Jonny Numb

The first time I went to The Fillmore Silver Spring, it was for the Descendents (with Fucked Up opening).

I underestimated traffic and got stuck in a backup near the venue. By the time I got inside, I caught the last few notes of Fucked Up’s set.

I was stuck in the back, on the left flank of the GA standing area. There are bar areas along the left and right walls, with the soundboard flush center along the back wall.

While my 5’10” stature afforded me a decent enough view, the show seemed over-sold and uncomfortably crowded as a result. It actually detracted a bit from my excitement over seeing the Descendents live for the first time.

This experience, coupled with a longish drive from Central PA (and a general dislike for how aggressive Maryland/DC drivers get), left me reluctant to check out future shows at The Fillmore in Baltimore.

As an aside, I’ve been to The Fillmore Philly once, and while the parking situation is shit (as with most Philly venues), the floor space is longer and wider. Me and Lizard saw Sisters of Mercy there in 2023, and the space filled in, but not uncomfortably so. (And we were standing near the back anyway, because we’re old and get tired more easily than the energetic youth of today.)

Anyway: on Saturday, April 5 I returned to The Fillmore Silver Spring.

Why, you might be asking?

Well, because I wanted to see the enigmatic and genre-bending Poppy live, finally.

Fun Fact: I actually purchased a ticket for her previous show at The Fillmore, and flaked out because, well… [see reasons above].

That said, I liked to think I learned my lesson from years before, so I allowed enough time to drive defensively on the interstate and arrive and park before showtime. Garages are plentiful within a couple-block radius. Black-clad teens and twentysomethings converged toward The Fillmore as I drove by, adorable in their Hot Topic-esque outfits.

While doors were allegedly at 7, a line was snaking around the block for GA at around 7:40, and while it moved quickly, I was more or less stuck in the same position as my Descendents experience. This time, though, it was behind a pillar with two oblivious tall dudes on either side of it.

Another aside: the only two other times I found myself stuck behind pillars and with an annoyingly obstructed view of the stage was at Rams Head Live (for AFI and Marilyn Manson) – another Maryland venue. If there’s one factor that has made me consider bailing on a show – outside of unavoidable, rowdy assholes in your immediate vicinity – it’s being in a position where the stage action may as well be invisible.

The already-amassed concentration of humanity caused my armpits and waistline to perspire, so the thought of being proactive and doing the nudging-rude, “sorry, sorry” thing to gain a potentially better vantage point held absolutely no appeal.

I just stood there, hot and kind of miserable, trying to catch an occasional glance of the opening band, House of Protection, which kind of reminded me of the bafflingly popular rap-metal-industrial hybrid, Ho99o9. From my vantage point, it appeared to be a two-piece with a vocalist/guitarist and a drummer. They sounded fine, I guess – kind of like Sevendust with some obligatory electronics, but I grew weary at the singer’s constant evocation of “Silver Springs [sic]” and pleas for the crowd to start a pit.

I know I’m an old fart who’s been around too long and finds moshing an annoying deterrent to what’s going on onstage, but I found myself thinking: “Dude, if your music is worthy of a pit, one will break out of its own volition. Asking for one just makes you sound kind of desperate.”

Anyway, House of Protection did an obligatory 30-minute set. Truthfully, I may have appreciated their set more had the logistics been different.

As an aside, another thing us old farts think about is just how late a show will go, and when to bail to get a leg up on post-show traffic. While the garage I parked in was nowhere near capacity, I considered a sign at the entrance which directly called out Fillmore events, stating the garage closed at 10:30 Monday through Friday.

Not wanting to tempt fate, I set my phone’s alarm for 10pm, figuring that would give me at least an hour of Poppy’s set, time to hit the bathroom before the rest of the sweaty concertgoers, and maybe pick up some merch before the booth got swarmed.

So, another aside: the merch booth is centered in the lobby, which would be kind of sensible, except the line setup literally snakes around the inside of the venue. When I got situated initially, I realized the end of line was right next to where I was standing.

Anyway, the crowd shifted a bit after House of Protection, and I was able to move up a little, leaning against the pillar with a much better view of the stage.

Not that the proceedings felt rushed, but the stage crew was efficient at getting things set up for Poppy’s set. With 10 minutes to go before showtime, an animated, hand-drawn countdown clock was projected against the backstage curtain (sort of like that intermission during The Brutalist).

I wondered if there was a curfew for minors in Baltimore, because the band took the stage a few minutes shy of 9pm, leading with one of the tracks off Poppy’s latest LP, Negative Spaces. The petite vocalist was decked out in a white pleather(?) skirt and top with leggings spotted with cloudlike tufts, which looked like cotton balls from my vantage point.

Now: something I really admire about Poppy is her disinterest toward being in a formulaic musical rut. Since I started listening to her, she’s done tongue-in-cheek metal (2020’s I Disagree), ’90s alternative in the vein of Veruca Salt/Yeah Yeah Yeahs (2021’s Flux), catchy sythpop (2023’s Zig) and what could be described as Kittie-inspired nu-metal (2024’s Negative Spaces). The distinct tone and style of each album – coupled with the singer’s enigmatic personality – makes her a consistently interesting presence on the cutting edge of current music.

The performance at the Fillmore employed vertical blasts of white smoke from the front edge of the stage, a backing band dressed all in black (with the exceptions of slits for their eyes), and a brief aside where a marionette effigy of Poppy addressed the audience. Given the diversity of her discography, I was thinking the show might lean more on a Nine Inch Nails-style sense of theatricality, employing more multimedia components than were ultimately used.

Perhaps this was me overestimating Poppy’s, um, popularity. Just because she has a Madonna-like tendency to explore different genres – and how exciting that is for people looking for risk-taking music – doesn’t necessarily mean the world at large is responsive to such things. Looking at the broader scope of current events, it’s hard to blame people for retreating to their preferred comfort zones when it comes to the art they choose to consume.

Poppy has also served as a support act for such stadium-packers as 30 Seconds to Mars and the Deftones, so I feel like her inevitable rise to headlining tours that stop at bigger venues isn’t outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps with that, the stage show will become more elaborate and immersive.

This is one of the reasons I didn’t want to flake out on this show, as I’ve developed an unfortunate aversion to the hassles endemic to arena tours (parking nightmares; assholes getting drunk in the stands), and have a paradoxical concern that I’ll be less inclined to check out a Poppy show once it requires that sort of venue.

But back to The Fillmore show: for as musically diverse as her albums can be, Poppy’s set mostly stuck to material from I Disagree and Negative Spaces, perhaps because they are the most tonally linked of those I’ve listened to. (That said, I don’t have the discographies memorized, so it’s certainly possible cuts from other albums made it in.) I didn’t have a problem with this, and it allowed the singer to channel a specific high energy for the duration of the less-than-an-hour show.

I cut out before the encore, picking up a tour tee before passing by the “no re-entry” sign pasted to the open door leading out into the unseasonably warm night. I traveled through several harsh downpours on the way back up I-83, and closed out the trip by listening to M.I.A.’s “Kala.”