The Sonic Knife Fights and Dreamscapes of Matt Maltese and Cornelia Murr
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By Jason Van Tatenhove
Matt Maltese with Cornelia Murr – Summit Music Hall, Denver – October 15, 2025
The air in Denver last week had a bite to it—the kind that sneaks through your sweater and makes you question whether it’s finally time to dig out the winter coat. Earlier that afternoon, I’d made the trip down the hill and stopped by the Westword offices to meet the staff who happened to be around. But even with the excitement of a new writing gig, I couldn’t shake that feeling—that low hum that always comes before a show night in the city.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, I was walking from my car to the Summit, shivering in the first real cold of the season and wondering if anyone would actually show up on a Wednesday night for a band I’d never heard of. Maybe it was the universe reminding me how easy it is to fall out of step with new music. How quickly it happens once you’ve lived long enough to have a few “former lives.”
But when I reached the venue, a line of mostly underage kids wrapped around the corner—black hoodies, pants, and jackets, with big black Xs scrawled across their hands in thick Sharpie. The Summit was buzzing. I flashed my press card to the security guard, thanked the music gods that I didn’t have to wait at the back of the line, and made my way to the box office.
There’s always that anxious heartbeat when the ticket girl starts scanning the list, especially when your last name never survives spellcheck. After a few skipped breaths, she found me and handed over the goods: a ticket and a photo wristband—the golden pass that lets you shoot the first three songs, no flash, no excuses.
After the usual round of ID checks and a polite pat-down for any personal dueling accoutrements (knife or pistol), I was ushered into the black maw of the Summit. I found my way to the ADA section. My shiny new robotic ankle means I can finally walk without the cane I’ve leaned on for half a decade, but it still demands a seat after too long.
Settling in, I looked around and was stunned by how packed the place was. This was supposed to be a downbeat dream-pop show—yet here was an ocean of black-clad teen mopsters pressed against the barricades. Clearly, they knew something I didn’t.
Truth is, I hadn’t heard of either act before that night. When you’ve been doing this long enough, your name ends up on a few lists—not just the government’s—and every so often an agent from New York or L.A. slides into your inbox with comp tickets and press invites. This was the first time I’d actually taken one up on it, maybe because I’d just mentioned I was now writing for Westword.
Honestly, I just wanted to feel that rush again—the kind that comes from walking into a dark venue with a notebook and a camera, ready to chase whatever noise might be hiding in the corners. It reminded me of my twenties, when my job description included “go to as many shows as possible” for a local underground rag.
But the moment the opener, Cornelia Murr, took the stage, nostalgia gave way to something else entirely. The lights dimmed, and a hush spread through the crowd that had been buzzing only seconds before. Murr stepped into the soft glow of purple and pink stage lights, a small silhouette against the instruments waiting to breathe. Her first note floated out and immediately reshaped the room.
What came next was haunting—not in the cinematic sense, but in that deep, bone-level way that makes you aware of every heartbeat. The sound was lush but strange, bending expectations. A saxophone shimmered where you’d expect a guitar; a flute carried notes that didn’t seem to belong to any one instrument. It was like watching sound itself get rewritten in real time.
Murr moved with unhurried confidence, eyes half-closed, her voice winding between melody and mantra. The songs from Run to the Center carried that same paradox she later described to me backstage: a tension between the solitary act of creation and the chaos of letting it go live.
“Writing is a private process for me,” she told me later, signing merch and smiling shyly at the stream of fans. “It comes when it comes. But performing—it’s the opposite. You only get one shot, and you just have to trust the magic.”
That magic was everywhere. Songs like “Treaty” and “Gotta Give” seemed to bloom and collapse in the same breath—delicate, yet impossible to forget. There was a weight behind her voice, the kind that only comes from someone who’s wrestled with time and found herself still standing.
When I caught up with her later for a longer interview, she told me how Run to the Center was born in Red Cloud, Nebraska—population just under a thousand. “I went there to get quiet,” she said. “To get real with myself. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to keep doing this anymore.”
That kind of confession hangs in a room long after the amps cool down. Maybe that’s what made her set so hypnotic: the sound of an artist turning uncertainty into something solid enough to hold.
By the time Murr left the stage, the crowd had drifted into that trance-like state that happens when something delicate has cracked you open a little. The lights came up just enough to remind everyone they still had bodies, not just spirits. I watched her pack up her guitar as roadies swapped out cables and mics. The buzz started again—that restless murmur before the next spell.
The lights dimmed once more, this time a brilliant spotlight shone down as if from the heavens onto Matt Maltese’s piano. A low hum rolled through the monitors, like an engine trying to remember how to start. Then Maltese walked out.
He didn’t say much at first—just nodded once, settled behind the keys, and started playing something that sounded like the closing credits to a film where no one wins, but no one dies either. His voice had that half-smirk, half-wound quality, somewhere between cabaret and confession booth.
The song built slowly, every note feeling like it had been weighed and deemed necessary, yet carried the touch of a smoky lounge tune. The crowd—most of them too young to rent a car—sang along to lyrics about heartbreak and apocalypse as if they’d lived both.
There was something Lynchian about it all—the way the piano reverberated through the red light, the way his voice curled around the melody, how even the pauses felt dangerous. It was the kind of music you could imagine soundtracking a late-night knife fight with the person who betrayed you most: slow-motion glass breaking and cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
Maltese’s setlist orbited love and loss like twin moons. You could feel the room tighten—the recognition, the ache. For three minutes at a time, everyone existed in the same cinematic universe: lovers, losers, the almosts and never-agains.
Between songs, Maltese cracked self-deprecating jokes, teased his band, and even sang a slow, playful birthday song for an audience member celebrating her eighteenth. The nervous blonde smiled from a fading velvet chair in front of the piano, looking both terrified and euphoric as a thousand phones filmed the moment. It was unexpectedly tender—something she’ll tell her friends about for years.
It’s rare to see an artist balance that—the soft apocalypse of his music against the warmth of his presence. His songs hurt, but in a way that feels earned. It’s like he’s showing you the knife, but he’s already turned the blade on himself first.
By the end of the set, the spotlight had faded and Maltese stood, thanked the crowd, and slipped offstage with the quiet assurance of someone who’s learned how to leave people wanting more.
As I stepped back into the Denver chill, that strange sense of unreality followed me—the kind that lingers after a vivid dream. Murr’s spectral warmth and Maltese’s cinematic melancholy had fused into something else entirely. Music I’d have missed if not for a lucky email and a few free tickets.
Out on Blake Street, the night carried the sharp, dry edge of autumn—the kind that makes your breath visible under the streetlights. I buttoned my sweater, thumbed open my phone to jot a few last notes, and thought about how rare it is to find music that feels both intimate and enormous at once—like a secret whispered in a cathedral.
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