Dave Grohl may have been born to play the Garden—and it’s as much of a not-so-good thing as it is a great thing.

I have been a big fan of the Foos since around 1999 or so, and I rank that year’s There Is Nothing Left to Lose as one of my favorite recordings of any band. What I love about this album is the insanely clever melodies that permeate every song, and how influenced the songwriting is by (seemingly) incongruous 70’s artists like Gerry Rafferty. The album begins simply and straightforward, and then layers upon itself with lyrical and musical complexities, almost like a time line of a band’s entire songwriting career condensed into one record. No surprise that it was a hard act to follow.

Other albums have, of course, followed from Grohl and company, but none have reached the musical heights of There Is Nothing Left to Lose. This isn’t to say that each of these records hasn’t had their own merits; there really isn’t such a thing as a bad Foo Fighter album. Quite possibly the problem lies with the Foos making the mistake of trying to TOP themselves with each record. 2005’s In Your Honor is probably the most conspicuous example of this. A double album boasting 20 tracks—10 heavy and 10 acoustical—In Your Honor, like many modern double albums, breaks under its own weight. Had they trimmed the record down to its best 11 or 12 tracks, interspersing the heavy and the light, they would have had a shot at surpassing There Is Nothing Less to Lose. However, with each albums’ (sexy word alert) mounting attempts to become the prototypical Big Rock Record, many subtleties have been left behind.

Luckily for the Foos, subtlety spells death at the Garden. Over the last 13 years, the Foo Fighters have grown steadily into what just might be the most perfect stadium band of its time. Good natured, anthem heavy, and full of rock monkey business, they split their most recent tour into two stages (very much a sign of the times); the main stage being the place where the money is made and the band works out its relentlessly tight hooks so that they are strong enough to uphold Grohl’s primal screams and howls. Later in the show, the band moseys on over to the smaller stage on the other side of the arena (via a ramp that runs through the center of the crowd; I’d hate to be one of Dave Grohl’s pant legs), and they relax into the set list’s more somber numbers, including a well done and low key “My Hero” (a clip of which can be seen below, recorded by yours truly Jose el Retardo; more on the Foos below).

Here is where we get to know the band, enjoy a tongue and cheek triangle solo, and we see Dave hand drummer Taylor Hawkins a bone so that he can sing his solid number Cold Day In the Sun off of the afore mentioned double record. The Foos have the right mixture of stage presence and musical chops to pull all of this off without boring anybody in the audience, and from what I could see not many people left to buy a beer and take a piss.

And then it was off to the main stage again, where the band brought the show to a satisfying, if not a magical, ending. The great thing about it all is that Dave and the boys seemed to genuinely feel appreciative of the welcome New York gave them (and it was an authentically warm welcome; the crowd seemed to eat up every moment), and appreciated the gravity of having now, after 13 years of empire-building, reached the top of their musical careers. And they played like they intended to stay there for a while.