Sparks is one of those rare bands that creates its own universe, and if you’re willing, they’ll take you there for the duration of a song, an album, or an entire concert. But unlike the fantasy realms of heavy metal, the political dystopias of punk, or the romantic/sexual utopias of modern pop, Sparks’ universe looks a lot like our own, only slightly askew. The angle is uniquely theirs: quirky, hyper-intelligent, and often hilariously deadpan. Their songs are delivered from an intimate, micro perspective, yet somehow manage to resonate on a macro, almost philosophical level. A Sparks show immerses you in that world: a place where the mundane becomes magical, and the surreal feels strangely relatable.
But just because they inhabit their own world doesn’t mean they’re disconnected from ours. On the contrary, Sparks are remarkably in tune with contemporary life. That’s why, despite being a “legacy” act by sheer longevity, they remain thoroughly modern, sonically, thematically, and emotionally. Even their oldest songs sound startlingly current.
It is always a singular pleasure to spend ninety minutes immersed in the world of Sparks, a realm that feels both familiar and perpetually surprising. Certain elements of the show have become codified over time: "So May We Start" and "All That" have now opened and closed the setlist for three consecutive tour cycles, and with good reason. If it isn’t broken, why fix it? In fact, this new ritual could well serve as a metaphor for Sparks’ entire ethos: a careful balancing act between tradition and reinvention.
The staples, whether musical or theatrical, are always welcome: "This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us," "Beat the Clock," "When Do I Get to Sing 'My Way'," and of course, Ron Mael’s ever-delightful dance during "The Number One Song in Heaven." The newer material is equally well-received because, quite simply, any Sparks is good Sparks. Yet perhaps the greatest gift of these live shows lies in the unexpected, like the clever new arrangement of "Suburban Homeboy," or the deep cuts that find their way into each tour’s repertoire, like "Goofing Off" from Introducing Sparks or "Whippings and Apologies" from A Woofer in Tweeter’s Clothing
At 76, Russell Mael’s energy is nothing short of staggering. He bounds across the stage like a jack-in-the-box sprung to life, his movements charged with a kind of mischievous elegance, his eyes gleaming with both playfulness and wry sincerity. His voice, too, remains a marvel. Not only does he continue to hit those impossibly high notes in their original keys, but his vocal range, his entire tessitura, seems untouched by time. Even more remarkably, his tone retains the same bright, youthful clarity it had when Sparks first emerged, only adding to the performance's almost surreal sense of agelessness.
But perhaps the most powerful moments came when the Maels dropped the irony and let the emotion speak for itself. These weren’t songs sung from the perspective of a character or wrapped in layers of wit but felt personal, honest, and direct. Songs like "Please Don’t Fuck Up My World," "Lord Have Mercy," and "All That" seemed to come straight from the heart, revealing how Ron and Russell see the world, how they think about people, relationships, and the fans who’ve followed them for decades. Placed alongside the more oblique and playful material, these songs stood out all the more, quietly devastating in their sincerity.
A Sparks show isn’t some delicate, ironic chamber piece: it’s loud, euphoric, danceable, and often rocks harder than bands half their age. It’s theatrical, brilliantly constructed and endlessly clever, but never at the expense of fun. For all the twists and tonal shifts, the constant is joy: the joy of invention, of performance, of sharing something unmistakably theirs with the people who get it. And when the lights come up, you realize they’ve done it again: they’ve made you laugh, made you think, made you dance. All that, and more.
