There are hot concerts, and then there are concerts where the weather itself feels like part of the production. When Kansas walked onto the stage Tuesday evening at North Island Credit Union Amphitheatre in Chula Vista, it was still around 90 degrees, the kind of oppressive September heat that makes simply sitting outdoors feel like physical labor. San Diego County was in the middle of an extraordinary late-summer heat wave, with the National Weather Service placing Chula Vista and the coastal areas under an Extreme Heat Warning for dangerously hot conditions.
And somehow, on a night when the air itself seemed hostile to human activity, two bands whose combined histories stretch back more than a century proceeded to play progressive and hard rock for more than two and a half hours. It would have been impressive under comfortable circumstances. In that heat, it bordered on absurd.
Kansas started promptly around 7pm, with the sun still hanging over the sprawling South Bay amphitheater and virtually no relief from a day that had cooked San Diego. If ever there were circumstances in which a veteran band could be forgiven for walking through a shortened greatest-hits set, this was it.
Instead, Kansas opened with "Point of Know Return." It was a wonderfully aggressive choice - dispensing with the warmup and immediately dropping one of the band's signature compositions into an audience that was still sweating through its clothes. From there came "Paradox" and "Child of Innocence," followed by "Jets Overhead," a reminder that Kansas hasn't existed solely as a touring museum for its 1970s catalog.
That's an important distinction because the band onstage in Chula Vista was both Kansas and, inevitably, something different from the Kansas that created Leftoverture and Point of Know Return.
Kansas emerged from Topeka in 1973, a collection of Midwestern musicians making music far stranger and more ambitious than the band's geographical origin might have suggested. The original lineup fused American hard rock with the sprawling structures and instrumental complexity associated with British progressive rock, somehow making violin, synthesizers, heavy guitars and philosophical lyrics coexist on American FM radio. The band's first album arrived in 1974, but everything changed with 1976's Leftoverture and "Carry On Wayward Son," followed a year later by Point of Know Return and "Dust in the Wind." Kansas says it has since sold more than 30 million albums worldwide.
The absence of original singer Steve Walsh and the late violinist Robby Steinhardt inevitably changes the texture of these songs. There is no meaningful way to pretend otherwise. Walsh's voice and Steinhardt's violin were fundamental components of classic Kansas.
But that's also where this incarnation deserves credit. It isn't trying to turn 1977 into an embalmed museum exhibit.
The band's present-day lineup attacks the arrangements with remarkable precision, particularly on material where Kansas' reputation as a progressive-rock band matters more than its reputation as a classic-rock radio staple. "The Wall," "Song for America," "Portrait (He Knew)" and "Miracles Out of Nowhere" gave the musicians considerably more to chew on than a conventional nostalgia package normally permits.
"Song for America," in particular, still sounds delightfully excessive - progressive rock from an era when nobody was asking whether a song needed to get to the chorus in 20 seconds for TikTok.
Then came "Dust in the Wind." There are songs so thoroughly absorbed into popular culture that hearing the opening notes produces an almost involuntary reaction, and Kansas has two of them. "Dust in the Wind" temporarily transformed a giant, brutally hot outdoor amphitheater into something intimate, its acoustic simplicity becoming even more striking after the musical density surrounding it.
"Hold On" and "Down the Road" followed before Kansas headed toward the inevitable conclusion. "Carry On Wayward Son" remains a monster.
Fifty years after Leftoverture, that opening vocal declaration still detonates in a concert setting. What follows is essentially a miniature progressive-rock suite disguised as one of the most ubiquitous songs in American classic rock: harmonized vocals, guitar riffs, abrupt rhythmic shifts, instrumental passages and hooks stacked on top of hooks.
Kansas finished around 8:15pm after roughly 75 minutes and 12 songs. Then the stage changed over, darkness finally set in, the temperature became marginally less offensive, but still in the 80s, and Gustav Holst's ominous "Mars, the Bringer of War" began pouring through the amphitheater.
Deep Purple was coming.
If Kansas represents one peculiar branch of 1970s rock surviving into 2026, Deep Purple represents something even more improbable. The British band formed in 1968, helped establish the basic vocabulary of hard rock and heavy metal, broke up, reunited, survived enough personnel changes to require fans to identify lineups by "Mark" numbers and somehow remains a functioning creative band 58 years later.
The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, which inducted Deep Purple in 2016, describes the group as a harbinger of hard rock that helped clear the path for heavy metal. That's not retrospective exaggeration. Along with Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath, Deep Purple helped define just how heavy rock music could become around the turn of the 1970s.
The legendary Mark II lineup - Ian Gillan, Ritchie Blackmore, Roger Glover, Jon Lord and Ian Paice - produced the band's defining early-1970s work, including Deep Purple in Rock, Machine Head and the ferocious live album Made in Japan. Gillan and Glover joined in 1969; Blackmore's guitar and Lord's distorted Hammond organ became one of rock's great instrumental rivalries, while Paice supplied the machinery underneath it all.
Only three members of that classic five are in Deep Purple today: Gillan, Glover and Paice. And that undersells the continuity.
Ian Paice, now 78, isn't merely a member of the classic lineup. He is the only musician who has been in Deep Purple continuously since the band's formation in 1968. Watching him play these songs in 2026 means watching the same drummer who actually recorded "Hush," "Highway Star," "Space Truckin'," "Lazy" and "Smoke on the Water."
Roger Glover is 80. Ian Gillan turned 81 last month. Those numbers become increasingly difficult to reconcile with what happens when the band starts playing.
One of the fastest, hardest songs from Machine Head became a statement of intent: this was not going to be a ceremonial victory lap in which everyone politely applauded legends for still being alive.
Gillan understandably doesn't sing exactly like the 26-year-old man who recorded Machine Head in 1971. Expecting an 81-year-old vocalist to reproduce every scream of his youth would be ridiculous. What matters is how intelligently he now inhabits the songs. He knows where to attack, where to phrase rather than overpower, and when to let the extraordinary band around him carry the weight.
And what a band it is. Keyboardist Don Airey, who officially replaced founding keyboard giant Jon Lord in 2002, has now spent nearly a quarter-century in Deep Purple himself. Guitarist Simon McBride is the relative newcomer, having replaced longtime guitarist Steve Morse after Morse departed in 2022 to care for his wife during her illness.
McBride has the unenviable assignment of occupying a position forever associated with Ritchie Blackmore without becoming a Blackmore impersonator. Tuesday demonstrated why that works. He's a muscular, fluid player who can deliver the famous riffs with sufficient fidelity and then sound distinctly like himself once given room to move.
And Deep Purple gave him room. After the relatively new "=1" track "A Bit on the Side" and the 1970 assault of "Into the Fire," McBride took a guitar solo before the band introduced "Arrogant Boy" from this summer's SPLAT!.
That sequencing revealed something important about where Deep Purple is in 2026. This is a band with every excuse imaginable to stop making records. Nobody buying a Deep Purple ticket is going to riot because the band hasn't released enough new material. They could play Machine Head, "Hush," "Perfect Strangers," collect the applause and go home.
Instead, Deep Purple released its 24th studio album, SPLAT!, on July 3, once again produced by Bob Ezrin. Gillan has described the new material as compatible with the dynamics and spirit of the band's 1969-73 period, and the album was represented prominently Tuesday rather than hidden away as obligatory bathroom-break material.
"Arrogant Boy" sounded convincing beside music written more than half a century earlier. "Diablo" later did the same. That doesn't mean anyone will confuse them with "Smoke on the Water," but it does mean Deep Purple remains interested in being a band rather than merely commemorating one.
That sequencing revealed something important about where Deep Purple is in 2026. This is a band with every excuse imaginable to stop making records. Nobody buying a Deep Purple ticket is going to riot because the band hasn't released enough new material. They could play Machine Head, "Hush," "Perfect Strangers," collect the applause and go home.
Instead, Deep Purple released its 24th studio album, SPLAT!, on July 3, once again produced by Bob Ezrin. Gillan has described the new material as compatible with the dynamics and spirit of the band's 1969-73 period, and the album was represented prominently Tuesday rather than hidden away as obligatory bathroom-break material.
"Arrogant Boy" sounded convincing beside music written more than half a century earlier. "Diablo" later did the same. That doesn't mean anyone will confuse them with "Smoke on the Water," but it does mean Deep Purple remains interested in being a band rather than merely commemorating one.
"Lazy Sod" from 2024's =1 led into one of Don Airey's keyboard showcases and then "Lazy," one of the evening's great moments.
The Hammond organ remains essential to Deep Purple's identity. Hard rock eventually became so guitar-centric that it's easy to forget how strange Deep Purple's original formula was: Blackmore's guitar wasn't simply accompanied by Jon Lord's keyboards; the two instruments battled for dominance. Lord famously drove his Hammond through Marshall amplification until an organ could sound almost as vicious as an electric guitar. Airey inherited an impossible job and long ago made it his own.
Then came "When a Blind Man Cries," and the mood changed completely. Deep Purple has always been heavier and stranger than the handful of songs that dominate classic-rock radio suggest. "When a Blind Man Cries" exposes the blues sitting beneath all that volume, giving Gillan space to do something more subtle than summon the banshee wail that made him famous.
"Diablo," another Airey showcase and "Perfect Strangers" brought the show into its final stretch.
"Perfect Strangers" deserves particular mention because it represents one of rock's great second acts. Deep Purple had ceased to exist in 1976, only for the classic Mark II lineup to reunite in 1984 and produce a song that didn't sound like a band desperately attempting to recreate 1972. Four decades later, its ominous keyboard progression still feels enormous outdoors.
Then Deep Purple essentially stopped taking prisoners. "Space Truckin'." "Smoke on the Water."
There may be no guitar riff in rock music more famous than "Smoke on the Water." It has become so ubiquitous - learned badly by generations of beginning guitarists (it was the first song I learned to play on guitar), played in music stores until practically becoming a misdemeanor - that it's easy to lose sight of what an extraordinarily effective piece of hard rock it remains. Hearing that riff played by Deep Purple is different.
The opening notes landed Tuesday night and thousands of people immediately knew exactly what was happening. For a few minutes, the half-century separating Machine Head from 2026 ceased to matter.
Deep Purple then returned for an encore that included the new "Guinnesis" before reaching all the way back to the beginning for "Hush," the Joe South song that became the band's first major American hit in 1968.
Think about that span for a moment. "Hush" dates to Lyndon Johnson's presidency. "Smoke on the Water" arrived during Richard Nixon's first term. "Perfect Strangers" came out when Ronald Reagan was president. "A Bit on the Side" arrived in 2024. "Arrogant Boy," "Diablo" and "Guinnesis" are from an album released two months ago. All of them appeared in the same 85-minute set Tuesday night.
That's what made this concert more interesting than the increasingly common classic-rock package built around aging audiences and familiar catalogs. There was nostalgia everywhere, obviously. It would be absurd to pretend thousands of people came to Chula Vista primarily hoping to hear Deep Purple's 2026 album. But nostalgia alone doesn't explain the vitality onstage.
Kansas is now 53 years removed from its formation. Deep Purple is 58 years removed from its own. Most of the musicians who created their defining records are gone from their current lineups, whether through retirement, departure or death. Kansas no longer has Steve Walsh, Kerry Livgren or Robby Steinhardt onstage. Deep Purple no longer has Ritchie Blackmore or the late Jon Lord.
Yet neither performance felt like a cover band that had somehow acquired legal possession of a famous name. Kansas retains Williams and Ehart as original members, even as Ehart's health currently keeps him from the touring drum chair, and has surrounded that history with musicians capable of navigating a catalog that is considerably more technically demanding than "Dust in the Wind" suggests. Deep Purple has something even rarer: three members of its definitive Mark II lineup still operating inside a band that continues recording new music.
And then there was that heat. By the end of Deep Purple's set, darkness had finally made the amphitheater tolerable. But Kansas had performed the entirety of its set under conditions that could generously be described as miserable. The National Weather Service wasn't using hyperbole: an Extreme Heat Warning was in effect for Chula Vista, with unusually warm nighttime temperatures limiting the relief normally expected after sunset.
The Hammond organ remains essential to Deep Purple's identity. Hard rock eventually became so guitar-centric that it's easy to forget how strange Deep Purple's original formula was: Blackmore's guitar wasn't simply accompanied by Jon Lord's keyboards; the two instruments battled for dominance. Lord famously drove his Hammond through Marshall amplification until an organ could sound almost as vicious as an electric guitar. Airey inherited an impossible job and long ago made it his own.
Then came "When a Blind Man Cries," and the mood changed completely. Deep Purple has always been heavier and stranger than the handful of songs that dominate classic-rock radio suggest. "When a Blind Man Cries" exposes the blues sitting beneath all that volume, giving Gillan space to do something more subtle than summon the banshee wail that made him famous.
"Diablo," another Airey showcase and "Perfect Strangers" brought the show into its final stretch.
"Perfect Strangers" deserves particular mention because it represents one of rock's great second acts. Deep Purple had ceased to exist in 1976, only for the classic Mark II lineup to reunite in 1984 and produce a song that didn't sound like a band desperately attempting to recreate 1972. Four decades later, its ominous keyboard progression still feels enormous outdoors.
Then Deep Purple essentially stopped taking prisoners. "Space Truckin'." "Smoke on the Water."
There may be no guitar riff in rock music more famous than "Smoke on the Water." It has become so ubiquitous - learned badly by generations of beginning guitarists (it was the first song I learned to play on guitar), played in music stores until practically becoming a misdemeanor - that it's easy to lose sight of what an extraordinarily effective piece of hard rock it remains. Hearing that riff played by Deep Purple is different.
The opening notes landed Tuesday night and thousands of people immediately knew exactly what was happening. For a few minutes, the half-century separating Machine Head from 2026 ceased to matter.
Deep Purple then returned for an encore that included the new "Guinnesis" before reaching all the way back to the beginning for "Hush," the Joe South song that became the band's first major American hit in 1968.
Think about that span for a moment. "Hush" dates to Lyndon Johnson's presidency. "Smoke on the Water" arrived during Richard Nixon's first term. "Perfect Strangers" came out when Ronald Reagan was president. "A Bit on the Side" arrived in 2024. "Arrogant Boy," "Diablo" and "Guinnesis" are from an album released two months ago. All of them appeared in the same 85-minute set Tuesday night.
That's what made this concert more interesting than the increasingly common classic-rock package built around aging audiences and familiar catalogs. There was nostalgia everywhere, obviously. It would be absurd to pretend thousands of people came to Chula Vista primarily hoping to hear Deep Purple's 2026 album. But nostalgia alone doesn't explain the vitality onstage.
Kansas is now 53 years removed from its formation. Deep Purple is 58 years removed from its own. Most of the musicians who created their defining records are gone from their current lineups, whether through retirement, departure or death. Kansas no longer has Steve Walsh, Kerry Livgren or Robby Steinhardt onstage. Deep Purple no longer has Ritchie Blackmore or the late Jon Lord.
Yet neither performance felt like a cover band that had somehow acquired legal possession of a famous name. Kansas retains Williams and Ehart as original members, even as Ehart's health currently keeps him from the touring drum chair, and has surrounded that history with musicians capable of navigating a catalog that is considerably more technically demanding than "Dust in the Wind" suggests. Deep Purple has something even rarer: three members of its definitive Mark II lineup still operating inside a band that continues recording new music.
And then there was that heat. By the end of Deep Purple's set, darkness had finally made the amphitheater tolerable. But Kansas had performed the entirety of its set under conditions that could generously be described as miserable. The National Weather Service wasn't using hyperbole: an Extreme Heat Warning was in effect for Chula Vista, with unusually warm nighttime temperatures limiting the relief normally expected after sunset.
San Diego itself was enduring an exceptional streak. By September 9, the city had tied its longest run of 90-degree-or-hotter days of the past decade, while unusually warm overnight lows compounded the heat.
That made the sight of veteran musicians playing intricate progressive rock under stage lights in the remnants of 90-degree heat seem slightly insane. It also made the audience's endurance impressive. Outdoor amphitheaters are glorious when Southern California weather behaves as advertised. On Tuesday, Chula Vista felt less like San Diego and more like someone had accidentally booked Kansas and Deep Purple inside an air fryer.
Nobody left with dry clothes. But maybe there was something fitting about watching these particular bands under such ridiculous conditions.
Rock history tends to flatten bands into a few songs and photographs: Kansas becomes "Carry On Wayward Son" and "Dust in the Wind"; Deep Purple becomes the four-note opening phrase of "Smoke on the Water." Tuesday night offered the more complicated reality.
Kansas was weird before it was famous - a Topeka progressive-rock band somehow smuggling violin solos and elaborate arrangements onto American radio. Deep Purple helped invent the language that hard rock and heavy metal would spend decades speaking, then survived implosions, reunions, deaths, departures and enough lineup changes to destroy most bands several times over.
They are no longer the young men pictured on those album covers. Neither is their audience.
But when Kansas hit the harmonies of "Carry On Wayward Son," when Airey's Hammond began growling against McBride's guitar, when Paice drove "Space Truckin'" forward at 78 years old, and when Gillan stood in front of thousands of people singing songs he first recorded before many of them were born, age became almost beside the point.
Then came that riff. You know the one. Nearly 55 years after it was recorded, four blunt notes rolled across a sweltering amphitheater in Chula Vista and everyone understood them immediately.
Some things survive lineup changes. Some survive changing musical fashions. Some survive half a century.
And apparently some can even survive 90-degree San Diego heat.
Deep Purple with special guest Kansas performed September 8, 2026 at North Island Credit Union Amphitheatre in Chula Vista in a concert presented by Live Nation.
Originally published on September 9, 2026.
