November 11th, 2024 – Philadelphia’s Union Transfer is no stranger to mayhem, and Better Lovers were no exception as they turned the venue into ground zero for a sonic assault so ferocious it felt like the building itself might tap out. Their show was nothing short of a raucous celebration of musical catharsis that left the packed house drenched in sweat, euphoria, and maybe a little bit of beer.
Walking into Union Transfer that night was like stepping into a powder keg with a lit fuse. The crowd was a molten mix of hardcore lifers, metalheads, and curious newcomers, buzzing with the unspoken understanding that they were about to witness something combustible. From the first note, it was clear this wasn’t going to be your average hardcore show. Better Lovers—comprised of ex-Dillinger Escape Plan madmen, Every Time I Die’s riff master Jordan Buckley, and Greg Puciato’s livewire vocals—arrived like a pack of wolves on amphetamines.
Photos by Keith Baker (@avgjoe_photo) + Article by @a.j.kinney
The band opened with a sonic gut-punch—“Become So Small”—and the pit immediately transformed into a churning, writhing sea of limbs and chaos. Puciato stalked the stage like a man possessed, his piercing screams cutting through the bone-crunching riffage like a chainsaw through steel. Buckley, ever the wild-eyed riff conjurer, played as if the guitar was an extension of his nervous system.
By the third song, my ears were ringing, my beer was unceremoniously spilled, and I’d taken an elbow to the ribs from a dude who apologized mid-mosh. The set was a blistering marathon—tracks like “Sacrificial Participant” and “A White Horse Covered in Blood” showcased the band’s unholy blend of technical precision and unhinged chaos. Between the unrelenting onslaught of drums and bass, there was barely room to breathe, and the crowd wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
When Puciato launched himself into the audience during “Superman Died Paralyzed,” the energy in the room hit its zenith. He was swallowed up by the pit, a human wrecking ball carried aloft by sweat-soaked hands. Union Transfer became a single organism, pulsating with adrenaline and unfiltered joy.
The night closed with “30 Under 13,” and the crowd surged one last time, screaming the words back at the band with a ferocity that could’ve shattered glass. Better Lovers didn’t just play—they unleashed themselves, leaving the audience exhilarated, exhausted, and forever changed.
Walking out into the crisp Philadelphia night, my voice hoarse and my clothes sticking to me, I felt like I’d just survived a high-speed collision and couldn’t wait to do it all over again. Better Lovers came to conquer, and damn it, they succeeded.
