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Picture this: the San Diego sky still glowing soft pinks and purples as folks shuffle in to Gallagher Square, beer in hand, excitement in the air. The stage lights hum to life. The vibe is expectant. And that’s exactly how the night began — slowly building, practically shimmering with possibility.
Before The Head and the Heart even set foot onstage, John Vincent III had already earned a piece of the crowd’s soul. He stepped in casual — jeans, a loose shirt — and immediately made the space feel like his living room. His voice was raw and real, occasionally wincing at its own clarity, twining through the amphitheater in confessional lines.
He played with this easy chemistry between himself and his backing musicians (guitars, subtle drums) — little smiles, mid-song banter, improvising harmonies. No big production, no crowd-wrangling — just a guy and his songs, inviting you to feel along.
If there’s one way to prime an audience, John Vincent III did it with sincerity, warm humanity, and a little bit of looseness. The stage felt open, ready.
When The Head and the Heart finally took over, the energy had shifted: anticipatory, lighter, electric. They didn’t ease in; they kicked off Every Shade of Blue and instantly held that hush/delicate weight over the crowd. You could hear a pin drop — and then voices joining in, one by one.
All We Ever Knew jolted things forward. The claps? Infectious. The crowd was in. Fire Escape and Jubilee added momentum; you could feel legs starting to tap. The band’s fluid shift between introspective softness and rhythmic strength is what they do best.
Halfway in, Another Story and Tiebreaker offered bittersweet reflection. 10,000 Weight in Gold brought air, expansion — you felt your chest lift. Cop Car and When I Fall Asleep hung on nostalgia, that dreamy melancholy you didn’t even realize you needed.
Then came Beg, Steal, Borrow — a song that felt like permission to sing out loud. The crowd did not hold back. When Winter Song arrived, time slowed. The lights softened. The band and audience seemed to breathe together. Lost in My Mind and Missed Connection stirred a tension that made the next few songs land harder. Honeybee — sweet but strong — got bodies moving. And After the Setting Sun? That one felt like the moon slipping overhead, the moment when night fully takes over and your heart opens.
West Coast and Virginia (Wind in the Night) grounded us in place and memory. Then Shake slapped us awake — feet stomped, voices surged. Down in the Valley teased suspense, a kind of hold-your-breath moment just before the apex.
fter the applause erupted, the band came back for their “core” segment — starting with Arrow. That song felt celebratory, communal. A few fans near the stage were invited forward, voices weaving directly into the song’s texture. And then… Rivers and Roads, the song the audience had been waiting for. The hush, the expectant silence, the first strum — and then the flood. People sang full voice, bare throat, no holding back. The band backed away just enough to let the crowd carry it and ended the night
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