Okay, let's get right into it. I think we can all agree that a truly bad reunion, the kind that's just a cynical cash grab with half the original members phoning it in, is a bummer. Nobody wants to see their heroes look bored or out of sync. StreetSmarts is probably going to focus on those worst-case scenarios, and I get it. Those shows can leave a sour taste. But I'm here to argue that those are the exceptions, not the rule. And more importantly, the very act of a reunion tour does far more to polish a legacy than tarnish it. Here's why. First, legacy isn't a museum piece locked in a vault. It's a living thing for the fans. A reunion gives a whole new generation a chance to experience the music live, in a way no streaming service or old DVD ever can. That connection is powerful. It transforms songs from nostalgia into a shared, present-tense event, which actually strengthens the band's cultural footprint. Second, think about the narrative. A great reunion can rewrite a messy ending. Bands often break up in acrimony. A successful tour shows growth, reconciliation, and a shared respect for what they built. That's a better final chapter than decades of public feuding. It completes the story in a satisfying way. And finally, the "cash grab" accusation is too easy. Is it work for pay? Of course. So was every tour they ever did. The motivation is less important than the execution. If they deliver a passionate, authentic performance that honors the original material, then the fans get what they want, the band gets paid, and the legacy gets a massive, celebratory boost. The risk of a subpar show is outweighed by the immense benefit of a triumphant return. A legacy isn't tarnished by trying; it's only tarnished by not caring. And most reunions prove the band still cares deeply about that connection.

I actually went to that same Pixies tour you mentioned. And yeah, it was different. But my takeaway wasn't that the legacy was tarnished. It was that the songs are so damn strong they can survive different interpretations, even by their own creators. That’s a testament to the work, not a dilution of it. You called it a “professional performance” like that’s a bad thing. I saw a band treating its catalog with respect and delivering it with precision to people who never got to see them the first time. That doesn’t erase the raw, weird 90s bootlegs; it just adds another layer to the story. You’re really hanging your argument on this idea of a “clean ending” and preserving a “myth.” But that’s a critic’s perspective, not a fan’s reality. For the people who actually loved the band, a messy, acrimonious split is a wound. A reunion that shows those people figuring it out, or even just agreeing to celebrate the work together, is healing. It doesn’t soften the legacy; it humanizes it. The Stooges reunion didn’t make Raw Power less dangerous; it proved those songs were timeless enough to blow the roof off 30 years later. And let’s be exhaustive about this “half the members” point. You’re right, it’s not ideal. But legacy isn’t a membership roster. It’s the music. If a key member is gone, the audience decides. If they buy tickets and leave happy, the legacy is being served. If it feels hollow, they vote with their wallets and the tour folds. The market polices this. The fact that so many of these tours sell out proves that for most fans, the chance to hear those songs in a live setting, even a different one, is more valuable than protecting some pristine, frozen-in-amber idea of the past. A tarnished legacy comes from creating bad new work that contradicts your old message, or from personal scandals that poison the art. Playing your classic songs with passion, for an audience that wants to hear them, is the opposite of that. It’s a reaffirmation. The risk of a mediocre night is always there, in any concert, by any band at any age. But the greater sin, to me, would be letting that iconic music die on the vine, unheard by new ears, because we were too worried about the myth getting a wrinkle. Legacy isn’t a static trophy; it’s a flame, and reunion tours are a chance to pass it on.

But isn't the whole point of a legacy that it endures and connects, not that it stays frozen behind glass? You keep talking about the myth, but I'm talking about the actual, living impact on people. StreetSmarts, you call a reunion a "sad parody" and say it turns a radical statement into a comfortable night out. But that's assuming the band phones it in, and that the audience is just passively consuming nostalgia. That's a cynical read. When I saw The Stooges or even a different-version-of a band, the crowd wasn't sitting there politely. It was explosive. That energy isn't manufactured; it's proof the music still has radical power. You're protecting an idea, but I'm watching the idea actually work on a new crowd. And you're right, the music business runs on brands. But so what? The fans aren't buying a brand; they're buying an experience. If the experience delivers—if those songs make people feel something powerful in 2024—then the business side is just the engine that made it happen. Saying "it's mining a depleted vein" dismisses the genuine joy and discovery happening in that arena. A depleted vein doesn't sell out stadiums with screaming twenty-year-olds. Your strongest point is about key members. But let's be thorough: a legacy is bigger than personnel. It's the songs. If the surviving members, or even a partial lineup, can deliver the spirit and the sound, the essence survives. The audience are the ultimate judges. If it feels like a hollow cash grab, they won't show up. The fact these tours often succeed massively proves that, for most, the trade-off is worth it. They'd rather have an imperfect live connection than no connection at all. Finally, you say a clean end preserves power. I say that's a death sentence for relevance. A legacy that isn't touched, heard, or celebrated live becomes a history lesson. A reunion tour, even an imperfect one, fights that. It shouts, "This mattered then and it matters now." The risk of a mediocre show is real, but it's a risk worth taking. The greater tragedy is letting the music fade away because we were too precious about its past. A legacy isn't tarnished by being shared; it's extinguished by being locked away.

Okay, you keep coming back to this idea of the "real story" being over, and that anything after is a smudged fingerprint. But I think you're holding onto a purist ideal that just doesn't match how art actually lives in the world. That "specific, chaotic alchemy" you're protecting? It already happened. It's on the records. No reunion tour can erase that. What it can do is let that alchemy resonate in a new time, with new people. You say a professional performance is what a cover band does. But it's not a cover band. It's the actual architects, or at least some of them, presenting their life's work. Calling that "maintenance" dismisses the sheer physical and emotional effort it takes to do that well, night after night. It's not maintenance; it's stewardship. And this point about the market is crucial. You call it confusing commercial validation with artistic integrity. I say it's trusting the audience. You think they're just buying nostalgia, hoping to recapture a feeling. I think that's patronizing. They're buying an experience in the now. If the performance is hollow, the word gets out, and the tour fails. The ones that endure, that sell out multiple legs, are doing something right. The connection is real. That's not a smudged fingerprint; it's proof the original design was so good it still works, even in different hands. A legacy locked in a vault, protected from any new interpretation for fear of "smudging," becomes academic. It becomes a footnote. A legacy that gets played, shouted, and felt in a sweaty arena is alive. The risk of a less-than-perfect night is infinitely better than the guarantee of silence. The greater tarnish isn't a band trying and maybe being different; it's the music being treated as too fragile to ever be touched again. That doesn't honor a legacy; it buries it.