Then there’s the B-stage. The centerpiece unfolds right in the thick of it, as Tyler and Josh clamber aboard a platform dominated by a burning car as they jump from song to song – Message Man, Polarize, Pet Cheetah – before a gorgeous, emotional finale of Chlorine. Later on, they even get security guard Lucas joining in for Ride (and he can actually sing too), and when Josh appears with a flaming torch and a flag to do his own walking of the layout, the crowd is held in silence.
Their theatricality is astonishing enough, adding streak of unpredictability to their daringness, even as Josh scales a ladder to bash a drum kit on an elevated platform for Drum Show. The significant and rather original thing is it’s carried off without a hint of pretention. This show is bigger either member of Twenty One Pilots, and as he talks, Tyler even seems rather meek. He recites the name of everyone else who played today, claiming he memorised it, and even admits he can be overwhelmed trying to think of what to say on stage.
It serves, without even trying, to make their performance even more special. This humility makes them as unique as it does endearing. It’s innocent, even, and profoundly human, and that’s why it all works. It’s why fresher cuts from Breach, from the sprightly One Way to the emotional landslide of Downstairs, rouse sing-alongs far greater than most bands’ new material would get, and why they still cherish the hits from Tear In My Heart to Stressed Out. They squeal at the stunts and get swept away with every changing tide of emotion, and it’s impossible not to feel warmth in your chest taking it in.
In the studio, on the stage, in the wider world, there is nothing like Twenty One Pilots.