Storms have two modes: ruin your day or make it unforgettable. On August 13th, the New York State Food Festival gambled on sunshine and music under the wide-open sky of the Empire State Plaza. Mother Nature laughed in their face.
Clouds rolled in heavy and mean, lightning prowled the horizon and the call was made by mid-afternoon. The big show was moving inside. The Convention Center, usually home to trade expos and awkward networking events, was about to become a temple of electric guitar and damn, did it ever, thanks to Blue Öyster Cult.
When the doors opened, the charge in the air was unmistakable. The open sprawl of a festival was gone; this was a sealed box of sound and sweat. Harsh fluorescent lights should have cast everything in stark relief as the walls pulsed with pre-show chatter. A space that should have felt sterile, now hummed with danger. The kind that makes rock and roll worth every scar. Black T-shirts and leather cuts clung to sweaty backs. Beer cups tipped like miniature shipwrecks. When the lights dimmed, the room erupted.
First blood came from Super 400, Troy’s own local heroes. If anyone thought the homegrown act was going to play it safe, they weren’t paying attention. Super 400 didn’t warm up the room, they tore the first layer of paint off the walls.
Their riffs were fat and filthy, a back-alley knife fight of fuzz and muscle. Lori Friday’s bass hit like a gut punch and Kenny Hohman’s guitar tone could sandblast chrome. They’ve been carrying the banner for upstate rock for decades and they planted it in the center of the stage, daring anyone to try and move it. Nobody did.
Aquanett was next. If subtlety was what you wanted, you were in the wrong room. This wasn’t a band, it was a time machine back to 1987 that ran on hairspray and raw attitude.
They came dressed for the occasion. Decked out in black, denim and with hooks thick enough to stop a bullet. They played their set like the rent was due yesterday. Glam anthems, screaming solos and vocals that climbed higher than the hair on their teased heads.
It was pure excess and the crowd could’ve drowned since they swallowed every ounce of it. By the time they left, the room was primed for the legends.
Then the blue flame of the Blue Öyster Cult. Fifty-eight years of myth, riffs and inside-joke mysticism materialized under the lights. They didn’t walk out, they arrived.
Two original giants stood front and center: Eric Bloom, 79, sunglasses throwing off cold glints like gunmetal and Buck Dharma, 77, clutching his guitar like a weapon forged in secret. Men their age should be playing golf or perhaps bingo. These guys? They were about to melt the faces off everyone in the building. At 79 and 77, they have more voltage running through their veins than half the TikTok generation on Red Bull.
Three songs into their set came “Burnin’ for You,” the Convention Center detonated. The sound hit like a train full of dynamite. Bloom’s voice was a dark blade, cutting clean through the mix. Dharma’s solos were liquid fire, running like mercury across the frets. Fans didn’t sing, they roared, fists hammering the air. This wasn’t nostalgia. This wasn’t a victory lap. This was dominance, pure and simple.
For the next stretch, they didn’t play songs, they launched calculated attacks. Guitars shrieked. Drums punched holes in the silence. BÖC was in full predator mode, proving that time may dull mortals, but it has no power over the chosen few. The years have carved lines on their faces, sure. But onstage? They looked untouchable.
Then it happened. A rupture in the chaos. A fan collapsed in the crush of bodies. Eyes widened, heads turned, but the band never stopped. The show thundered on while paramedics and Empire Plaza staff performed a rescue straight out of a disaster movie. They moved with terrifying precision. Splitting the crowd, dropping ramps over stairs, clearing a path like battlefield medics under fire.
No panic. No hesitation. Just pure professionalism as they hauled the fan out and up to safety. It was a strange, almost cinematic duality—the fury of music colliding with the calm brutality of emergency response. For a moment, those who were witnesses, collectively held their breath. Hopefully, it all worked out for this fan, after they were taken out.
Shortly after, Blue Öyster Cult pivoted into “Then Came the Last Days of May,” a song that drips with enough mood and menace to play out like a film noir scene. It was eerie, perfect and unforgettable. “Godzilla” breached through the speakers like a kaiju made of feedback and fury, stomping its way across every rib cage in the room, before the inevitable: “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.”
The song isn’t a hit, it’s a cultural artifact. It’s immortal and eternal. When those opening notes rang out, time folded in on itself. Every voice became one. Mortality? It can wait. Tonight belonged to the riff.
By the time the last note died, the Convention Center didn’t feel like a bureaucratic bunker anymore. It felt holy. The kind of holy built on sweat, sound and the sheer defiance of time.
A simple truth? A Blue Öyster Cult show doesn’t come off as a jukebox on life support. Yes, they’re two men in their late seventies, but they still play like the world is on fire, backed by a band that breathes dynamite. The craziest part? They make it look easy.
Outside, the storm still prowled. Inside, the real lightning had already struck. Blue Öyster Cult didn’t just put on a show, they reminded everyone why rock and roll refuses to die. As the crowd spilled back into the wet night, one truth clung like the ringing in their ears: you can’t kill the Reaper.
Blue Öyster Cult Setlist: Dr. Music, Golden Age of Leather, Burnin’ for You, Cagey Cretins, That Was Me, Harvest Moon, ME262, Hot Rails to Hell, E.T.I. (Extra Terrestrial Intelligence), Then Came the Last Days of May, Godzilla, (Don’t Fear) The Reaper, Cities on Flame With Rock and Roll
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