The first time I heard anything that could be called “emo” wasn’t at a basement show or a cool older friend’s mixtape. It was in a corporate mailer from Coca-Cola. Inside was a free Surge Soda sampler CD. On it was a Jimmy Eat World song. It was 1996. I was a junior in high school. And suddenly, my life cracked open.

That CD pushed me into a new world. I started digging through online journals, message boards, and every music magazine I could afford. Punk Planet. Maximum RocknRoll. Skyscraper. I was chasing a feeling I didn’t have words for yet. That’s where I found The Get Up Kids, The Promise Ring, and two bands that would shape my taste forever: Rainer Maria and Cap’n Jazz.

On November 17th, 2025, both bands shared the stage at The Mohawk in Austin, Texas, and it felt like stepping back into that moment when everything changed.

The night opened with the electric hum of anticipation. The crowd was a mix of older fans—people who once ordered CD-Rs from tiny labels—and younger listeners who rediscovered the scene through playlists and TikTok nostalgia. Everyone there shared the same goal: to feel something real again.

Rainer Maria took the stage first. Their sound hit like a time capsule cracked open. Caithlin De Marrais’ voice still carried that perfect mix of softness and strength. William Kuehn’s drums were tight and driving. Kaia Fischer’s guitar lines wrapped around the melodies like muscle memory. The band leaned into material from Look Now Look Again and A Better Version of Me, and each song felt like a small reunion with a former self. You could see it on faces in the crowd—smiles, tears, and the kind of quiet joy that only happens when the music you grew up with meets you again as an adult.

Then came Cap’n Jazz, chaotic as ever. They stormed the stage like they were still playing sweaty living rooms in Chicago. Tim Kinsella was all kinetic energy and unpredictable movement. The band ripped through classics from Analphabetapolothology, turning The Mohawk into a full-body experience. The guitars tangled. The drums raced. The vocals cracked and soared. It was messy in all the right ways—proof that some bands don’t age; they just evolve into their own mythology.

What made the night special wasn’t just nostalgia. It was connection. The songs that once lived in mail-order catalogs and photocopied zines now lived in the voices of everyone singing along. It reminded us how much those early discoveries meant—how they shaped our friendships, our taste, and even the way we learned to feel.

Leaving The Mohawk, the air buzzing with feedback and conversation, I kept thinking about that Surge CD. About how strange it is that something so corporate led me toward music that was anything but. That tiny moment created a lifetime of listening.

And on November 17th, 2025, it all came full circle.

Two bands. One night. A reminder that the songs that found us as teenagers still echo—loud, messy, emotional—well into adulthood.