Review & Photography by Nathan Vestal for MPM
Maynard James Keenan knows how to throw a birthday party, especially when it’s for himself. The Sessanta 2.0 Tour stopped in St. Louis on a warm May evening, and it wasn’t just a concert—it was a ritual. Primus, Puscifer, and A Perfect Circle performed in a seamlessly interconnected manner, resembling three strange planets within the same orbit. The Hollywood Casino Amphitheatre bore witness to a show that was part theater, part prog-metal opera, and all unforgettable.
There’s something inherently thrilling about watching bands trade off mid-show with zero downtime. No openers, no headliners, just seamless rotation. As the musicians flowed between three acts, each band playing two to four songs per act, it felt like watching one long, morphing performance rather than three bands taking turns. It was meticulously choreographed chaos, and from the very first note, it was clear: this wasn’t just a tour, it was an experience.
A Perfect Circle: Emotion Unveiled in Shadows and Sound
No fanfare. No announcement. Just lights dropping and the slow, simmering dread of “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums”. You could feel it—like a cold needle to the neck. Maynard didn’t say a word. He stood up high on the riser, barely lit, practically part of the stage design. Billy Howerdel was the soul in motion, wringing every note out of his guitar like it hurt to hold it in.
Closing out the first act set with “Blue”, the band got people in the crowd going. A Perfect Circle isn’t built for outdoor summer shows—they’re too internal, too clenched—but something about their moodiness worked against the open air, like they were daring the sun to go down faster.
The crowd had loosened up by Act Two’s performance of “Weak and Powerless,” but Act Three’s “The Noose” was the turning point. That song cracked me wide open. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Never felt it like I did under those bruised skies, surrounded by people who didn’t need a hit—they needed release. Maynard’s voice floated like a ghost through it, not trying to impress, just cutting through the noise.
Primus: The Psychedelic Fist to the Face
Once Les Claypool’s gang hit the stage, they infused the set with energy, like throwing sticks of dynamite for the crowd to enjoy. From the opening bass rumble of “Here Come the Bastards” it was clear Primus wasn’t playing it safe. The trio’s signature blend of funk, metal, and absurdist storytelling hit the crowd like a bucket of weird in the best way possible.
“Jerry Was a Race Car Driver” closed out the Act Two set and hearing it in this format—bookended on both sides by Puscifer’s drama —made it feel even more unhinged and urgent. Claypool’s onstage antics, including his surreal monologues between songs and those elastic, monster-of-the-deep basslines, had fans grinning and head-bobbing in equal measure. “My Name Is Mud” was a low-end sledgehammer, and by the time it ended, you could feel your ribcage reverberating.
Puscifer – The Cult Ceremony
Then the lights went purple. That kind of deep, thick purple that tells you you’re not at a rock show anymore—you’re in a different dimension. Puscifer doesn’t just play songs; they perform a ritual, and tonight was no different.
Maynard reappeared in a red suit and a half-mask, flanked by Carina Round, her voice was sharp, tragic, gorgeous. There’s something about the way they move on stage—choreographed but not forced. Like agents in some surreal secret society.
They opened the Act One set with “Man Overboard” and “Horizons” both hypnotic and uneasy. The screens next to them lit up with rotating symbols, glitch art, deserted landscapes, and vaguely culty imagery. A few people looked around like, “Are we in a church right now?”
Answer: yes, kind of. Just not one your mom would understand.
Act Three’s closing piece “Remedy” brought back the humor—bizarre and catchy, with Maynard pacing like a government agent tracking you through a bad trip. The visuals were sharp, and the whole amphitheater felt like a self-aware simulation for five minutes.
All three bands graced the stage to close with “Grand Canyon.” Slow build. Massive crescendo. Voices layered. Instruments swirled. It felt like the horizon was swallowing us. People stood still. No one clapped until the very end.
Throughout the show various band members intermingled with other bands. Primus’s contribution was the wild card energy—the joker in the deck—and their musicianship was razor sharp, even when the songs themselves veered off into bonkers territory. Claypool stalked the stage like a mad scientist, twisting thunder out of his bass strings. Puscifer was theatrical and hypnotic—Maynard, prowling like a preacher from another dimension, with Carina Round’s vocals wrapping around his in smoky harmony. A Perfect Circle? They brought the heartache and grandeur, their moody anthems acting as gravity wells in a show that otherwise floated just above the Earth.
The audience, a mix of grizzled rock vets, wide-eyed newcomers, and a sea of Sessanta tour merch, was fully dialed in. The kind of crowd that applauds a deep cut like it’s a greatest hit. People weren’t just watching—they were absorbing. You could feel it. There was reverence, yes, but also joy. Strangers traded theories about what would be played next, who would join who on stage, and where this musical spaceship would land next.
The double-decker stage was genius. Band members appeared and disappeared like chess pieces, but the board was always active. The lighting was synchronized beautifully with each transition and sonically, the mix was tight for such a large venue. The bass thudded in your chest, the vocals cut through the roar, and nothing got lost—even when all three bands were on stage at once (which happened more than once, and yes, it was glorious).
Sessanta 2.0 wasn’t designed to be easy. It didn’t hold your hand. It didn’t pander to the casual fan. If you were there to hear “Judith” or “Winona’s Big Brown Beaver” and bounce, you probably walked away confused or bored.
But if you gave yourself over to it—if you let it crawl into your nervous system—then you didn’t leave the same. This was a celebration, yeah—but it was also a mirror. Of where these bands are. Of where we are. Of where art can go when you stop worrying about where it fits.
If this was a birthday party, it wasn’t cake and candles. It was communion, comedy, chaos. And I’m still carrying it around like a bruise I don’t want to heal.
