Things are quiet again in Auburn. The river has receded, the warnings have faded, and daily life has slipped back into place. But in the days leading up to this show, there was a low hum of uncertainty in the background. Water levels rose, updates rolled in, and while my own home stayed dry, plenty of others weren’t as lucky. The possibility lingered. I live close enough to the river that it stayed on my mind. Not fear, exactly. Just pressure. The kind that sits there and waits.

When I feel that kind of pressure, I reach for music that doesn’t flinch.

YOB is patient. YOB is heavy without rushing, slow without feeling stagnant. I’ve been a longtime fan of the band because they’ve never treated volume as urgency. Their songs move at their own pace, piling weight on top of weight until something settles in. There’s a strange calm inside it all. I keep coming back to the same thought every time I listen to them: can you beat somebody over the head with serenity?

In the days before the show, my head was deep in YOB’s terroir. Songs like Marrow and The Screen on repeat, slow and deliberate, sinking their claws in and refusing to let go. There’s nothing handed to you in their music. Everything is earned. Survival feels clawed out, not gifted. It’s a kind of antagonistic serenity, heavy and unyielding, but calm in its own way. The beauty isn’t polished. It’s closer to finding something sharp and honest in the twinkle of broken glass.

Neumos felt like the right place for a night like this. Dark, familiar, unpretentious. Hell opening the night only deepened that feeling. Bathed in red light, their set was dark, bewildering, and hypnotic. A slow-burning introduction that didn’t rush to impress, just stood there and pulled you under. It was the kind of opener that didn’t soften the room, but tuned it.

When YOB took the stage, it wasn’t explosive so much as consuming. Time stretched. The room slowed down and leaned in. Their music has never been about immediacy. It’s about endurance. About letting a feeling take hold and trusting it to carry you somewhere darker and calmer at the same time. The sound didn’t crash in. It spread. Every bone vibrating. Every cell lit up. Volume became texture. Notes hung, bent, and pressed down on my chest until breathing felt deliberate. Loud, yes, but never frantic. Crushing, but strangely steady. This wasn’t music that just demanded my attention. It earned it.

Looking back, what struck me most was how closely it mirrored what had been happening back home in the days leading up to the show. The flooding hadn’t been particularly violent or sudden. It had been slow, steady, impossible to argue with. Pressure applied over time. That same force lives inside YOB’s music. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is wasted. Just weight building until resistance stops mattering.

Seeking out a doom show when the world around me feels doomed is admittedly a choice, but nights like this remind me why I keep making it. YOB was all smiles onstage. Hugs. Talk of love. Joy, plain and visible. YOB is love. There was nothing performative about it. Just a band clearly happy to be there, sharing something real.

When the house lights came up, Rainbow Connection by The Muppets drifted through the PA. An unexpected and perfect coda. By the time the show ended, the waters back home had already started to recede. Not gone, but pulling back. The river was still close, but I felt steady. Calm. Open to light.

Check out the full photo gallery from the show below, and then make sure to explore more articles here.