Live review: Houston Calls with A Day At The Fair and Tiny Ships live at Crossroads

Garwood, NJ – 02 Aug 2025

Never “too late to call the past and bring me home.”

The ghosts of guitars and shuttered venues ushered in an NJ pop-punk reunion born of the late-’90s / early-2000s scene that shaped so many of us. This wasn’t just a show. This was time travel. This was dusting off the old CDs, this was a shoebox filled with flyers and photos and old memories, this was screaming into the night like our early 20s had never ended. This was a revisit of the bands and fans that made it all so fucking magical. Every one of us took a collective walk back and drive through our memories (not to be confused with the long rumored walked on backs associated with some drive-thrus). 

In the interest of full transparency, and because pop-punk thrives on over-sharing and hometown love letters, I’ve known some of these performers for decades. Some are friends. Some are longtime acquaintances. One is even my realtor (a sentence I couldn’t have imagined writing in 2003, yet here we are). Before I even got through the door, I was greeted and enveloped by Justin Sherwood of Tiny Ships, in what can only be compared to Meatloaf and Edward Norton manhugging in Fight Club (unconfirmed but I assume Justin had an inner monologue regarding my moobs similar to Edward Norton’s). Everywhere I turned: hugs, laughter, old inside jokes, genuine “great to see you” moments. It felt like a class reunion, if all the junkies and jerkoffs had skipped town. The energy was overwhelmingly positive. Somehow, after twenty years, it all still clicked. Like muscle memory. Like we never stopped showing up.

Crossroads was the venue, and it added to the moments, playing narrator to these collections of short stories, moments to share in our rocking chair years and this peek into our future. It’s the gold standard of what every intimate venue should aspire to be. The sound? Immaculate. The space? Cozy but never cramped, like being inside your favorite hoodie. That room has unmatched character and soul. And when local scene legends are the ones working the door and booking the room, you feel the care in every reverb-soaked note. Crossroads isn’t just a venue. It’s home.

Tiny Ships opened the night with a bang. Not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel in your chest.  Their DNA reads like a greatest-hits tracklist of the NJPP scene: Royden Stork, Stillwelle, Lady Radiator, Maverick and The Day After. These aren’t acts I expect everyone to know, but if you know, you know. And if you didn’t? You sure as hell need to get your head out of your ass and find out.

Frontman Kenny Collette channeled Freddie Mercury quite well thanks to some well-coifed facial hair, a white tank top and vocals nearly as dynamic and operatic as the Queen frontman.. Meanwhile, Mike Bell and Justin Sherwood cozied up together on stage like two young kids that snuck into a house party and haven’t yet found their way to the keg, they were ready to have a blast and ecstatic to do so together. Guitarist Bill Herman held down the melodies like a man possessed, while Kellene Addison beat the drums like they owed her money. She was flawless, fierce, and fun as hell. Based on our shared history of shit-talking and attempted decapitations via hockey stick, I wish I could say Kellene ruined the set.  It pains me to say kind words about one of my closest friends, but she was impressive and inspiring. It’s gross, but I can’t deny it.

Sherwood’s theremin added just the right amount of cosmic weirdness to the mix, flicked and smacked like some interstellar vibes straight out of a sci-fi prom. And when the rest of the band stepped aside to let Collette have a solo moment with the crowd, it could’ve felt like a self-serving indulgence, but thanks to the other members remaining crowded together stage right. It felt like communion. A single voice, a unified message, and five hearts standing behind it. Their closer, “Fear The Blur,” hit like a final page in a book you never wanted to end. Nobody wanted them to leave.

A Day At The Fair followed, celebrating the 20th anniversary of The Rocking Chair Years; an album that should’ve made them a household name. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t played a stage in years. It didn’t matter that a few notes were flubbed, or a line was forgotten mid-song (“This Is Why We Don’t Have Nice Things”, indeed). The imperfections made it real. Made it theirs. Made it ours.

The banter was as charmingly self-deprecating as you’d hope: jokes about aging, selfish Arby’s runs, and the gap between ambition and muscle memory. At one point, They gave props to Tiny Ships for being so precise and called themselves “the opposite of tight,” and not one single person yelled “your mom” in response; a clear sign we’ve all matured… a little. DATF barreled through a set that left the room euphoric, sweaty, and gasping for breath in the best possible way.

And then Houston Calls came out and the stage got crowded fast as six members, all the gear, all the energy exploded into joyful chaos. Twenty years to the day since A Collection Of Short Stories dropped, and somehow they made the crowd feel both 23 again and timeless. Houston Calls brought the exact shot of adrenaline a bunch of old heads like us needed to keep singing along well past our bedtime.  The set was pure kinetic joy, from “Exit Emergency” to “Bottle of Red, Bottle of Spite,” straight through to “Bob and Bonnie,” with Tom “Chitty” Keiger’s titular parents in the crowd. You couldn’t write a better ending. We were exhausted, elated, and alive. Still here. Still singing along.

This wasn’t just a show. It was a resurrection, a love letter, a group therapy session. Our voices were gone, our backs ached but our hearts were full. We got to feel young and alive again… not in spite of our age, but in tribute to the years that brought us together, brought us back here, brought us back home.