Review | Shadows, Rays & the Dark: Gregory Alan Isakov at the Santa Barbara Bowl

The night opened with Josiah and the Bonnevilles — just a boy from East Tennessee with a guitar and a harmonica. His music appeared to come out of his body — soulful and aching, with a raw power that the youth possess. But then, somehow, the pain would lift — balanced by youthful giddiness, smiling through heartbreak.

A wonderful emotional warmup to what was coming: Gregory Alan Isakov.

[Click to zoom] Josiah and Bonnevilles at the Santa Barbara Bowl, September 12, 2025 | Photo: Carl Perry

Early on, he introduced his band, saying it always feels weird when musicians wait until the end, like having a long conversation with someone and only at the very end saying, “Oh, by the way, my name’s Steve.” 

I like the way he said that because it does feel like when watching the show you are entering an emotional contract with the band as you listen to their longing, pain, acceptance, happiness, passion. To do so, it’s only right — respectful even — to know their names. 

So here they are:
Jeb Bows on violin;
Steve Varney on banjo, guitar, and piano;
Max Barcelow on drums;
John Paul Grigsby on bass; and
Danny Black on guitar, keys, and steel.

Just a group of friends from Colorado, playing together since they were kids.

From left: Max Barcelow, Jeb Bows, Gregory Alan Isakov, and John Paul Grigsby | Credit: Carl Perry

Gregory’s voice was its own instrument — it had great depth, constant coarseness, always controlled. Sometimes it rose above the guitars, the banjo, the bowed violin, and sometimes it sank into them. It felt like he hid inside the music. He played with the darkness, the light, the smoke. He lingered within it. His wide-brimmed fedora shadowed his face so you never really saw it — just a man cloaked in night, fingerpicking his guitar while a million rays of gold light shone out behind him.

Still can’t tell you what his face looks like, for the record. Ironic coming from a man who values names — identity.

The show was truly one of light and shadow — warm arches of amber stretching above the stage like palm fronds, golden globe lights on the ground pulsing with the drums. At times, the band was silhouetted completely, playing in a fire of low-lying embers. 

In an exciting display of musical prowess, Jeb’s violin solo sliced through the Bowl. His silhouette looking huge against the blue-lit back wall. A lone maestro.

Whoever ran the lighting that night deserves a raise, by the way.

They played all the hits. “San Luis,” “Amsterdam,” “Caves” — “Sweet Heat Lightning” almost made me cry.

And “Liars,” that was the moment I didn’t expect. The lights went red, the intensity turned up, the band snapped loose. It felt like you were in whatever moment that inspired Gregory to write the song. You felt what he felt, waves of emotion rising within. And you did so alongside everyone else in the audience. 

And the encore: The band gathered around a single old-timey microphone at the center of the stage, like an old-school folk band. Just one mic. One sound. One soul. It looked like the past and sounded like home.

The lyrics: “She’s all smoke, she’s all nicotine.” Their voices and instruments blended together. That was folk. Not the genre. The essence.

By the end, I was barefoot in a forest in my mind. Smoke in the air. Strings in the sky. And a voice ringing out in the dark, dark, dark.

It was beautiful.