Seventeen years gone, and the ghosts of the early 2000s indie scene came roaring back to life in Atlanta last night. Rilo Kiley, the band that made confessionals cool and vulnerability combustible, took over The Eastern with a reunion set that felt less like a nostalgia trip and more like a long-overdue exhale. This wasn’t a band dusting off old songs for the sake of a paycheck—it was a living, breathing reclamation of everything that made them vital in the first place.

The Faint stormed the stage first and nearly stole the show. It’s surprising how fast the tickets moved, considering The Faint’s set wasn’t in service of new material but the reissue wave of records that dropped decades ago. Still, they ripped through a career-spanning set, touching the jagged heights of “The Geeks Were Right,” diving into the underappreciated “Paranoiattack,” and reminding everyone why their strobe-lit, twitchy grooves still command bodies to move.

Sure, longtime fans had seen these songs before, maybe dozens of times. But The Faint thrive in repetition, in the hypnotic pulse of beats and synths that turn every venue into a sweaty underground club circa 2001. No reinvention was required; this was pure muscle memory, a band playing to its strengths. And yet, in the larger context of Saddle Creek’s holy trinity—Bright Eyes, Cursive, and The Faint—there was something comforting about it. While Conor Oberst and Tim Kasher continue to write, record, and mash their legacies together (literally, in this year’s cheeky “Recluse/I Don’t Have to Love” mash-up that raised cash for the Poison Oak Project), The Faint showed there’s still room for a band to ride the shockwaves of their past and make it feel urgent in the present. By the time they closed, the crowd was revved up, sweat-slick, and buzzing. It was the perfect preamble, a reminder of the era that birthed Rilo Kiley, and a sharp setup for the night’s true resurrection.

The Eastern was now packed to the rafters, the kind of sold-out frenzy usually reserved for acts that never left. Fans old enough to remember burning their first mix CD alongside “Portions for Foxes” stood shoulder to shoulder with kids who probably discovered the band through TikTok edits. The air buzzed with that electric, nervous energy: would Rilo Kiley still matter in 2025? The short answer: hell yes.

They came out swinging with “The Execution of All Things,” the title track of their 2002 masterpiece, its jagged guitars and loping rhythm exploding into a collective roar. It was less an opener than a declaration: we’re back, and we still know how to hit where it hurts. Without pausing for breath, they launched into “Spectacular Views” and “Paint’s Peeling,” early catalog gems that landed with surprising freshness, like bruises that never really faded.

By the time the sleazy groove of “The Moneymaker” snaked through the speakers, the band had the crowd in its palm. Blake Sennett’s guitar licks slashed with a grin, Pierre de Reeder locked in a low-end pulse, and Jason Boesel battered his kit like it owed him money. Jenny Lewis, dressed in playful polka dots, commanded the stage with a voice that’s only deepened with time—less fragile, more defiant, still devastating.

The middle stretch was where things got transcendental. “Dreamworld,” sung by Sennett, floated in like a bittersweet postcard from 2007’s Under the Blacklight. “I Never” turned the venue into a torchlit cathedral of longing, Lewis’s delivery cutting straight through. “Close Call” and “It’s a Hit” reminded everyone how easily this band could pivot from heartbreak to satire, from tender to sharp, without losing a step.

And then came the gut punch: “Does He Love You?” Jenny’s devastating narrative of adultery and self-doubt rang truer now than it did two decades ago. Older, wiser, and far more lived-in, her voice cracked just enough to remind you that scars don’t fade—they deepen.

The one-two combo of “Ripchord” and “The Good That Won’t Come Out” brought back the scrappy Saddle Creek era, full of self-deprecation and stubborn resilience. Then came “Silver Lining,” shimmering like the pop anthem it was always meant to be, and finally “With Arms Outstretched.” When Jenny leaned into the crowd, microphone outstretched, the audience carried the chorus with raised hands, a choir of true believers.

But the night wasn’t done. “A Better Son/Daughter” detonated the room, its slow-burn build into cathartic explosion still one of the great indie rock rollercoasters. The crowd screamed every word like scripture. And then, of course, the hit that made them icons: “Portions for Foxes.” Jenny belted “I’m bad news!” with a wicked grin, as if daring the audience not to dance themselves hoarse.

The encore wasn’t just gravy; it was the exclamation point. “A Man/Me/Then Jim” opened with quiet intimacy, Jenny sitting at the edge of the stage like she was singing just for you. “Breakin’ Up” followed, with Lewis gleefully swapping the New York lyric for an Atlanta nod, cowbell in hand, the band laughing through it like teenagers in a garage.

Then came the irrepressible goofiness of “Frug,” with Jenny miming the Robocop and Freddie to a delighted crowd who shouted back every line. And finally, “Pictures of Success,” the seven-minute slow-burn closer, lifted the night into myth. Its outro refrain, “These are times that can’t be weathered,” echoed through the humid Georgia night as the crowd sang it back, a bittersweet hymn for a band that somehow weathered the impossible.

What makes this reunion matter isn’t just the setlist. It’s the fact that these songs, written in cramped apartments and cheap studios in the early 2000s, still resonate in a world two decades older and arguably just as messy. Rilo Kiley’s music always carried the ache of coming of age, of loving and losing and hoping anyway. Hearing them again, now, is a reminder that those feelings don’t expire—they evolve with you.

Walking out into the warm Atlanta night, sweat-soaked and buzzing, you got the sense that this wasn’t just a trip down memory lane. It was a band staking its claim all over again, proving that sometimes reunions aren’t about looking back at all. They’re about taking what broke, stitching it together, and finding out it’s stronger now.

Rilo Kiley isn’t just back. They’re alive, vital, and still, after all these years, f***ing on.