August 23rd, 2024 – Hershey, Pennsylvania, the land of chocolate and endless summer nights, just played host to an unexpected resurrection. Creed, the band that defined so many angst-filled teenage years, was back, and it felt like the entire state had descended upon Hersheypark Stadium to witness this unlikely reunion.
The crowd was a mix of everything: soccer moms who probably once slow-danced to “With Arms Wide Open,” middle-aged men with weathered band tees and beer guts, and a smattering of Gen Z kids who probably stumbled upon Creed’s discography through some ironic playlist. The atmosphere was thick with nostalgia and the faint scent of Hershey’s chocolate blending oddly with cheap beer and sweat.
Photos + Article by @a.j.kinney
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the stadium buzzed with anticipation. This night was a time capsule just waiting to crack open, spilling out a flood of memories that no one had asked for, but everyone needed. When the lights finally dimmed, and the opening riff of “Bullets” blasted through the speakers, it was like a jolt to the collective nervous system.
Scott Stapp emerged, arms spread wide in his trademark Christ pose, as if ready to embrace the thousands who had come to see him. The man looked almost exactly as he did in the 90s—muscles bulging, a shorter haircut, and that unmistakable, pained expression of someone who’s seen the edge and lived to tell the tale. His voice, though slightly weathered, still had the power to send shivers down your spine, like a preacher delivering a sermon to the faithful.
The setlist was a greatest hits parade— “What If”, “My Own Prison,” “What’s This Life For,” and the inevitable “Higher,” which sent the crowd into a frenzy of fist-pumping and drunken sing-alongs. It was the kind of energy that could only come from a band that had been buried and resurrected, with fans who never quite let go of those anthems of youthful rebellion and existential questioning.
The crowd, high on nostalgia and stadium brews, sang every word back to Stapp as if they were trying to will their lost youth back into existence. There was a weird, almost religious vibe to it all—people with their eyes closed, arms raised to the heavens, as if the music could cleanse them of their sins.
Mark Tremonti’s guitar work was as tight as ever, slicing through the balmy August air with the precision of a surgeon. The rest of the band, too, was in top form, delivering a performance that was as tight as the black jeans Stapp was undoubtedly wearing. It was almost surreal, like stepping into a time machine and finding yourself back in the late 90s, where everything was loud, earnest, and just a little bit over the top.
But it wasn’t all polished nostalgia. There were moments where the cracks showed, where the band’s history of excess and turmoil seemed to bubble to the surface. Stapp’s voice wavered on the high notes, and there were flashes of the demons that had almost consumed him. It was raw, real, and strangely comforting—like seeing an old friend who’s been through hell but is still standing.
By the time the final notes (encore) of “Higher” followed by “My Sacrifice” echoed through the stadium, the crowd was a sweaty, euphoric mess. It was clear that this was a catharsis, a collective exorcism of the ghosts of the past.
As the night wound down and the crowd slowly trickled out, there was a lingering sense of disbelief. Creed, the band everyone loved to hate, had pulled off the impossible—they’d come back from the dead and reminded us all why we loved them in the first place. Hershey Stadium may never be the same, but for one night, it was the epicenter of a resurrection that no one saw coming, but everyone needed.
