Some shows feel like concerts. Some feel like parties. And some — like this one — feel like ceremonies for the sacred absurd. On August 19th, 2012, Fubar hosted something that wasn’t just a performance but a collective inside joke, a nostalgia séance, and a surrealist celebration of 8-bit childhood — the First United Church of Nintendo.
Walking into Fubar that night felt like crossing into a parallel timeline where Mario is the messiah, Link is the patron saint of perseverance, and the communion wafer tastes suspiciously like stale Fruit Roll-Ups. The place was buzzing — not with typical pre-show conversation, but with playful anticipation.
People came dressed in all forms of Nintendo worship:
mushroom hats
fake mustaches
Princess Peach gowns
Triforce tees
some dude in full Wario cosplay for absolutely no reason
and at least three people carrying old plastic NES Zapper guns like religious artifacts
The stage was decked out in vibrant, campy props — pixel-art signage, neon-painted cardboard level designs, and a projector looping gameplay clips like stained-glass windows for the digital age. It looked like a church assembled by pop culture looters. It was glorious.
The “sermon” began with chiptune-style opening music — familiar tones from childhood game intros transformed into beefier, louder, more cathartic versions. Heads turned. Smiles appeared. Something in the crowd clicked.
When the lead “minister” of this church walked out — wearing a clerical robe, a Mario cap, and carrying what appeared to be a light-up Power Glove — the crowd erupted into cheers and giggles.
Then came the sacred proclamation:
“Brothers and sisters — today, we gather to remember the purest form of joy — the digital baptism of pressing START.”
From there, it was pure interactive theater.
They performed reinterpretations of classic Nintendo themes with live instruments — guitar leads mimicking game melodies, drums syncing to iconic in-game rhythms, synths pulsing like a star-power boost.
At times, it felt like being inside a cartoon.
At other times, like being inside a memory.
And occasionally — like being inside a chaotic basement sleepover back in 1995.
There were moments when the crowd would chant in unison, absurdly and sincerely:
“SE-GA SUCKS!”
“ALL HAIL NINTENDO!”
“ONE OF US! ONE OF US!”
(No shade to Sega — but this was holy ground, after all.)
The band leaned fully into the playful mania, delivering tongue-in-cheek monologues about leveling up in life, finding courage in the face of Bowser-shaped adversity, and always remembering to “collect every coin” along the journey.
One highlight came when they invited audience members to come up and “confess their gamer sins.” People stepped to the mic to admit things like:
- blowing into cartridges even though it didn’t do anything
- rage-quitting Mario Kart
- screen-peeking during GoldenEye 007
- never finishing Ocarina of Time because they got stuck in the Water Temple
The crowd roared after each confession — absolution through collective relatability.
Musically, the set was surprisingly tight. They weren’t just cosplay comedians — they were musicians with serious chops. They took those familiar 8-bit OST fragments and expanded them into full-bodied arrangements. At moments, it even dipped into post-rock territory — sweeping crescendos built from game melodies.
Every now and then, the band would pause for “blessings”:
sprinkling glow-in-the-dark confetti like holy ash,
handing out candy,
holding up old cartridges like relics.
It was silly. It was sincere. It was heartfelt.
No irony.
No cynicism.
Just joy.
By the time the final “benediction” came — a triumphant, triumphant jam-session version of the Super Mario Bros. overworld theme — the entire room was bouncing. Not aggressively — but gleefully.
Afterward, outside in the night air, people didn’t just talk about the show. They talked about childhood. They talked about sleepovers, late-night game sessions, first consoles, cousins and siblings, and pixel-shaped memories.
The First United Church of Nintendo did something beautiful:
They reminded everyone that joy doesn’t always have to be earned — sometimes it can just be re-experienced.
For one night, Fubar wasn’t a bar or a venue.
It was a sanctuary.
And the liturgy was pixelated.