The night began with ghosts, not the creaky, haunted-house kind, but the real ones. The kind that follow you from Memphis. The kind that sit quietly in the corner of the stage, heavy with history. Southern Avenue’s story carries a heavy, heartbreaking truth.
In November 2024, bassist Blake Rhea, a beloved Memphis musician and vital force in the band, was shot and killed in their hometown. Just months earlier, he’d been on stage with them at massive events like the Outlaw Music Festival and Farm Aid, pouring his soul into what would become their upcoming album, Family, released in April 2025.
His loss sent shock waves throughout the band, their fans and the music community. It was a gut punch that could’ve derailed everything. Thankfully, Southern Avenue doesn’t crumble; they ignite. Rather than let grief swallow them, they turned it into fuel.
Their performance on Friday, May 23rd wasn’t just another stop on the tour, it was a fired up experience. Every groove, every scream, every solo carried a pulse of defiance. It wasn’t mourning, it was movement. The band played like they were chasing ghosts and outrunning them at the same time, honoring Rhea not with silence, but loud, fearless and full of spirit.
Albany witnessed that fire reach full flame. Upon taking the stage at Lark Hall, Southern Avenue didn’t ease in, they detonated. Armed with their newly released album, Family, they launched into a set of unfiltered blues-soul-rock fury that turned what would be a concert into a revival. You didn’t just hear it. You felt it in your chest, your feet and your spine.
Tierinii Jackson, Southern Avenue’s incandescent frontwoman, sings like she’s got lightning bottled in her lungs. Her voice, composed of equal parts gospel grace and blues growl, cut through the room with commanding power. One moment, she was leading a soul sermon, the next, dancing like nobody was watching except, of course, everyone was watching.
Beside her, guitarist and husband Ori Naftaly shredded like a man possessed. His solos didn’t just wail, they told stories. Stories with grit and perhaps even a little sweat. If Memphis ever needed a new guitar god, it might have found one.
The rhythm section held the chaos together with serious muscle, pounding out deep-pocket grooves that rattled the windows.
As the crowd settled into the funked-up storm, an unexpected shimmer drifted in, a violin. Soft, eerie and elegant, it floated through the mix like smoke, adding cinematic flair to the band’s soulful assault.
Midway through the set, things got real. One enthusiastic fan, clearly overtaken by the groove gods, whipped into a dancing frenzy and cannonballed straight into a photographer. That photographer? Yours truly. One moment, I’m lining up the perfect shot of Tierinii’s power pose; the next, I’m eating camera. Literally. My own gear socked me right in the eye.
Dazed but undeterred, I kept snapping. When a band is on a tear like that, you suffer for the shot and what a shot it was.
From slow-burn soul ballads to full-throttle roof-raisers, the band owned every second. Their set wasn’t just an ode to Memphis tradition. It was a joyful, sweat-drenched rebellion against despair.
You could feel it: in every kick-drum thump, every raised hand, every smiling face in the crowd. By the time the final notes rang out, Lark Hall was transformed. Not a single soul left untouched, unshaken, or unmoved.
Southern Avenue may have endured their share of tragedies, but their story arc in Albany was all triumph. They’re not carrying the torch of soul and blues, they’re setting their own path ablaze. If you’re lucky enough to see them live, wear comfortable shoes and maybe consider a helmet.
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