So many things in life, especially these days, are wrapped in uncertainty. The world keeps shifting, the soundscape keeps changing, and nothing seems to stick around long enough to trust. On Wednesday, October 15, at Empire Live, there was one thing you could count on: rock ’n’ roll. The real kind. The sweat-soaked, middle-finger-to-the-void kind. Buckcherry, Nashville Pussy, and Drew Cagle & The Reputation reminded everyone why the loud stuff still matters.
That first snare hit of the night carried the kind of voltage that keeps your pulse above ground while the rest of the world scrolls itself to sleep.
Drew Cagle & The Reputation came out swinging like they were born in a garage built over a thunderstorm. Cagle stalked the stage with an axe to grind and something to prove. Their sound falls somewhere between blues swagger and rock aggression, fueled by high-octane energy and the kind of arena-rock punch built to shake walls. They weren’t an opening act, they were a warning shot.
Nashville Pussy turned the room into a riot. No band on earth embodies the sleaze, danger, and humor of rock better. Blaine Cartwright looked like he’d crawled straight out of a southern dive bar, grinning through the chaos while Ruyter Suys shredded her Gibson like it just insulted her mother.
But it’s not just about music. Nashville Pussy is spectacle. Toward the end of their set, Blaine removed his sweat-soaked cowboy hat, dumped a couple of beers into it and with the source and summit of a Catholic mass, slammed it back like holy water.
The crowd went feral. No time to breathe; Ruyter lifted her fifth of Jack Daniels like a chalice of chaos, draining it in savage, defiant pulls. Music and madness collided, creating pure rock and roll.
By the time Buckcherry hit the stage, the crowd was primed for combustion. They didn’t have to earn it. They owned it. “Lit Up” exploded through the speakers and the room went wild. It’s a song about Josh Todd’s first time using cocaine, and though he’s been clean for nearly thirty years, it still carries every ounce of danger and thrill.
Todd doesn’t sing it like a man glorifying his past; he sings it like someone staring it down and laughing in its face. His energy is manic, magnetic, and unrelenting.
Buckcherry’s been doing this for a quarter century, but they still attack the stage like they’re chasing their first record deal. This lineup doesn’t play like a machine; they play like a gang. Billy Rowe and Stevie D trade riffs like broken bottles in a back alley, jagged and dangerous.
“Roar Like Thunder,” from their latest album, is a growling declaration that Buckcherry isn’t slowing down. “Blackout” carries the bruised confidence of a hangover and the conviction of a band that’s lived every word of it.
“Sorry” dropped the attitude but not the intensity. There’s something cinematic in the way Todd delivers it, vulnerability wrapped in grit, proof that rock doesn’t have to scream to leave scars.
When they encored with “Crazy Bitch,” Empire Live erupted like a volcano in leather boots. Divisive or not, live it’s undeniable: it’s flat out fun, everything great rock once was and still can be.
From the barricade to the bar, nobody stood still. It wasn’t a concert anymore; it was community. The kind of night that shakes the rust off your soul. The kind of noise that makes the next day worth waking up for. People need that now more than ever.
Outside might be a digital circus of bad news and self-doubt, but inside that room, everything made sense. Guitars screamed, bodies moved, and for a few hours, the only things that mattered were volume and velocity.
Josh Todd remains one of rock’s great survivors. He’s been through it all: addiction, tragedy, lineup changes, a band imploding and being reborn, and still moves like electricity personified. Every line on his face feels like another verse he hasn’t written yet. Watching him command the stage feels like watching someone perform CPR on the heart of the genre itself.
Together, they gave everyone inside Empire Live something that’s becoming harder to find: certainty. The certainty that no matter how disorderly the world becomes, nights like this will endure—loud, messy, and cathartic, where everything falls into place. Buckcherry didn’t just play Albany; they resuscitated it.
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