Jonny Numb

I went to bed with that distinct feeling in my throat.

Everybody knows it: prickly like peach fuzz; sore; and other euphemisms I won’t list here.

Anyway, this feeling signals one of three things:

1) I ate the (Maruchan) Ramen while it was too hot (and added too much extra-salty, extra-delicious flavoring!)

2) the recent decline in temperatures and humidity around These Here Parts was giving me some sort of allergic reaction; or

3) I was actually getting a sore throat and on the cusp of some greater illness (Covid? Flu? Who knows? Whatever it was, I wasn’t running a temperature).

On the night of Tuesday, August 26, I was left debating what I wanted to do:

1) See how I felt on the morning of Wednesday the 27^th and make a decision; or

2) preemptively make a decision.

What decision, you ask? (Yes, Jon, get to the point – jeez!)

Why, the decision to schlepp my growing-ever-heavier carcass to my buddy Lizard’s place…so he could drive us to Philly…so we could see the formidable musical prowess of sentimental childhood favorite Nine Inch Nails for the umpteenth time!

I’d cleared my calendar for the event, and though I awoke on the 27th with my voice several octaves lower, once I started moving and after I shoveled a bowl of cereal (with clumps of dried cranberries) and several mugs of iced coffee down my throat, my constitution began to improve.

Putting my fate in the hands of the gods, I drove over to Lizard’s.

From there, we ventured into Philly, making good time. We listened to music and conversed, per our usual routine.

The difference in this trip was, where I-676 forked left into Center City, we forked right toward (the far end of) South Street.

Lizard made clear this was uncharted territory for him, but he had done his homework in looking up some nearby bars we could check out to get some meals/bites and beers prior to the show.

We wound up walking around the Passyunk (not a euphemism) area, with its short, segmented intersections that triangulated in bizarre ways.

Though the day was in the 70s and free of humidity, the sun beaming down on the concrete sidewalks and asphalt streets still radiated enough heat to produce a modestly gross sheen of sweat under my driver’s cap.

We popped into Stogie Joe’s for a sandwich and a beer. The proprietor was a nice guy, the place was extremely clean (extending to the large, angular, spotless mirror behind the bar), and the food and beverage were good enough to give us both a boost.

We also hit Human Robot right when it opened at 4pm. We sat at tables outside until the bartender unlocked the door. Road construction right next to us spat noticeable amounts of dust on my watch and cell-phone case as cars paused at the intersection’s stoplight.

The bartender had started The Terminator (sound off, captions on) on the big-screen TV in one corner. Shortly after sitting down, a couple more people filled in at the bar. I tried a sour, but wasn’t particularly smitten with its busy blend of flavors. Lizard was similarly nonplussed by his IPA selection, but we chugged them down all the same.

We finished up at Dock Street Brewery, which had a long bar area where the surface appeared to be the flattened trunk of a tree. By now we were both enjoying a buzz, which was augmented by more beers; I got a Dock Street Barracuda before reverting to icewater. Lizard had 2 beers and a plate of boneless wings. I got a personal Americana pizza (translation: plain cheese), which was tasty.

Our departure time from Dock Street was semi-firm: Lizard estimated 30 minutes to the venue from where we were, and while we got slightly lost after leaving the bar, we eventually found the car and were properly concert-bound.

I can’t remember the last time I was at the Xfinity Mobile Arena (previously the Wells Fargo Center) – it could very well have been for another Nine Inch Nails show.

The point is: the older I get, the more I hate the logistical nightmares and cattle-chute bullshit of arena shows, no matter how antiseptic and appealing said arena may be.

In any case, the parking signage was vague, which had us making a wrong turn that caused us to have to double back via the Interstate.

Once we course corrected and right-turned into the labyrinthine parking lot surrounding the venue, past the desperate men slinging bootleg T-shirts, I had half a mind to say, you gotta be fucking kidding! when the parking attendant nonchalantly said, “Forty dollars.”

Lizard backed into a space near a side exit (which served us well when we finally left), took a photo of the section marker, and we made our way toward the modern monolith of the area.

At around 7pm, the line through security and ticketing was brief, and the merch/cattle chute similarly efficient. I got a tour T-shirt and a NIN tote, even though our house has totes aplenty.

We took an escalator to the mezzanine level, where we located our seats in Section 214. I even took a picture:

So we were up there. Could turn around and see the topmost row. And we only had a little bit of angle to view the stage (though this wasn’t as bad as the “Side View” tickets I acquired for the Awitha Teetha Tour back in 2005).

Gradually, the seats surrounding us started to fill in, and people were mostly cool. I’ve been to several arena shows where the tailgaters and fans of overpriced venue brews take the opportunity to be as insufferable as possible with their drunkenness, and while the periodic poof of marijuana smoke filled the area, no brawls broke out in the seats.

Style Boyz – er, Boys Noize – started at 7:59 sharp.

Due to Trent’s recent selections of openers leaving a bad taste in mouth, neither me nor Lizard put in the effort to listen to any music in advance.

So, the set was ultimately a pleasant surprise. Imagine something thumping and danceable like ESA and cross it with the more commercial, mainstream sensibility of, say, The Crystal Method, and that was Boys Noize’s set. (Despite the plurality of their name, it was just one guy on a rig at the rear of the floor area.)

While I enjoyed Boys Noize (and the initial confusion as to just where the music was emanating from), something me and Lizard noticed was the length of the set. Like Domino’s Pizza, we were accustomed to NIN openers getting 30 minutes or less (including an awkward set from Godspeed You! Black Emperor eons ago). But Noize Boys…er, Boys Noize…crept toward the hour mark, the culmination of which had Lizard suggesting we hit the bathroom.

“They’re gonna segue right into NIN’s set,” he said.

And – as with many other things – he was absolutely correct.

We took our respective leaks, washed our hands, and sped past a bunch of confused/elderly/and/or drunken Nine Inch Deadhead types in the lobby, wondering just what was going on and likely confused that they had to pack up the tailgate so early (such bullshit, man!).

In any case, we were back in our seats as the opening piano-driven strains of ‘Right Where It Belongs’ droned through the sound system.

In the center of the floor area was a small stage with an overhead lighting rig, where Trent was seated at a piano/synth. What unraveled was a medley of other songs (including ‘Ruiner’!) that kept transforming at unpredictable junctures.

It made sense: Trent has been doing this shit for damn near 4 decades – there are only so many times you can do straight-faced renditions of songs off Pretty Hate Machine without questioning your life choices.

The medley went on for a bit, adding musicians like the perpetually constipated-looking Atticus Ross and Alessandro Cortini (unrecognizable from his days as synthmaster general for NIN live). Overall, this was a cool way to ease the audience into the unpredictability of the evening.

When the band switched over to the main stage, old fan favorites like ‘Wish’ and ‘Reptile’ hit like a battering ram loaded with nostalgia.

What’s cool is how Trent has been evolving his stage production for decades, and even though me and Lizard were in the Everest seats, it was easy to discern what each band member was doing onstage at any given time. The performance was blocked like a really expensive Broadway production in that way, so it never felt like we were getting “less” of an experience from our vantage point.

As the set continued, more familiars continued to trickle out (I always feel a surge of adrenaline at the opening beats of ‘Gave Up’) along with some surprises (‘The Perfect Drug,’ featuring a delirious Josh Freese drum solo that seemed longer than the one in the actual song; a timely rendition of David Bowie’s ‘I’m Afraid of Americans’) and deep cuts (‘Burn’ off the Natural Born Killers soundtrack threw the crowd into a frenzy).

There was an added melancholy to the closing of ‘The Perfect Drug,’ considering the song was written for the Lost Highway soundtrack, and David Lynch’s passing earlier this year. Ditto ‘Americans’ – NIN opened for Bowie on his 1995 tour for his brilliant LP, Outside. Two mentors gone…but not forgotten.

Consider how influential NIN has become in the years since its inception. Nearly every industrial (or industrial-adjacent) artist that’s come down the pipeline since has acknowledged NIN as an influence on [insert name of one-man/woman electronic act here]. It used to be a la mode to dump on NIN as “sellouts” – a watered-down, mainstream version of more subversive, less commercially viable acts like Skinny Puppy and Coil (among others). It’s been interesting to see that elitism (of which I was once a participant) transmute into respect not only at the longevity of the project, but Trent’s undaunted desire to do it on his own terms.

Reznor is now 60, and something that became clear during his performance – via his fit physique and seemingly bottomless reservoir of energy – was his seeming acknowledgment of the inevitable pull of mortality…but refusing to face it without a fight.

Indeed, a surreal moment late in the performance attested to this: during ‘Head Like a Hole,’ some of the people in front of me started laughing and pointing and looking at each other in disbelief. It took me several seconds to triangulate on what had caught their attention, but it was clear as day: a guy dressed as Santa Claus was being ejected from the pit by security, and it was such a unique sight that even Trent stopped singing and required several moments to refocus.

As far as fabled deities go, Santa Claus may be closer to God than God Itself in terms of immortality.

Only in Philly, amirite?

Only in 2025, amirite?

This year’s been a shit show wrapped in a slow gas leak creeping toward an open flame in so many ways, but there has been some good amid all the pervasive dread and unsettlement. And bearing witness to NIN once again proving why they’re tops in terms of robust, meaty, and muscular performance is certainly one of the best things about 2025.

Since I’m not good at reining it in, here are some Random Observations I’m too lazy to incorporate elsewhere:

1) Apparently, they played the one song they’ve released from the Tron: Ares soundtrack? I haven’t listened to it, so I’m just assuming. It was the one song from the setlist I didn’t recognize.

2) They fucking played fucking ‘Less Than,’ which is easily one of my favorite NIN songs of all time (and certainly the best of their recent output), which made my fucking night like I “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”’ed my loudest when that 8-bit intro kicked in!

3) Lizard expressed minor dismay at the near-exclusion of songs from The Fragile – with the exception of ‘Somewhat Damaged’ incorporated into the opening medley. I was fine with this, as The Fragile is the one NIN album I struggle to connect with, despite the near-universal consensus of it being one of Trent’s best musical efforts.

Okay, that’s it! Thanks for reading.