They Might Be Giants

They Might Be Giants at Brooklyn Bowl felt like stepping into a time capsule wired to a joy buzzer. The place has that perfect mix of neon, noise, and fried air—a bowling alley turned music hall turned communal therapy session. It’s impossible to stand in that room and not feel a little lighter, a little weirder, a little more alive.

We kept it simple on the drinks—Trulys, cold and fizzy, the kind of thing you grab because you want refreshment more than pretense. Followed it with a couple of Bearded Iris Homestyles, the hometown hazy that tastes like someone blended citrus and optimism. Easy drinking, even easier to lose count.

The band was everything you want from a They Might Be Giants show—absurd, brilliant, tightly chaotic. Songs that swing between childlike wonder and existential dread, delivered with that deadpan charm that makes you laugh while quietly wondering what the hell it all means. The horns blared, the guitars buzzed, and the crowd—every shape, age, and flavor of human—sang along like it was scripture.

It wasn’t just a concert. It was a reminder that weirdness is a gift. That music doesn’t have to be polished or profound to matter—that sometimes the best nights are spent in a bowling alley with a hard seltzer in one hand, a hazy IPA in the other, shouting lyrics you only half remember with people who get it.

A night that didn’t try to be cool. It just was.