifully starts back at “A!…”
Now Tim’s down in the crowd and we’re all in the back rooms of every small town. Soon the mic is surrendered to the pit, just how the good lord intended. Tim tosses his tambourine and I catch it from the middle of the floor, but I’ve got cameras so I quickly flick what’s essentially this loop of ninja stars behind my head to the next person. It gets shaken and passed around before Tim gestures to throw it back to him now, please. This happens repeatedly throughout the night and is exactly what makes these types of shows incomparable. Everyone is encouraged to play their role. You are always heard at a Cap’n Jazz show, if you want to be.
Cap’n Jazz formed in 1989 in Buffalo Grove, Illinois when they were just high schoolers. They broke up in 1995, immediately following the release of their only LP: Burritos, Inspiration Point, Fork Balloon Sports, Cards In The Spokes, Automatic Biographies, Kites, Kung Fu, Trophies, Banana Peels We’ve Slipped On, And Egg Shells We’ve Tippy Toed Over (or Shmap’n Shmazz for short). They could have never predicted that album, along with retrospective Analphabetapolothology, would become a driving force in continuing to shape the ethos of music in a critical way: you don’t have to be a robotic tough-guy asshole just because society tells you to be. You can just be. Cap’n Jazz’s occasional and far-too-rare reunion shows validate this sentiment, but it’s never felt as important, nor as relevant, as it does tonight.
Cap’n Jazz continues Shmap’n Shmazzin’ as Mike and Sam keep the rhythm going for complex, meandering storylines. Nate & Victor’s guitars feel warm and life-affirming despite crashing into you with full force.
The most sincere version of “Ooh Do I Love You” reassures us that you have a friend in Cap’n Jazz, not to mention a friend in everyone else in that room too. A tender moment for “Bluegrassish” as thousands of voices melt in chorus. We are all exactly where we need to be in a world that feels like it’s spiraling out of control. We are together and we’ve got each other’s backs. We take a collective breath as a familiar riff fades in…“Little League.” As Tim levitates across hands, the pits (one on each level) go full rowdy in that very sweet and polite flyover state way. I love this song. It might be my favorite Cap’n Jazz song.
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A quick ride on that next wave with a cover of Owls’ “For Nate’s Brother Whose Name I Never Knew or Can’t Remember” and it feels like they’re gently shaking us awake with a reminder which applies to them as well – we can’t remain kids forever…but for now let’s dance in the storm.
“Oh Messy Life.” There was a time when your internal conflicts were dismissed with the now-vintage cliché, “it’s just a phase.” But as we grow up, we quickly find out this is just a lie adults deliver when trying to preserve our innocence for just a little bit longer. There are no clear answers in this world other than perhaps acknowledgment. All of history, all of this messy life, is built off nuance. Tim’s frantic line delivery shoves this idea down your throat to be swallowed in full. I love this song. It might be my favorite Cap’n Jazz song.
The stage dims and the guys exit stage left for an encore but only about ten seconds lapses before they return to their places. We’re not wasting time here as the tension thickens and Tim wails the words to “Flashpoint: Catheter, “ a song that builds so gradually you don’t even notice until your head bumps the ceiling. Tim wipes his face and picks up his French horn, lifting it from his lips to the sky. He somehow grows ten feet taller as he stretches his tune before submitting the brass beauty to the pit, in good company with the wandering mic and runaway tambourine. The horn floats along above the crowd and I can’t help but feel good for every person who gets a turn parading that thing around. I imagine how they’ll talk about fingering Tim’s horn forever. They’ll probably phrase it a different way.
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An obligatory cover of A-Ha’s “Take on Me” and I think back to the 2017 interview Tim did with Chicago Magazine where he admits his dislike for performing this song but they “don’t have that many songs!” so they do it anyway. And of course everyone loves to sing this one. It doesn’t matter if you hit the notes. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. This song is for all of us.
I was starting to think Cap’n Jazz were responsible for the rain washing the streets of LA as they baptized us with stupidly danceable “Puddle Splashers.” Everyone is vibrating, ecstatic, born again. I love this song. It might be my favorite Cap’n Jazz song.
“¡Qué Suerté!” to send us out the door. How lucky! How incredibly lucky are we to have been here tonight, to experience these songs together, 30 years after their release sent underground shockwaves through the timeline of alternative music. Qué suerté indeed…even if the merch booth no longer has your size.
As we exited the theatre, dodging puddles on Wilshire Blvd, we stopped looking like kids. But when we got in our cars, started the engine and waited for our windshield to defrost, the spark in our eyes said something else. The same spark that had been snuffed away from the pounding curse of adulthood. It just took going into the back rooms again to be reminded that we are all still screaming in this world together. And while we headed back into our adult lives, filled with adult responsibilities, somewhere at that moment was a back room crammed with kids keeping the fire lit, doing their part by picking up where we left off in this complicated, messy life.
Words and Photos by Michelle Evans
