Jess Nelson Benson Boone took over Ball Arena on September 22, 2025, in Denver, Colorado, and the arena was alive with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand up and your chest feel a little too full of excitement. The arena wasn’t just a space; it was a living, breathing organism, pulsating with thousands of fans ready to laugh, scream, cheer, and sing their hearts out. The lights dimmed, the hum of expectation rolled through the crowd, and in that moment, it was clear that tonight was going to be something special.
Brooke Combe
Brooke Combe stepped onto the stage like a whisper of charm that somehow grew into a warm, infectious wave that swept the entire arena along with her. Dressed in sleek, all-black, her sunglasses perched coolly on her face, she held a tambourine—shaking, tapping, and jingling it in rhythm with her songs in a way that was almost hypnotic. Her voice carried the unmistakable lilt of her Scottish accent, and even when her words tumbled a little too quickly for the ear to catch every syllable, the sentiment—the sheer, uncontainable gratitude and joy she radiated—spoke louder than anything else.
Brooke moved through her set with this effortless, charming energy, giving little monologues between songs, sharing funny or sweet tidbits, and laughing with the crowd as if we were all in on a private joke. At one point, she asked everyone to put their lights up, and the arena transformed into a shimmering galaxy, everyone swaying together, completely captivated by her presence. Her energy wasn’t explosive like Benson’s—it was thoughtful, quirky, and utterly enchanting in its own understated way.
Benson Boone
And then Benson Boone. Oh, where do I even start? From the instant he emerged, the arena erupted into an almost tangible wave of exhilaration. The guy is a storm on stage—alive, unstoppable, and completely magnetic. He ran across that vast stage like it was his playground, singing flawlessly, dancing with abandon, flipping—because of course it’s not a Benson show without flips—and still somehow managing to make it all feel effortless, like he was born to do this (spoiler alert: he is).
His three outfit changes, culminating in a suit for the encore, only amplified the spectacle. And yes, there was twerking—Denver felt like a special city for that one, a playful, cheeky moment that sent everyone into delighted laughter. The t-shirt launcher surprise was unforgettable: Benson’s best friend manned the cannon, firing out shirts that dictated the cover of the night. For Denver, it was “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls, a beautiful, unexpected twist that felt like a secret shared just between him and the crowd.
And then came the chandelier moment—a part of the show that made me gasp, maybe audibly. Benson floated above the audience, suspended as if by magic, singing “Moonbeam Ice Cream” (or whatever the song is actually called—titles hardly matter when the experience feels like this). Fireworks shot up from beneath him, mini explosions dotted the stage throughout the show, and watching him hover there, voice soaring, was a moment that felt suspended in time. Every note, every movement, every glance toward the crowd carried an electric intimacy that no arena could dilute.
Watching a young fan in the row ahead of me—eyes wide, voice loud, living his absolute best Benson Boone fantasy—was almost as moving as the performance itself. It reminded me that concerts aren’t just songs and lights; they’re shared experiences, moments of pure joy and obsession, little bubbles where fandom and admiration collide in a way that feels almost sacred.
Benson Boone didn’t just perform that night. He enchanted. He tumbled, twirled, floated, laughed, and roared across the stage, leaving every person in Ball Arena with the unmistakable feeling that they’d just witnessed something rare, something wild, and something entirely unforgettable.
Photo Credit: McLean Long
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