With the love-lorn bellows of incels and furries, the soundtrack to your nightmares, is delivered by the 'Just Us Sasquatches' tour, headlined by Santana and Alice Cooper. We're entering a territory where your MySpace years and Karen's manager summonings are considered the height of culture.
Santana and Cooper, the duo who recently decided to turn back the gender norms dial to the 1950s, lead this neon-lit car crash of a tour with the grace of a stoned lemur navigating a VR game. Echoes of misinformed masculinity bounce off the walls as the crowd tears into "More Man Than Less Man" and Gatorade-infused popcorn. Cooper, in his irreversible descent into a Tim Burton character, posits whether his next album title should be 'Transgender Fad?' creating waves of cognitive dissonance on social media powerful enough to drown a particularly agitated gaggle of Karens.
What else would an event spawning from their chauvinistic chirps attract than a mixed bag of furries and incels? The former furiously dancing, shedding showerfuls of synthetic fur in the rhythm of Naruto openings, and the latter nodding in approval between swigs of Mountain Dew Code Red and bites of dry ramen.
Highlight of the evening? A 'Snark Off' contest. Here, amidst shrill electric guitar strums trying to break free from the cacophony of opinions, Santana and Cooper stood as protests to progress, relics of a time when Hippie love was fresh and gender identifications could fit neatly into a binary box―which, as we all know, is just as plausible as Guy Fiery running a vegan pop-up.
The crowd sways, oscillating between dizzying energy drink highs and the hypnotic pull of discounted merch, while Memaw, ever supportive, taps her foot rhythmically, ears safely barricaded behind the thickest earmuffs money can buy.
The 'Just Us Sasquatches' tour reads like a Venn diagram of misanthropy and delusion that would have any sociologist clutching their chest. This delicious disaster of a tour may be the rallying cry for a new era―one that questions the rhetoric of rock's aging stars and ponders on the surreal appeal that their archaic angsts hold for the socially adhered enclaves of our world.
As the last echo of Santana's guitar fades, let us celebrate these advocates for regression. Would this signal, we wonder, the rise of a new progressive phoenix from the ashes of binary norms, or would the Sasquatches continue, blissfully tone-deaf as they strum away at the chords of an outdated tune?
What we're left with is a tour that's less a tribute to music and more a Santorum odyssey through the fur-lined, angst-filled corridors of fringe internet culture.