Ty Walker and the Humanoids have a backstory that's out of this world. Legend has it that frontman Ty Walker was abducted by aliens (self-named  'The Humanoids') from his tiny hometown of Roscoe, Montana, back in September of 1972. These rag-tag extraterrestrials, with a peculiar liking for old-fashioned country music, saw something in Ty and chose him as their front-man. Since then, they've been traversing the multiverse, honing their strange sonic craft.   Their live shows are something of a cosmic spectacle, featuring the large-headed, buggy-eyed aliens themselves adorned in matching black western wear, a pedal-steel playing android, and Ty, as the perhaps reluctant cowpoke frontman who leads the audience through an otherworldly set. The show is a multimedia experience with sci-fi elements and often includes a tin foil hat contest for attendees to join in. While The Humanoids may think they're playing humanesque country music, their sound is a genre-bending fusion of alt-country, art rock, soul, sampledelia, swamp and psychedelic rock. To date, they've  released their debut full-length album, "Where the Hell is Roscoe?" and are gearing up for their forthcoming second release, "Home on the Strange," set to drop in the fall of 2024.

So you missed out on advanced tickets?  No sweat.  We have some available at the door!  Get here early to make sure you get in!!

Like many of his favorite songwriters (John Hartford, Lucinda Williams, Jeff Tweedy), Izaak Opatz is an ungulate in life’s winter pasture, chewing on and metabolizing disappointment, heartbreak, and the other tough stuff into enjoyable musical carbohydrates. A compulsive metaphorager (and inveterate wordplayboy), Opatz breaks it all down with enzymes of wry humor, thoughtful simile and close observation - a therapeutic process of narrativizing his own life that, almost as a byproduct, turns out savory nuggets of literate, confessional pop.

After establishing himself in such revered acts as VHS, SMOKER DAD and THE RARE FORMS, singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Chris Costalupes has distilled his storied musical visions into a solo endeavor. Costalupes charts the rough waters of love, heartache, and darkness, speaking with a fluent grasp of the language of rock music. Glassy steel guitars bleed over country-inflected ballads that can emerge only from a place of pure feeling. His songs are born from experience, from regret, and from the unnamable passion that rare talents such as Costalupes embody and exude. The astute listener will pick up on this immediately, but his music has the power to move even the most jaded set of ears in the bar. There are enough moments of gritty transcendence in his discography to situate Costalupes as the worthy heir to the effortless cool of J. Mascis, or to the gothic-tinged death country ballideering of the late and unspeakably great Jeffrey Lee Pierce. Really. At the heart of it all lies a deep truth: the best music canʼt be explained. It canʼt be deduced from some rote logical exercise, nor can it be collated from an algorithm. It has to be felt, and realized physically. That Costalupes is able to achieve this alchemy should be enough to give all of us rockers hope in an increasingly artificial world.