Opening for Louis Tomlinson could easily be a thankless assignment. Win over thousands of fans who came for someone else, deliver a tight set before the headliner, and leave a lasting impression in under an hour. On July 20 at Cleveland’s Jacobs Pavilion, Canadian rock quartet The Beaches did exactly that, transforming an amphitheater full of strangers into willing participants in a cathartic celebration of bad relationships, good friends, and moving on.
The band’s set played like the soundtrack to every situationship, ghosting saga, and spectacular breakup that has dominated the past few years. Rather than rushing from song to song, the members sprinkled in stories from their own dating disasters, making the performance feel less like a concert and more like the world’s loudest group therapy session.
That sense of camaraderie was on full display before “Hypothetical,” when bassist Leandra Earl delivered one of the night’s most memorable lines: “Fuck your exes, Cleveland. No one should make you feel like a hypothetical.”
The crowd erupted. It wasn’t just a clever setup; it perfectly captured what has made The Beaches resonate with so many fans. Their songs don’t wallow in heartbreak; they weaponize it. Regret becomes swagger. Rejection becomes a punchline.
Lead singer Jordan Miller leaned into that same mix of sincerity and humor. Asking the audience who was currently going through a breakup, she scanned the sea of raised hands before responding with a deadpan, heartfelt, “I’m sorry.” It was a simple moment, but it landed because it felt genuine. The Beaches have built their reputation on making emotional messes feel universal, and for a brief moment, the amphitheater felt like everyone was in on the same joke.
Musically, the band delivered. They never appeared to be trying to win over the audience; they assumed everyone was invited to the party.
By the time they closed with their breakout hit “Blame Brett,” the audience hardly resembled one waiting impatiently for the headliner. Fans sang every sarcastic lyric back toward the stage, embracing the song’s deliciously biting post-breakup triumph. It was the ideal closer. Equal parts catharsis, singalong, and victory lap.
