Let UMS End. Then Let It Get Free.

I’ve been going to UMS for years.

Pre-COVID. Before pre-COVID. When it was scrappy and a little less curated.

South Broadway would fill up with sound, and we’d wander between bars, tucked-in patios and side-stage mechanic shops, chasing whoever was playing next.

This wasn’t just a festival. For us, it was a family ritual. My sister played UMS — more than once. My kid danced in the street. My brother flew in from Texas. My dad came along. We sweated through sets, grabbed beers, ate street tacos and made a weekend of it.

UMS gave us something that’s increasingly rare in this city: a public rhythm that belonged to everyone.

So yeah, it’s sad to see it go. But I also think: maybe it’s time.

The version that’s defined recent years — the more expensive, more polished, more professionally managed UMS — isn’t the one we need right now.

It became a full production: multi-day, multi-venue, multi-thousand-dollar endeavor. Even if it sells out, it loses money. Even if the artists thrive, the structure strains. Safety protocols. Staff coordination. Climate-response plans. Six-figure underwriting just to keep the lights on.

At some point, you have to admit that the model doesn’t fit the moment.

But UMS didn’t fail. It evolved. And maybe now it’s time to evolve again.

UMS started as a $5, DIY, local-reporter-built music crawl. It was never meant to be a minor-league Coachella. It wasn’t supposed to be this big, heavy machine. It was supposed to be joyful. Local. Alive.

If the structure isn’t working, maybe it’s time to let it decompose — to return to the soil of what made it good in the first place — and let something smaller, freer and more rooted grow in its place.

Because Denver doesn’t need another fenced-off festival. It needs more porch shows. More three-band block parties. More people gathering in backyards and pocket parks.

What if UMS didn’t end — what if it decentralized?

Forget the main stage. Forget the $130 ticket. What if we launched a summer of hyperlocal music, hosted by neighbors, for neighbors?

Call it the Unofficial Music Series. Or the Underground Music Society. Or nothing at all.

It’s not about the name. It’s about the energy. The feeling. The reason we all showed up in the first place.

We’re living in a more expensive, more anxious, more siloed Denver. But the need for joy, music and real civic gathering hasn’t gone anywhere.

UMS is over. But maybe that’s not a crisis. Maybe it’s an invitation.

To start something a little messier. A little more human. A little less designed — and a lot more alive.

I’ll bring the folding chairs. You bring the drinks. Does anyone have an amp?

Let’s start something.

Antonio Parés is a north Denver dad, neighbor and longtime music fan who brings his most valuable civic tool, his folding chairs, everywhere.

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