Worry, the World, and the Front Row: My Night with Shinedown, Bush & Morgan Wade at LCA
- Mickey Miller
- Jul 27, 2025
- 8 min read
Last night, I stood front row at Little Caesars Arena in Detroit, watching Shinedown, Bush, and Morgan Wade light up the stage. You’d think I’d be buzzing with excitement—this kind of night is what I live for. But truthfully? I almost didn’t go.
Lately, life’s been heavy. Bills are piling up like a bad game of Jenga, the world feels more chaotic every day, and my son’s been dealing with stomach issues that have my anxiety in full gear. The joy I normally feel before a concert just wasn’t there. I thought about selling my tickets. I even thought about staying home and eating the cost.
But Damien made the call to visit his mom downstate, and that cleared a path, just barely. My friend Sapphire said she would go with me. She stepped up when I needed her to, even if I didn’t say it out loud.
We arrived in Detroit and Damien dropped us off. We decided to skip the line and go into the Mixing Board inside the arena for a drink while we waited. It was my first time at LCA, and it’s a big venue—walking into that place for the first time, especially carrying the mental weight I had on me, was a lot.
While we were sitting at the bar, I got a text from a friend I’ve known for over 30 years letting me know she was at the show too. I texted back that we were already inside and getting a drink. Later, while grabbing drinks for Sapphire and I before the show started, I ran into her husband. We said hi, and he offered to take me down to where they were standing. I went over and chatted with her for about five minutes, but then I said I better get back over to Sapphire. I didn’t want to leave her standing alone. That kind of loyalty and presence goes both ways.
And even in that moment, my mind was spinning.
Because the truth is, I keep a lot of what’s going on with me bottled up. I don’t tell everyone everything, not anymore. I’ve learned the hard way that not everyone cares, and not everyone shows up. Over the years, I’ve learned to watch, to notice who actually reaches out when I’m struggling. Who sends a text. Who checks in with a call. Who surprises me with a visit.
I see it all. Even if I don’t always say something. Even if I laugh it off or keep it quiet, I never forget.
I’ve also seen who truly understands what it means to struggle, not just emotionally, but financially. What it’s like to have bills stacked so high you wonder if you’ll ever get a break. If I need help, I have to borrow it and hope I can pay it back. That’s the reality I live with. And all of that was still swirling in my head, mixed in with the normal mom-worry and daily exhaustion.
But this concert? It wasn’t about friends I’ve known for 30 years or friends I’ve only just met. It wasn’t about being social or checking a box. It was about me.
It was about making memories. About getting away from Kalkaska for just a little while. About choosing myself for once. I’m 56 years old, my kids are grown, and I’ve spent most of my life taking care of everyone else. I work my ass off 40 hours a week, sometimes more, and I don’t go out much. My one escape, my only real vice, is music. Concerts. And even that’s been hard this year with money being tight.
So yeah, I almost didn’t go. But I’m so glad I did. Because I needed this night more than I realized.
Morgan Wade opened the show, and I’ll be honest—I had never heard her music before. But I was impressed. Her voice had grit and soul, and something about her performance felt personal, even from the big stage. She pulled me in when I wasn’t even expecting it.
Then Bush hit the stage at 7:45, and everything changed.
As soon as Scars started, something cracked open in me. Then Machinehead hit and I felt it in my bones—I was singing so loud, I could feel the strain in my throat, and I didn’t care. The Land of Milk and Honey rolled in next, followed by Greedy Fly, and by that point, I wasn’t just watching the show—I was in it. I was present. I was alive. I Beat Loneliness felt like a message I didn’t know I needed. Then came Swallowed, with Gavin Rossdale performing it a cappella, and it just hit different—raw and haunting.
By the time they reached Everything Zen and More Than Machines, I was completely locked in. Gavin even made his way through the crowd during Flowers on a Grave, and being that close, that connected—it was powerful. He ended Glycerine solo, just him and the moment, before bringing it all home with Comedown. It was only my second time seeing Bush live, but my first time being this close, and it changed everything. I remembered why I love live music. Why I fight through the stress and the worry to be there. Because sometimes the music reaches in and pulls you back to yourself.
Then, at 9:10, Shinedown took over.
But they didn’t just walk onstage like most bands. No—Shinedown set the mood.
As “Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel blasted through the arena, a figure stepped out onto the stage dressed entirely in black, a TV sitting where his head should be. The screen flickered with rapid-fire imagery—flashes of people, moments, media, static. It was hypnotic and eerie, but powerful, like we were being pulled into something deeper than just another rock show.
That skit, perfectly timed with Sledgehammer, felt like a direct hit on everything we’re overloaded by—technology, fear, anxiety, information. It felt like Shinedown was saying, “We see it. We live it too. And tonight—we fight back.” It was art. It was commentary. It was them.
Then they launched into Dance, Kid, Dance, followed by a surprise blast from the past: Cyanide Sweet Tooth Suicide. It was the first time they played it since 2018, and it caught the crowd off guard in the best way possible. Next came Cut the Cord—and I felt every lyric. Then If You Only Knew brought a softer edge, and for a second, the lights softened and hearts opened up.
They turned it back up with Devil, loud and relentless, then Brent did a talk with the audience about loss, then flowed straight into Three Six Five, and then Enemies, which sent the entire floor into a bouncing, united wave.
Their stage setup went from the main stage with a walkway that stretched out into the middle of the arena, creating a more intimate space. From there, they stripped it down and got personal with Misfits, then Burning Bright, and then Call Me, which they wove seamlessly with a snippet of Head Over Heels by Tears for Fears. Then came Amaryllis, and for a few minutes, it felt like time slowed down. It was personal. It was healing.
They roared into Diamond Eyes (Boom-Lay Boom-Lay Boom)—pure fire. Then came A Symptom of Being Human, which hit me right in the gut. I swear it was written for nights like this, for people like me trying to hold it all together.
Then came Planet Zero, punching back at the chaos, followed by a heart-wrenching Simple Man, made even more emotional by Zach Myers softly singing a piece of Ozzy Osbourne’s Mama, I’m Coming Home before easing into the Skynyrd classic. Monsters came next, then Sound of Madness, then the always-feels-new Second Chance. I was completely lost in it—in the best way.
As Haley’s Comet played, Sapphire and I began making our way toward the exits, not because we wanted to leave but because we needed to beat the flow. As the last notes rang out, the screen lit up with a surprise: a video montage set to Real American, the Rick Derringer anthem forever tied to Hulk Hogan. It wasn’t a live performance, but it was fun, nostalgic, and the perfect closing note. Everyone grinned, laughed, sang a little, and felt just a little lighter.
Earlier in the week, I had talked to my friend Heather—the one I met just over a year ago through Tantric. We had said no matter what, we were going to meet up at the show, even if just for a few minutes, because it had been 9 months since we’d last seen each other. And sure enough, when the concert ended, my phone lit up with a text from her: “Where you at?” I replied with my location, and next thing I knew, she came running over with the biggest smile and threw her arms around me.
She hugged me tight and said, “I missed you. I love you.” And that moment meant everything to me. It was almost like she knew I needed that hug. I needed those words. Right then, right there—it filled something in me I didn’t even realize had been sitting empty.
After we said our goodbyes to Heather, Sapphire and I started walking, trying to find Damien. He had been texting street names and trying to guide us through the post-show crowd. We were wandering back the way we came when I looked down at another one of his texts.
That’s when Sapphire gasped, eyes wide: “Omg, Mickey. There he is.”
I looked up, confused. “Who?”
And then I saw him. Standing there, casually by his tour bus, was the one and only Gavin Rossdale. There were only four fans around him, and his girlfriend was sweetly taking photos for them.
Sapphire whispered, “Can we walk over there or are we not allowed?”
And of course, me being me, I went straight into Mickey mode—part music fan, part promoter, full confidence.
“Oh yes, we are walking over there. We’re meeting Gavin Rossdale tonight.”
We walked up and said hi. I kept it cool—no fangirl screams or flailing, just Mickey mode. I told him they put on a great show, and Sapphire said hi too. Gavin was gracious, and his girlfriend offered to take our photos. On the third picture, my phone started ringing. Of course—it was Damien, trying to find us.
So I laughed and said, “Go figure, I’m finally getting a picture with Gavin Rossdale and my phone starts ringing.”
He laughed too, and I let the call go. Got the photo, thanked him, and sent Damien a quick text: “On our way—sorry, was meeting Gavin Rossdale.”
Gavin is honestly so sweet—and let me just say—he is very tall in person. That little moment was the cherry on top of a night I didn’t even know I needed.
Because that’s life sometimes. You show up unsure, full of stress and doubt, thinking maybe you shouldn’t even be there… and then the universe hands you a moment. A night. A memory. A hug from a friend. A song that hits you in the heart. Or a chance to laugh with Gavin Rossdale on the street while your phone won’t stop ringing.
People don’t realize that while you’re out here making memories for yourself, you might be making them for someone else too.
And life? Life is too short not to show up for those moments.
And I’m glad I showed up for this one.
Peace, Love and Loud Music,
Mickey
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