Delilah, I can promise you, by the time we are through, the world will never be the same. And you’re to blame.
I come from a lil suburb outside of Chicago.
I remember the garage shows, the VFW nights, the battle of the bands at suburban park districts, where safety pins and angst mixed with sunburn and mega Big Gulps. I remember when Showoff felt like our Blink-182, and Plain White T’s were the local boys writing love songs that made even the punks blush. There was space for us within the music. Even churches would lend out their basements to support our fledgling arts scene.
To see them both on Milwaukee’s Summerfest stage in 2025, fully grown and still fully themselves, was nothing short of an IV drip of vitamins and minerals that wore a long guitar strap and simply kept it fun.
Friday night, June 27th, in Milwaukee. What could’ve felt like a nostalgia trip turned into something way more electric. These weren’t acts resting on old glories; they showed up fully alive. This was a celebration of longevity, melody, and Midwest resilience with a garage-grown heartbeat.
The crowd? They showed up and supported the band and each other. A glorious mix of former scene kids turned professionals (still wearing Vans), teenagers discovering this sound for the first time, and everyone in between—singing every word like it still mattered. And it does.
The Plain White T’s did a small, intimate show at 2 p.m. at the American Family Insurance House stage. Folks waited outside in line for their chance to enter the tiny greenhouse-like, double-decker structure, with a huge disco ball reflecting the sun. It was the charisma, the easy charm, the realness of a band that made it big without losing the heart that made them lovable in the first place. “1, 2, 3, 4” turned into a singalong that felt like a wedding toast to everyone’s first crush. It was the rhythm of love that began our day.



After a couple hours roaming the massive festival and taking a peek around all eight (maybe nine?) stages, we went back to the Generac Stage, where Showoff hit like they never left it. Some faces have changed, but they’re still grinning goofballs with just enough edge to remind us that Midwest DIY doesn’t need polishing, just passion. Chris Envy’s voice isn’t just the sound of adolescent charge; it’s a relic, a beacon, and a comedy mic all in one. He’s been performing for well over 30 years now. But does he still get nervous?
“I don’t get nervous until it’s time to go up. Before that, I don’t really think about it. Then I just worry that I will disappoint myself or the fans. I just want to do well. I think that’s a pretty natural thing for most people. It never goes away but now I use it as fuel to do my best.”

That voice cut through the night like a familiar old mixtape. And the energy? Buzzing. Songs like “Crimson” and “Falling Star” brought fists in the air and smiles from people with a tender snarl, too. This is roots spirit at its finest. We never forgot them.
Then came the Plain White T’s. And yeah, they had the whole crowd wrapped around that song. But it wasn’t just “Hey There Delilah” that won the night. It was the charisma, the easy charm, the realness of a band that made it big without losing the heart that made them lovable in the first place. “Hate is a strong word, but I really really don’t like you” turned into a singalong that felt like a wedding toast to everyone’s first crush. It’s empathetically angry in such a wholesome way.
In a time of metabolic overload, it’s entirely possible that entertainers like these could burn out. Both bands have been performing for decades. The T’s relentless touring schedule alone is enough to wear anyone down, let alone the demands of daily life and looming societal pressures.
Chris Envy of Showoff keeps showing up, both on and off the stage.

By day, he teaches special education. By night, he’s not only the band’s longtime lead singer but also a full-blown comic. During the Showoff set, Messer grabbed the wireless mic and tested its boundaries, literally. As he wandered through the crowd, Steve Envy shouted from the stage, “Hey Chris, that’s my boss!” as Messer helped himself to someone’s French fries. He touched everyone in the crowd—literally and metaphorically.

“I love to support people in general. I teach special education, so I am used to supporting kiddos when they need it. It’s wonderful to see other people go do their thing and have a good time doing it. Getting supported is incredible. It’s hard to believe that the songs I write in my basement are things that other people care about. They mean a lot to me, but it’s crazy that they mean anything to anyone else. It’s really special to get to share my feelings with other people and know that some of them get it.”
It’s rare to go home again and have it feel better than you remember. But for one night at Summerfest, the bands that raised us gave us more than nostalgia; they gave us proof that something beautiful can grow out of basement shows and broken hearts.
And for that, yeah, Delilah—we’re all a little to blame.