Burn Kit Baptizes You in The Feedback

Tino Valpa and Burn Kit

It had been three years since we last saw Tino Valpa on stage—the last time was with The Cryptics at The Stoop in March of 2022. That night didn’t feel like a show. It felt like church for people who don’t belong in churches. Sacred and feral. No pews, just pit. No dogma, just distortion. The kind of set that doesn’t ask for belief—it demands it.

The crowd was small, maybe 30 people tops, most of whom were members of the opening bands. But the energy was enormous. The floor at The Stoop groaned beneath our boots like it was trying to summon the ghosts we’d buried in silence. Every stomp of a boot against those warped floorboards cracked something open inside me. That show rewired me. It felt like resurrection. Like coming back into my own skin after being away too long. It wasn’t just a show—it was a collective exorcism, a communion of the unquiet.

The Cryptics at The Stoop in March 2022

And I was baptized in the feedback.

I didn’t write about it back then. Maybe I didn’t think I could do it justice. Maybe I wanted to keep it sacred. You don’t always realize you’re living through a before-and-after moment until long after it’s gone. But I carried it with me. That show still stands as the greatest I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen thousands of bands, but that night with The Cryptics remains unmatched. It taught me that connection isn’t about numbers. It’s about presence. It’s about how loudly a room of thirty can echo inside your chest for years.

Tino Valpa isn’t just a frontman. He’s a force. A presence. Someone who radiates conviction whether he’s on stage or just sharing a quiet moment of kindness. That first night seeing Tino on stage started a quiet revolution within me. After that show—without even knowing it—Tino began reshaping the way I saw myself. Especially my body.

I’ve spent years in a tug-of-war with that body. I’ve survived cancer. I’ve wrestled with disordered eating and ARFID. I’ve endured chronic illness that made me feel like a ghost trapped inside a crumbling house, unable to escape and wishing to be restored. For a long time, my relationship with my body was built on resentment and fear—on trying to shrink, hide, and control. I measured progress by how small I could make myself, how little I could need. I was trying to disappear while calling it recovery.

But watching Tino—through social media, music, and the way he carries himself on and off stage—started to shift that.

I knew Tino was straightedge before we even met. More people probably would have shown up at The Stoop on a Thursday night and given the touring East Coast band a proper chance if they weren’t a straightedge band. However, as a recovering straightedge emo kid, I knew this show with the help of Lustkill and The Plan B's would be killer.

However, I don’t think him being straightedge was the source of his magnetism. It was his lust for life. Despite touring relentlessly, he still finds the time to live life to the fullest. Whether it's jumping off bridges or immersing himself in different cultures around the world, it seems like he is always in top physical condition.  But not in a rigid or self-righteous way. His version of wellness isn’t about aesthetics or performance. It’s about honoring life. It’s about being fully here—for the music, the moment, and the people he loves. He makes taking care of yourself look like a radical act of presence, not punishment.

And something about that hit me—hard.

Tino made me want to be more alive in my body. Not thinner. Not more delicate. More alive.

He helped me shift my thinking from “how do I disappear?” to “how do I show up stronger?” From “how small can I be?” to “how much joy can I carry?” His example pushed me to ask not what my body could look like, but what it can do—how it can move, endure, and hold me up when I feel like falling apart.

Because of him, I started measuring my healing in hikes taken, meals enjoyed fresh from the garden, shows danced through—not inches or restrictions.

Tino didn’t save me. But he reminded me that my body, while still scarred and broken, was worth saving, and more importantly, enjoying.

And that kind of influence? That’s bigger than any setlist.

He made me want to be more alive in my body—made me believe that maybe, if I loved it a little more, I could do more amazing things with it. That shift saved me, in a quiet, private way. His energy made me want to heal. To exist. To thrive.

You can see that energy in how he performs. It’s not ego. It’s purpose. His joy on stage is physical. Kinetic. He dives into the crowd not because it looks cool, but because he means it. He doesn’t perform at people—he performs with them. You feel invited. Like you’re part of something bigger than noise and sweat and rhythm.

Burn Kit is the next evolution of Tino’s artistry. While The Cryptics brought a heavy dose of classic East Coast straightedge hardcore, Burn Kit moves into different territory—second-wave punk with a touch of southern California new wave, and something else I can’t quite name yet. It’s looser in some ways, more melodic, more expansive—but it still holds that same spine of brutal truths. Where The Cryptics punched, Burn Kit pulses.

When I first heard Burn Kit, I trusted it before I fully understood it. Because I trust Tino. I knew once I saw them live, I’d get it. And I did.

We caught Burn Kit live at The Foundry in Cleveland this past month. They were second-to-last on the bill—just before the legendary Dead Boys (who got their start in Cleveland before becoming CBGB mainstays). The room was packed. The air felt heavy with anticipation. And the moment they launched into their first track, Tino was airborne—leaping into the crowd—headfirst, fearless, everything you want from a frontman, fusing stage and floor with one body. He hit the floor like a firework, and in the chaos, my partner’s beer went flying, soaking his Vans and splashing up his jeans. We both laughed. That's punk rock, baby. It is messy, but it is also joyful.

The band behind him moved like a single living thing—tight, precise, relentless. Every beat was a heartbeat. Every riff a pulse. The music hit like memory and prophecy all at once. You didn’t just hear it. You felt it.

I saw a little girl at the front of the stage, sandwiched between her family members, giddy with excitement and dancing with her fist pumping the air. If Burn Kit is her first show, she’s lucky. She looked awestruck. I hope she always remembers what it felt like to see someone give that much of themselves to a room and see music used as a vehicle for joy, chaos, and communion.

Tino closed the set with gratitude—genuine, not performative. Thanking the crowd. Thanking the scene. Thanking The Deadboys. It’s not just routine—it’s reverent. It’s what someone does when they still believe music matters. When they know they can’t take any of it for granted. It's also why Burn Kit is being noticed by legendary bands like the Dead Boys and the Dwarves, with whom they will be touring with later this summer.

Paintstroke, the final Cryptics album, is in my top five records of all time. There’s a song on that album for every emotion I’ve ever survived. That record lives on my turntable during my most challenging moments. I play it when I need to remember who I am. I play it when I’m trying to become someone new. It's not background music—it's a survival tool. It's a compass.

I once played it front to back, then followed it with TSOL’s third album, Change Today? and The Doors, Morrison Hotel, and it felt like a sonic journey through punk history. Through my history. Tino’s music doesn’t just accompany—it illuminates. It educates. It invites you to keep learning. To keep becoming.

This show in Cleveland is now a permanent part of that archive. A new touchstone. A new chapter. Burn Kit isn’t a departure from The Cryptics—it’s a continuation. An expansion. A rebirth. The sound grew, but the spirit remained.

And I’m grateful I was there. Grateful I got to witness it. Grateful to still be standing, still showing up, still writing about it—because some nights, you don’t just watch the music.

You feel it build a home inside your ribs. Until next time, stay safe in the pit.