November 14, 2025 – The Wellmont Theater was already humming, it was one of those packed-to-the-rafters nights where the air feels electric. Like Montclair itself, I sensed something was about to ignite. The November chill outside never stood a chance against a sold-out room full of denim, leather, and people ready to have their faces melted in the most courteous, New Jersey way possible.
Photos + Article by David Broskley @David_Roman_Phototography
I’d rolled in expecting a perfectly solid night with Myles Kennedy, fully prepared to vibe, nod, maybe even hit a tasteful fist pump or two. But that expectation flipped the second I realized he wasn’t closing the night. No, this was Mammoth’s house, and Wolfgang Van Halen was steering the ship. My inner skeptic immediately adjusted the glasses on my inner nose. Alright then, show me something.
He did. He absolutely did.
Myles Kennedy, to his credit, delivered the kind of set that feels like a warm handshake from someone who has mastered every scale known to humankind. His voice cut through the theater like a cold blade, elegant and controlled, reminding everyone why he’s a modern rock mainstay. But when the changeover hit and Mammoth’s backdrop unfurled, the room shifted. It went from “concert” to “pilgrimage,” and I’m not saying the crowd glowed, but… the crowd kinda glowed.
Then Wolf and his band stormed the stage, and suddenly the night felt like catching a freight train you didn’t know was scheduled. The first riff hit with the weight of a family legacy, but without any of the empty nostalgia that often comes with it. This was Wolfgang reshaping the past with a grin, a roar, and more guitar tone than is strictly legal in several counties.
The setlist swung like a wrecking ball wrapped in silk. Songs you expected, songs you didn’t, songs that made you wonder why you hadn’t been blasting Mammoth on repeat this entire time. Wolf’s playing was ferocious but human, heavy but heartfelt like he’d taken every lesson the universe gave him and turned it into catharsis. There was no excess, no vanity, no “look at me because of my last name.” Just raw craft, delivered with the joy of someone who genuinely loves the noise he makes.
It didn’t take long for me to shift from curious observer to full blown convert. Somewhere around the third chorus I caught myself grinning like I’d just stolen something valuable. By the encore, I was a follower, willingly baptized in riffs.
The crowd fed that energy right back. The Wellmont became a single, thunderous organism with voices harmonizing, bodies swaying, heads banging at the exact angle recommended by chiropractors everywhere. Even the balcony felt like it might start orbiting.
When the final notes rang out, there was this collective moment of “we just saw a guy step fully into his own.” A legacy honored, sure, but more importantly, a future claimed.
Walking out into the cold Montclair night, I had that rare post show buzz where everything feels lighter, sharper, slightly unreal. I’d arrived hoping to catch Myles Kennedy. I left buzzing off Mammoth, already crafting playlists, already texting friends like, yo, you’ve been sleeping on this dude.
Sometimes the best nights are the ones you didn’t plan for. And this one? This one felt like discovering a new favorite band in real time loud, luminous, and impossible to forget.
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