Nero Simon and the Sunsetters & Magnolia Express

From the venue:

About Nero Simon and the Sunsetters
Somewhere between the twilight daze of a dying beach town and the first trembling notes of a steel-string guitar, there exists a band not born—but summoned. Nero Simon and the Sunsetters didn’t just form; they washed ashore, reeking of rum, haunted by the ghosts of 70s rock and the sweet, sun-drunk optimism of a lost American summer. Their music can be described as a fever dream stitched together from the remnants of AM radio gold and the salt-stained pages of a sailor’s diary.
Led by the enigmatic Nero Simon, a man who may or may not have seen God while nursing a bourbon hangover at a Gulf Coast motel, the Sunsetters operate like a sonic cult. Their mission? Nothing less than a resurrection of vibes—warm, analog, and holy in their laid-back precision. Backed by a crew of swashbuckling sidemen who play like they’ve been bartered off a pirate ship and given Fender guitars, they deliver smooth, harmony-laced rock with enough groove to make your dad grow a mustache and buy a sailboat.
Think smoky twilight on a forgotten marina. Think heartache served in a coconut shell. Think Dan Fogelberg on peyote, drifting through the Florida keys in a battered speedboat while a cassette of Steely Dan warbles in the dash. There’s a kind of emotional jet lag to their songs—like you just landed from 1978 and you’re not sure if you want to go back.
So who are these mad bastards? Are they among the last true romantics of rock 'n' roll? Are they industry outlaws rebelling against the cold tyranny of the algorithm? Or are they just beach-dwelling troubadours chasing the eternal sunset, one silky chorus at a time?
Yes. All of the above.