Concert Review: Foxy Shazam, Decartes a Kant & Moondough at Eastside Bowl in Nashville, TN

Foxy Shazam at Eastside Bowl on February 21st felt like a fever dream. Walking in with MoonDough and Descartes a Kant on the bill, it was obvious this had the potential to tip into too much sideshow and not enough circus. Too much flash, not enough foundation. 

Instead, what unfolded was a masterclass in how spectacle and musicianship can collide without canceling each other out.

MoonDough opened the night with a set that felt deceptively loose. There was a warmth to it, groove-heavy and confident without trying too hard to dominate the room. Their singer commanded attention in a way that was more sly than explosive. He let the crowd lean in rather than forcing them back. 

By the end of their set, though, subtle had left the building. At one point he was holding a banana on stage, waving it around with a seriousness that suggested meaning, symbolism, or maybe just confusion for chaos’ sake? I was busy shooting and am still not entirely sure what the significance was, but that mystery somehow fits. It was absurd without derailing the music, which is a harder balance than it looks.

Then came Descartes a Kant, and any sense of normalcy evaporated. If MoonDough warmed the room, Descartes a Kant reprogrammed it. Their stage presence leaned hard into sci fi dystopia. 

Members appeared in astronaut-style helmets lit from within, glowing like emissaries from some neon future past. The lighting bouncing off made the stage look less like Eastside Bowl and more like the bridge of a retro spacecraft mid launch.

Behind them sat what can only be described as a vintage AI console. Not sleek. Not modern. It looked older than the band itself, like it had been salvaged from the set of a forgotten space opera. Blinking lights, boxy architecture, something analog and ominous about it. It felt like an unofficial band member. As if this aging machine was overseeing the set, feeding DOS commands into the night.

Musically, they matched the aesthetic. Sharp angles. Sudden pivots. Controlled dissonance that snapped into grooves when you least expected it. There was tension in their performance, but it was intentional tension. The kind that keeps you watching because you are not sure what is coming next. By the time they finished, the crowd was fully primed for spectacle.

Foxy Shazam have built their reputation on that very word. Formed in Cincinnati in 2004, they carved out a lane that blends glam rock excess, soulful swagger, punk urgency, and theatrical flair. Their live shows have long been the stuff of legend, whispered about in the same breath as the great unhinged performers of rock history.

When the lights dropped for Foxy, the energy in the room shifted instantly. Eric Nally hit the stage like he had been launched, not introduced. His voice carries an elastic force, swinging from gritty snarl to operatic wail in seconds. There is a bravado there that feels almost classic rock in scale but twisted into something far more unpredictable.

From the first song, the intensity was undeniable. I see a lot of shows. Different genres, different venues, different levels of production. It takes a lot to genuinely stun me. Foxy Shazam didn't just stun me. They overwhelmed me.

The band moved like a single volatile organism. Piano runs crashed into towering hooks. The rhythm section locked in with muscular precision that anchored all the madness happening out front. Guitar riffs tore through the mix while horns punched accents that felt like exclamation points. It would have been easy for the theatrics to swallow the music whole. Instead, the music elevated the night.

Songs like “Yes Yes Yes” and “Killin’ It” detonated in the room. Choruses came back from the crowd twice as loud as they left the stage. Nally climbed, lunged, and leaned deep into song. 

And then came the moment that will live on in local lore. Three lit cigarettes. Simultaneously. Smoked. Eaten. Fully lit. Smoke curling as he chewed them down in real time. The reaction was part disbelief, part laughter, part genuine concern. It was reckless. It was absurd. It was unforgettable.

What separates Foxy Shazam from lesser shock merchants is intent. The stunt didn't feel tacked on. It felt like an extension of their commitment to pushing every moment to its edge. No half measures. Nothing safe.

The set never sagged. No filler. No polite breather. Even quieter passages hummed with tension. You never felt entirely comfortable, and that was the point. This was never background music. This was confrontation in the form of performance.

By the final notes, Eastside Bowl looked stunned and euphoric. Strangers were grinning at each other, shaking heads, trying to articulate what they had just witnessed. The risk of the night had been excess. Too much spectacle, not enough substance. 

Instead, each act leaned into its identity fully.

MoonDough with their sly groove and unexplained banana. Descartes a Kant with their glowing astronaut helmets and vintage AI overlord from some analog future. Foxy Shazam with their operatic ferocity and cigarette consuming bravado.

On February 21st, it wasn't too much sideshow and not enough circus. It was all of it, firing at once. And somehow, it worked.