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Twenty Years Later and Still Here: Mayday Parade & All Time Low Live in Detroit
- LJ Portnoy
- Nov 5
- 5 min read
Article Contributed by LJ & Mark Portnoy
Photography by LJ Portnoy
Some bands have been here for most of your life. Others have been here longer than you have even been alive. Mayday Parade has been a band for twenty years. All Time Low has been a band for twenty two. The crowd reflected that timeline in full. Some people first heard these songs on burned CDs and shared iPods. Others found them on streaming years later. Different ages, different entry points, but everyone already knew the words.
This wasn’t nostalgia. This was continuity.
The music stayed. So did the people who needed it.
The Paradox
The Paradox opened the night with a presence that filled the room before the first chorus hit. Formed in Atlanta in 2024, the band includes vocalist and guitarist Eric Dangerfield, Xelan on lead guitar and backing vocals, Rayman on bass, and PC3 on drums. Their chemistry is instant. Their confidence is loud without tipping into ego. Their humor is effortless, not performative.
Their sound sits somewhere between indie rock, pop punk, and early 2000s irreverence. The kind of energy Blink-182 had at the beginning, when everything felt chaotic but somehow still precise. And it works. We already had The Paradox on our playlists coming in, and seeing them live only locked it in further.
At one point, Eric pointed out a man in the pit with a truly magnificent mustache and treated him like the night’s chosen hero. He introduced a breakup song with, “This one’s about an ex who cheated on me. Bitch.” The crowd howled. A mid song butt slap landed with such unshakeable confidence that the front half of the venue laughed in unison. It was theatrical, wild, and tight. No sloppiness. No irony. Just personality and musicianship operating at the same volume.
By the end, you could hear people whispering, “Who are they?” Searches started. New fans were made. And deservedly so.
The Cab
The Cab brought the room into something warm and familiar. Formed in Las Vegas in the mid 2000s, their music has always lived where melody, sincerity, and emotional clarity meet. When One of THOSE Nights began, the crowd reaction was instant. The kind of recognition that doesn’t require thought.
The Cab in Detroit, photography by LJ Portnoy (@ljportnoy on IG)
Take My Hand, Stay This Way Forever, and Temporary Bliss followed, each one landing with the ease of songs that have been part of people’s lives for years.
Midway through the set, vocalist Alexander DeLeon paused to share something real. There was a time when he didn’t know if he would ever sing again due to serious vocal damage. He said he was grateful to be here. Grateful to have his voice back. Grateful to be performing in a room that still cared.
The crowd responded with exactly the right kind of sound. Not loud. Not silent. Just soft cheers, small hoots, and a shared awww that rolled through the room.
Then he sang Living Louder, and the lyric “If you’re scared of the future tonight” landed differently. People leaned closer to each other. Not dramatic. Just connected.
Bounce brought the energy back up, and Angel with a Shotgun closed the set with a full room singalong that felt like picking up the past without trying to relive it.
The Cab didn’t return to the stage. They continued something that had never really ended.
Mayday Parade
When the lights shifted for Mayday Parade, the entire venue moved at once. During the earlier sets, the balcony had been a mix of sitting and standing. But the second Mayday walked out, everyone rose. Every level. Every row. Without hesitation.
This band means something to people.
For many in the room, these songs weren’t just tracks. They were chapters. Held close. Carried forward. Revisited when needed.
For me, there was a different layer of meaning. I first heard Mayday Parade on the family computer. The shared one that squeaked, lagged, and only worked when nobody picked up the landline. One day in 2005, a MySpace friend request from a band called Mayday Parade appeared, and clicking play felt like opening a door my younger self didn’t have the language for yet. I didn’t know what that moment would become. I just didn’t forget it. And I didn’t let it go.
So when Derek Sanders stepped onto the stage barefoot, wearing a Pyramid Scheme tank, hair moving like it had its own stage direction, it felt like something familiar returning to meet us where we are now. Older. Softer. Still full of feeling.
Under My Sweater began, and the singing was instant and the full room was loud. Jersey hit like a release. Kids in Love brought back the rush of being young and painfully earnest. Pretty Good to Feel Something lived up to its name. The room felt full.
And then the crowd surfers.
Not chaotic. Not reckless.
Just people floating.
Hands reached up without hesitation. Strangers caught strangers. The venue moved in one unified rhythm.
Crowd surfing feels rare these days. But here, it made sense. It felt safe to be held. It felt right to lift each other.
Mayday Parade in Detroit, photography by LJ Portnoy (@ljportnoy on IG)
By Jamie All Over, the room was a single instrument. This wasn’t nostalgia. This was something still alive.
Mayday Parade didn’t return us to who we used to be. They reminded us that part of us never left.
All Time Low
All Time Low closed the night by turning the floor into motion. Formed in Baltimore in 2003, they have grown up alongside multiple generations of fans, and the connection is still vivid and alive.
All Time Low in Detroit, photography by LJ Portnoy (@ljportnoy on IG)
They opened with Oh No!, SUCKERPUNCH, and Weightless, and the crowd immediately launched into full body motion. People danced with their best friends, shouted lyrics with complete clarity, and laughed mid chorus. The lighting was vibrant, bright, and crisp. One of the clearest, best lit shows we’ve seen.
PMA brought reflection. Damned If I Do Ya and Time Bomb sent the crowd into joyful chaos. During Missing You, people leaned into each other softly. The emotional arc was intentional and felt.
Then came the moment that changed the temperature of the room entirely. Hate This Song, performed with Eric Vanlerberghe of I Prevail.
The crowd didn’t just get loud. It surged.
From they moved into Monsters, and the energy held like electricity.
The encore included a drum solo, The Weather, Lost in Stereo, and a final, inevitable, full throttle scream of: Dear Maria, Count Me In. No one in that venue sang it alone. No one ever does.
What Stayed
Some of us have been singing these songs for twenty years. Some of us learned them last year. All of us sang together.
This wasn’t a night about looking back. It was proof that music doesn’t stay in the past unless we do.
The music stayed. So did we.
It was never a phase, Mom.
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