Sessanta 2.0 - Three bands. One stage. Zero rules.

They’re not underground. They’re not obscure. But Primus, A Perfect Circle, and Puscifer have never followed a straight line and that’s exactly what makes them essential. For bands trying to carve their own identity, break genre, or just get weird without asking permission, these three don’t just inspire, they validate. Sessanta isn’t just a victory lap for veterans; it’s a masterclass in how to build your own lane and never look back.

Before a single note hit the lawn, you could already tell: this wasn’t going to be a normal show. The gear setup alone looked like a three-headed creature trying to assemble itself. Drum kits stacked beside each other. Mic stands doubled. Pedals in triplicate. This wasn’t just a co-headliner tour. This was a merger.

When Sessanta started — no grand intro, no fireworks, just boom — “Counting Bodies Like Sheep…” slithered in like a threat. A Perfect Circle laid the foundation: controlled, cold-blooded precision. Billy Howerdel’s guitar tone was so crisp it could cauterize. Maynard didn’t stalk the stage so much as haunt it — just a silhouette in shadows, voice slicing through like static wrapped in silk.

Then without warning, the rhythm shifted. A lurch. A swing. Claypool walked out, looked around like he forgot something in the car, and started hammering “Groundhog’s Day.” You felt the entire lawn adjust. The floor buckled a little. We were officially inside the Sessanta machine.

This wasn’t a relay race. Nobody handed anything off. There were no breaks, no fades, no polite applause points. The show just kept unfolding — like a single organism with multiple brains. Songs didn’t “start” and “stop.” They oozed into each other. One moment it was “Blue” by A Perfect Circle, the next it was “Duchess and the Proverbial Mind Spread,” and somehow it all felt inevitable. Like gravity.

And then came Puscifer. The chameleon. The glitch in the system. If Primus brings chaos and APC brings control, Puscifer brings the bend. Songs like “Tiny Monster” and “The Algorithm” felt like transmissions from a fever dream. Carina Round floated above it all, her voice weaving through layers of beats and distortion while Maynard played the character, the priest, the static charge in the circuit.

The whole setup was brilliant. Maynard in all forms — serious, snide, sacred — rotating in and out of the bands like a cult leader with three robes. One moment he’s coiling through “The Contrarian,” the next he’s trading off with Les during “Pablo’s Hippos,” smirking like they just made a bet backstage.

And the crowd? They got it. They got it. This wasn’t for people who came to drink beer and hear “Judith” and leave early to beat traffic. These were lifers. People who knew every lyric to “Too Many Puppies,” who shouted along to deep cuts like “Postulous” and treated “The Remedy” like a gospel hymn. No phones in the air — just fists, grins, and the kind of shoulder-to-shoulder body heat that only happens when everyone around you knows it’s not just a show, it’s a moment.

Somewhere in the middle of it all — maybe during “Shake Hands With Beef” or “Last Salmon Man” — it hit: this wasn’t a three-act lineup. It was a ritual. Not some milestone birthday tour, not a nostalgia trip — just three bands built to bend rules, fusing into one. Maynard James Keenan: 61 and still shape-shifting between frontman, phantom, and provocateur. Les Claypool: also 61, and somehow playing like he’s just getting started.

And somehow, it stayed locked in. The pacing. The mood. No band overpowered the other. Every set felt like an invitation to mutate. Howerdel laid in angular, icy leads while Ler let his fingers melt across fretboards. Primus’s rhythm section hit like a freight train on a trampoline. Danny Carey wasn’t even there, but you didn’t miss him — that’s how dialed in this crew was.

They hit “Grand Canyon” near the end, all three bands colliding into one massive swirl of voices and texture and gravity. It felt like a farewell. Until it wasn’t.

Because they had one more left: “Little Lord Fentanyl.”
And that one didn’t float. It punched.
No encore. No wave goodbye. Just a new song dropped like a molotov — twitchy, tense, and mean.

If you weren’t there, you missed it. Sessanta wasn’t live music. It was a shared hallucination curated by the only trio of bands strange and fearless enough to pull it off.

Primus. Puscifer. A Perfect Circle.
Three names. One sound. Zero filler.