When the lights finally set, an orange glow backlit the players, all dressed in white and looking almost messianic. Rhian Teasdale, clad in a white tank, spandex shorts, and angelically winged tennies, stalked onto the stage as the music kicked in. Arms up and flexed like a bodybuilder, she prowled toward the microphone with the confidence of the world’s smallest heavyweight champion. 

A driving, hi-hat heavy rhythm brought us from zero to seventy, as lead guitarist and co-founder Hester Chambers (tucked happily away upstage), lays down an effortlessly catchy riff. The first single, “Catch These Fists” from the group’s sophomore album Moisturizer encapsulates what Wet Leg does so well and so consistently. The song starts hard, then holds itself back like a horse at the gate, allowing the soft menace of Rhian Teasdale’s vocals to cut through the noise and build the song back up to a full gallop.  By switching between dynamic polarities, Wet Leg creates structural dissonance that keeps the song feeling fresh and leaning forward.

“I know all too well what you’re like,” Teasdale warns as the guitar’s relentless hook keeps the audience on the balls of their feet, almost unable to stop bouncing up and down. “I don’t want your love, I just want to fight,” the audience shouts back into the night. 

Teasdale dons a slime green, acrylic guitar, as the band glides right into their second, breakout single, “Wet Dream,” a groovy number that slides between sexual encouragement and admonishment. It’s surreal and sexual, specific and opaque, threatening and fun. 

Playing a twenty-song set, the band’s oeuvre feels fully realised. Their self-titled (and Grammy award-winning) debut album, intermixed with their second offering, create a performance that is playful, electrifying and seemingly effortless. The set is never overridden with spectacle. The stage is empty (with the exception of their instruments, a red rotary phone), and the most pageantry you’ll see is a bubble machine on overdrive and the occasional strobe light. And there’s no need for anything more than that when the spectacle is in the sound. That’s what keeps the audience off their phones and in their bodies. You can’t film a show for your Instagram story when you’re too busy dancing.

As the band rolled into “CPR,” the opening track off of Moisturizer, I couldn’t help but feel my love for rock’n’roll being resurrected. In this age of social media, it’s easy to feel that the genre is flagging, mired in purism and an unevolving sound. “If you’re a ghost, then oh my god / how can you give me the chills?” Teasdale playfully questions. If Rock is indeed on the rocks, then Wet Leg is here to give it mouth-to-mouth, and bang on its chest until it comes roaring back with new life.  

The red rotary phone rings. “Hello, 999, what’s your emergency?” a help line voice asks the audience.  “Well, the thing is,” Teasdale stammers back “I – I – I – I – I – I’m in love!” The feeling was mutual. 

The post Wet Leg resurrects rock’n’roll live in Chicago appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Image by Taylor Regulskifor for Lollapalooza. Cover image: Ca7riel & Paco Amoroso by Ismael Quintanilla III for Lollapalooza.

Oh, and there’s music; lots of music! Spread out over the one-mile length of the park, the festival boasts over 170 different acts from chart-toppers to local indie bands. With seven stages to choose from, the shows all share overlapping time slots, placing you in unique musical dilemmas. Do you see Gracie Abrams or Cage the Elephant? Foster the People or T-Pain? Clairo or Doechii? (I chose Doechii with no regrets but also no small amount of FOMO.)

Headliners ranged from Tyler the Creator to Korn, and a pop battle between chart Queens Olivia Rodrigo and Sabrina Carpenter.  Here are Quip’s highlights from the festival: 

Durand Bernarr brings Soul, R&B, and … a foot fetish?

Durand Bernarr took the 3 PM slot at the T-Mobile stage, looking like a spring day. Baggy, cloud- white boots, a green overcoat sprouting giant, multi-colored carnations, all topped off with boxy, brown epaulettes. Bernarr, a longtime performer and producer who’s just recently come into the limelight, struts around the stage with the confidence of a ballroom diva, hips swaying and shoulders animated by the slightest shimmy.

His voice is the star of the show, a buzzing baritone that warms you with vocal fry and a wide vibrato even as Bernarr slides into the upper registers of a three-octave range. Gazing at the camera like an ex-lover who now has regrets, Bernarr embodies queer confidence. The music encapsulates this, sunny and bouncy with a sprinkle of a “don’t-mess-with-me” attitude. 

What would be typical R&B fare is elevated by Bernarr’s lyricism, which is sexy and tongue-in-cheek. “Who knew footprints could taste so delicious / two-step all on my face,” he sings passionately about what one can only assume is a foot fetish. “I be at the market / Piggies running round while I sit here / With my mouth open wide,” he purrs as the bass climbs up and ripples out into the crowd of fresh-faced truants. 

Beyond being a fetish evangelist, Bernarr takes to being the crowd’s teacher, sometimes instructing, sometimes commanding the audience to move their bodies as well as their minds. “Turn to your neighbour and say: The trauma is not your fault, but the healing is your responsibility.” With an assertive grace, Durand Bernarr continues to step more fully into his own light, both as a musician and a performer. It’s a spectacular glow.

Left image by Roger Hofor, right by Nathan Zuckerfor,  for Lollapalooza

The Blessed Madonna brings the protest to the party

Drag queens line the front of the Perry Stage. It’s a smorgasbord of bodies: an elf, a Lego, a bearded lady, a fairy with their heart(s) on their wings. It’s the vibe one would expect at Pride. June may be well behind us, but the gay club has come to Lollapalooza, brought to you by The Blessed Madonna. 

A global sensation, The Blessed Madonna is also a staple of Chicago’s house music scene, known for their genre experimentation that infuses anything from disco to techno. Whatever she’s mixing, it always manages to feel fresh and surprising. 

She takes to the stage wearing a “Punch Your Local Neo-Nazi” T-shirt as the screen flashes gritty images of protest behind the stage, boasting slogans from “Trans Power Now” to “Stop Arming Israel”. There’s a political undercurrent of resistance and empowerment that informs the supremely danceable set of mostly wordless music.

That undercurrent is anything but demure. “Bigger and bolder and rougher and tougher” blasts the hook, “I’m the one and only dominator, there is no other.” A pulsing bass line drowns your ear as the drums reset your heartbeat. 

Within the incessant party that is Lollapalooza, Madonna reminds us that resistance takes many forms. Living outside of the mainstream proudly and joyfully is one of them. Midway through Thursday’s lineup, it was the perfect way to get amped up for the rest of the weekend, and a reminder for what comes after it. 

The Blessed Madonna by Shea Flynn for Lollapalooza.

All elephant, no cage

When I arrived at the Bud Light stage, Matt Shultz, the frontman of early aughts indie darling Cage the Elephant, is running through the audience as his brother Brad crowd surfs, upturned guitar shredding into the sun. “Damn,” I thought to myself, certain I was witnessing the end of a fun set, “I must have gotten the times wrong.” I had not gotten the times wrong. Cage the Elephant had only just begun, but with the energy of a bull elephant in a china shop. 

What’s beautiful about rock music is how ebullient it can make its fans. Two women in front of me turn to each other, clasping all hands and screaming the chorus of “Spiderhead” into each other’s open mouths. As Shultz runs across the stage, you can hear his heartbeat in his voice as he works up a sweat. It’s not about perfection, he’s hoarse and sometimes pitchy, but carries the unbridled energy of a showman who is giving you everything he’s got. 

“It’s a pleasure to be back,” Shultz says, taking a rare breather. “Everyone in the band considers Lollapalooza to be our start. We played here back in 2007. We played right after Lady Gaga, that’s the truth. Brad threw up on stage.” 

It’s easy to forget how many hits Cage the Elephant has under its belt, from “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked,” “Trouble,” and the global hit “Cigarette Daydreams”. Still, their latest album, Neon Pill, is an extension of their evocative songwriting edge, as songs like “Metaverse” stand tall inside their earlier oeuvre. 

In the set’s final minutes, Shultz took a moment to pay tribute. “This past week, we lost a legend…a beautiful human being.” They played an achingly sweet cover of Black Sabbath’s “Changes” with the sun shimmering through the skyscrapers, twilight infusing the lyrics with even more nostalgia for a legend now gone. Rest in Peace, Ozzy. 

Cage The Elephant by Ashley Osborn for Lollapalooza.

#hiphoponsteroids 

Making my way back to the T-Mobile stage on Saturday, I thought I’d kick back and take a breather while waiting for Doechii’s much-anticipated set. Out of the dust floating around the Lakeshore stage, I heard a thickly accented voice roar out, “How you doing, Chicago?” It was enveloped by a bombastic brass section blaring over the air. 

What I love about any music festival is the potential to be surprised. You can turn a corner and find your new favourite band. Argentinian duo, Ca7riel and Paco Romoso, were just that for me. Packing in more high-octane, big-band, salubrious sound than any one stage could contain, they were a festival all on their own.

I had never seen or heard anything quite like them. The only comparison that came to mind was the recent lauded collaboration by Anderson Paak and Bruno Mars, the aptly named Silk Sonic. Ca7riel and Paco Romoso tap a similar vein, then inject it with steroids. 

The result is a chaotic fusion of jazz, Latin pop, EDM, and rock’n’roll held together by the most eccentric vocal stylings you can imagine. They switch in and out of ‘characters’ faster than a Simpsons voice-over actor. One moment, they’re harmonising together in smooth Boyz II Men fashion; the next, they’re taking turns ripping through the sound barrier with some of the most percussive bars you’ve ever heard. 

The lyrics are broadcast in translation in real time, which turns out to be a mistake as it causes considerable lag to the projected video. Still, what does come through only adds to the campy swag of the band. “#TETAS”, the second track off their most recent album “PAPOTA,” is a swaggering satire of social media culture. “Bigger audience, muscles, sports cars / words like glow up, vibe check,” they croon, a cornucopia of empty but emblematic words. 

The duo play guides to a wannabe superstar: “If you want to be someone, you can’t be yourself,” they caution. A radio DJ interjects over the loudspeaker, “No, no, no! Bigger!  Use a hashtag. Bring back the dab!” The two turn to each other, confused. “¿Como que hashtag?” 

 “I don’t know dude! Say tits!” Ca7riel suggests as the song (d)evolves into a mindless obedience to the popular, hashtagging and dabbing their way to success. “Hashtag Tetas/ Pectorales grandes, esa es la receta” they spew. 

“Chicago, do you want more?” Paco Romoso rumbles like a wrestling emcee. He gives a knowing smirk as a jaw-droppedcrowd screams in the affirmative. 

Ca7riel & Paco Amoroso by Ismael Quintanilla III for Lollapalooza.

DJO makes us feel it 

A replica of Chicago’s Bean fills the stage, glowing green around the edges as if eclipsed by a strange sun. DJO (the moniker of Joe Kearny of Stranger Things fame) belts out a strange prelude over a glimmering synth arpeggiation. “Love and hate decide / Money, murder, lies / The future is the same / Why try?”. It’s a dour line to frame a set with, but it gives us a hint at DJO’s M.O. – ethereal yet grounded, cynical but open to delight.  

Without skipping a beat, the band rolls into the highly acerbic “Gloom,” a manic exploration of growing misanthropy that evolves from a personal slight into a worldview. “I hate this city, yes, I’m ready to go!” he shouts “I never liked it, I belong on the road.” 

DJO’s sound is evolving and eclectic, meandering from highly produced synth rock to the more upbeat Ringo-esque piano bop “Charlie’s Garden,” complete with a facetime from Charlie Heaton. It’s a smart move to put a finger on your fame. Especially when making the transition from TV star to musician. DJO celebrates the connection, but then moves on. 

And he more than acquits himself, embodying a laid-back, classic rock cool that is both charming and commanding. He manages to infuse the wild messiness audiences live for in a live set with polished numbers that alternate between the heartfelt (“Chateau”) and the tongue-in-cheek (“Basic Being Basic”).

The melancholic anthem “End of Beginning” rose to a new level, framed by the city’s towering skyscrapers. “And when I’m back in Chicago, I feel it,” he bellowed, with enthusiastic support from the “biggest crowd he’d ever seen.” The hit bled straight into “Back on You,” for which DJO brought out forty teenage singers from Uniting Voices, to bring the set to a truly transcendent close. It was a celebration of the city, with the city, by the city. “I love you, Chicago,” he said as he exited the stage, seeming as overwhelmed by the moment as we were. 

Djo by Pooneh Ghana for Lollapalooza.

Doechii serves a masterclass 

Welcome to Doechii’s School of hip-hop. Class is in Session. The real lesson is just as much one in hip-hop and rap, as it is in how to be a headliner. Placed in the seven o’clock slot on Saturday, the self-proclaimed Swamp Princess created a fully realised universe in the course of fifty minutes. 

Dancers filled the rowed desks on the stage, hitting the tabletops to punctuate the percussion. Doechii, wearing a custom Dsquared2 fit and long braids styled to the right, struts on top of a giant boombox turned on its side. The set is spun by DJ Miss Milan, a longtime collaborator and an immaculate hype woman, who lets Doechii fully inhabit her character without the need to work the crowd. That character (or characters – Doechii the Don, Doechii the Dean, Doechii Supreme) prowls the stage with a reptilian calm, crawling over desks, twerking on the railings, and practically eating the camera.

Framed by the evocative imagery she crafted for her album Alligator Bites Never Heal, Doechii delivers her rapacious rhyme schemes with vigour and ease (see: Catfish and Nissan Altima). She pays homage to hip hop legends Trina (“Pull Over”) and Doug E. Fresh (“La Di Da Di”) as well as Queen Bey’s “America Has a Problem,” interpolating them into her now already iconic music.

Not a moment is left to chance. It’s choreographed with precise artistic vision, and executed just as masterfully, making you fully forget yourself for the remainder of the set. The festival’s other headliners paled in comparison to the spectacle she offered. Still on the rise after a historic win for best Rap Album at the Grammys — she is the third woman to do so— Doecchi’s performance is a testament to her staying power. She’s only just getting started. 

Doechii by Greg Noire for Lollapalooza.

Hungry for the Wolf 

Full disclosure: Remi Wolf is the artist I was most excited for going into Lollapalooza. I’m a fan of her music with its funky pop grooves, playfully horny lyricism, and vocals that would stir Janis Joplin in her grave. But I’ve never seen her live before, and had high hopes.  

By Sunday afternoon, as I weaselled my way into the crowd, my excitement had been beaten down by four days of unrelenting sun. But at five o’clock, Wolf strode onto the stage, wearing a camo print cocktail dress and a see-through crinoline, charging right into her single “Cinderella” with the energy of a toreador. There’s a certain kind of breathlessness that takes over when you see an artist that sounds the same as their record yet somehow transcends it. Her voice is huge, filling up the air with an unpredictability that is as comforting as it is electrifying. 

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” she teases the crowd before leading them through a series of exercises to “prepare them for the insanity.” It’s a full body shakeout, followed by a Freddie-inspired Ay-Oh call and response. “Now let’s take care of your brain,” she instructs us, “Put your finger on your forehead and shake that shit out!” And just like that, the crowd was out of their heads, into their hips, and ready to party. 

Songs like “Liz,” a celebration of a woman who “taught [her] how to live,” strike an emotional chord, while “Toro,” a bawdy celebration of good sex, shows off her dynamism as a songwriter. As a lyricist, she’s as clever as Sabrina Carpenter or Chappell Roan, but less about showing it. In fact, the innuendo takes a back seat, it’s the music that fucks. You can see it in the musicians, gyrating their hips inside the groove. More importantly, you can see it in the audience who are doing the same. 

Beyond the music, Remi Wolf is just cool. She feels like the missing third to Abbi and Ilana from Broad City; funny and flawed, self-embracing and self-frustrated. It’s fascinating watching her on the same weekend as superstars Rodrigo and Carpenter. Alongside Wolf, their on-stage personas feel glaringly crafted, reaching for relatability but too preternaturally famous to have it. 

“Once again,” she said near the end of her set. “My name is Remi Wolf. I’m gonna keep saying it.” It’s a smart move for an artist who feels exceptional enough to headline. Still, there’s no need. Once you’ve seen her, she’s impossible to forget.

Remi Wolf by Charles Reagan for Lollapalooza.

The post Lollapalooza leaves us lifted appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Riot Fest is built different. For starter’s Douglas Park offers an expansive atmosphere second only to Lollapalooza, but with fewer fountains and pavement and more lawn for you to kick back on. Punks of all persuasions traverse the ground in what feels like a nostalgic Ren Fest of rock ’n roll. 

Local staples like The Cobra Lounge and Bar Tola have stands, and there’s more eye candy than you’ll know what to do with, from Jesus playing hacky sack, to burlesque dancers at this year’s inaugural Strip-O-Rama, to a small chapel with an ordained minister where dozens of couples tied the knot. It’s pure, beautiful chaos.

Yet it’s the music that keeps people coming back year after year, and 2024’s lineup was no exception. Big names like Fall Out Boy, Beck, Slayer, and Sublime, closed out the nights. These are our top acts from a wild weekend. 

At Riot Fest, Hot Mulligan wants to hear you scream 

At its best, emo music offers a sense of raw catharsis. It’s meant to be sung or screamed as loud as possible until maybe – just maybe – that weight on your back gets a little bit lighter. Or maybe that’s just all the air leaving your body? 

Regardless, Hot Mulligan provides exactly that. Nathan ‘Tades’ Sanville skulked onto the stage wearing the classic emo get up: a black T and even blacker jeans. With indistinguishably long dark hair and beard and a barrel chested rasp of a voice he quietly commands the spotlight. 

Their music is anything but quiet. It’s 45 minutes of pedal to the floor pop-punk emo. It’s relentlessly peppy, yet the lyrics that punch through are undeniably doleful. “Can’t stand the fact I know where you are / Ten years, I still try to spot your car” Sanville screams out over a grainy guitar hook. It’s their lead single “Shhh Golf is On” off their latest album “Why Would I Watch”. 

“Do you like yelling? He asks the crowd after the song. They roared back in the affirmative. “Prove it” he taunted them. For the rest of the set, the audience more than acquitted itself. 

A well polished Spoon

There’s a specific kind of energy that comes with an anti-establishment themed music festival. The rage against the machine aesthetic can be both exciting and alternately cloying when you’re selling self titled seltzer waters (re: Riot Pop!) 

So to see alt rock darling’s Spoon take the stage felt surprising. They’re calm. There’s very little rage here. In fact this 5 piece sounds more like pop in comparison to Riot Fest’s main fair. It’s catchy, with groovy piano hooks and a steady beat that burrows gently inside you like a second heart. 

They don’t pander to their audience; it’s not that type of show. You can get into it. You can zone out. You can do both. They’re not trying to seduce you. 

Still what’s remarkable about Spoon is that out of every band I heard that weekend, they had the best mix. I could hear the nuance of every instrument interweaving with one other. It wasn’t a strain to distinguish the lyrics.

Their music plays with enough tight turns, clever drop outs, and rhythmic mix ups to keep their audiences ear. And even if Spoon is no longer reinventing the wheel in regards to genre or sound, its less performative take on existential angst was as welcome as the clouds that hovered in front of the blistering sun for their set. It was a moment of cool in a weekend of heat.

St. Vincent is just the same but brand new

Dressed like a young Morticia Adams, a spidery St Vincent (real name Annie Clark) looked statuesque on the Metro Cabaret Stage. Framed by three large black and silver arches, St Vincent stoically murmured the second track “Reckless” from her latest album “All Born Screaming.” 

“I watched you all night til the dawn had come”  she whispered, painting a converse view of the sun setting before her over a crowd of thousands. The lyrics are evocatively elusive but they draw the audience in effortlessly, stitching them into her web, as a droning bell tolls out. It’s intoxicating in its monotony. 

“A stranger comes in my path / And I’ll eat you up. / I’ll tear you limb from limb or I’ll fall in love.” St Vincent warns. Then the beat drops, carving out a hole in your chest like a lighting bolt striking wet ground. The synth blares with an almost cosmic dissonance. It’s at once romantic and unsettling, slipping into your blood like a drug that might push you over the edge at any moment. 

After her Grammy award winning yet divisive sixth album, Daddy’s Home, her latest effort feels both like a reinvention and a return to form. There’s an esoteric quality to her production, an element of sonic chiaroscuro, that heightens the album’s emotionality in a way that feels new for the forty one year old prodigy.

Songs like “Flea” and “Broken Man” (the albums first two singles) are thundering classic rock collages to rile you up. Meanwhile the swirling “Big Time Nothing” presents a guttural anti-mantra that reads like an AI generated self-help book. The verses instruct the audience with do’s and don’ts of acceptable behaviour as a bass synth loop rumbles like a car down a video game race track.  “I look inside and,” she chants and her bandmates answer her with a choral “Nothing”. 

All Born Screaming is surprisingly personal for the often opaque St Vincent. Yet interwoven with her entire oeuvre, it still allows for all of Annie Clark’s avatars to come out to play. From the benzo beauty queen of Daddy’s Home grabbing her crotch like an absentminded child to All Born Screaming’s self-exorcising Broken Man throwing drum stands and writhing on the ground to the sound of his own mind bending guitar licks. 

A Tarantino faced cameraman dressed in a trench coat and a permanent frown gets in on the action, broadcasting it all from the stage. St Vincent all but chews on the camera, devouring the audience’s attention in an ouroboric loop. 

Cursive confounds 

“Should we start early?” The sound engineer asked over his headset. The rain had just let up on Sunday afternoon, and a sea of ponchos looked to the sky expectantly to see if it would hold. An enthusiastic fan with a kid on his shoulder turned back to the sound booth. “Yes please!” he grinned. 

Dressed in a T-shirt with a lederhosen print, Cursive lead singer Tim Kasher’s voice strains out above the crowd. It’s a voice that feels like it’s always about to crack open. “I’ll try to make this perfectly clear,” he starts out “I’m so transparent I disappear.” 

Cursive is one of the bands credited with bringing the Midwest Emo scene onto the map. Over twenty years after its emergence, you can still hear the genre’s iconic DNA in Cursive’s music. 

Unapologetic time signature changes captivate and confuse the ear.  Horns punctuate sweeping piano arpeggios like a celestial marching band sounding its dying call. Elements of math rock are overlaid with the lyricism of angst and self-loathing. “I’d like to sock my piety in the eye” Kasher belts out.

Yet beyond these basic elements, Cursive does something masterful with its arrangements – cellist Megan Siebe brings beauty to the bloodshed, as Patrick Newbery underlays a propulsive melodic synth score. The polyrhythmic precision between the drums and keys creates a time signature that confounds the heartbeat with an almost existential arrhythmia. 

I couldn’t tell if I wanted to dance or take a Xanax. And while the audience might have been confused as to whether they wanted to mosh or just stoically take it all in, Cursive had their full attention.

 Waxahatchee gives us the night sways  

 After fifteen minutes of listening to Pavement warbling, I decided it might be time to call it a night. Strolling across the grounds, guided by the light of a giant Ferris Wheel, my ears picked up a sound that brought me back to the Texas State Fair. I took a hard left and wandered over to the Radical Stage following the waves of a crystalline voice that swept out into the dark like the sound of a river at night. 

Country music is divisive these days. Everyone seems to have a strong opinion about what it is or isn’t. Still listening to Waxahatchee I couldn’t help but feel transported to my Texas childhood. 

For me, country has a way of careening into affection unlike any other genre – feelings of love, loss, and longing find fluency in the steel guitar, tight harmonies, and rhythmic steadiness. Modern iterations of the genre often feel too commercial and pop oriented for my taste. So I was delighted to hear Waxahatchee (the solo project of Kathryn Crutchfield) tap Into something waxingly personal. 

A banjo picks throughout the single “Right Back to It” as Crutchfield’s sonorous voice explores the ins and outs of a long-held and healthy relationship. “Your love written like a blank check / Wear it around your neck / I was at a loss” she keens. Under the light of the Ferris wheel and the few stars not inked out by the city’s light pollution, it was impossible not to start swaying. All across the field you could see couples and friends linking up, careening into the innate affection of the genre and Waxahatchee’s earnest and heartfelt sound. 

The whole band takes turns dueting with Crutchfield, effortlessly filling the moonlight grounds with lush harmonies. The rhythm keeps a steadiness that holds you in its sway. It was the perfect night cap to a long day.  

We hope you left your poncho on for GWAR

I’d never seen or heard of GWAR before. I may never see them again. I can’t say I’ll seek them out. And yet, I write with confidence that I will never forget their performance on Sunday afternoon. GWAR is a heavy metal band. They play what you’d expect from heavy metal music: loud, distorted guitar and relentless vocal charge, all delivered with an oppressively macho flair. 

GWAR delivers all of this and more. So, so much more. 

Dressed head to toe in costume armour, they look like the cast of Thor Ragnorak woke up in a Sam Raimi movie. One of them stands on giant horse hooves like a satyr. The frontman wears a sporran made of penises and gash. They’re demonic, otherworldly barbarians here to thrash their guitars, but mostly to thrash each other. 

And to perform comedy sketches with a sprinkling of social commentary! Between every song there was a grotesque skit poking fun at current events. A pregnant Taylor Swift confronts the band member who knocked her up. P. Diddy is ridiculed for his taste in lube. Benjamin Netanyahu dances to a rock’n’roll Hora. 

Each cameo served as an elaborate set up to do the same thing. The musicians would take turns fighting the new challenger until they began hacking parts of them clean off. Hands. Heads. Bowels. Genitals. It all gets chopped off and blood (or other imaginative fluids) spray out onto the audience. 

It’s willfully offensive. A pregnant Swift is assaulted as they sing their song “Slap U Around”. A caricatured Radio DJ calls the audience faggots and losers before he’s decapitated, spraying gallons of blood out onto the audience. (Note to GWAR: it’s not the 90s anymore. No need to call me a fag, I ride the CTA.)

The satire paradox is on full display. I can’t say if the social commentary is being used as a weapon to provoke thought, or just shield them from criticism. Still there are moments when something meaningful shines through. As Netanyahu holds a baby doll over his head, the band begins their thrasher “Hail, Genocide!” 

“They show you no mercy / they just show you a line” they scream. Over 40,000 Palestinians have been killed in Israel’s war in Gaza. 70% are estimated to be women and children. “Call it what you will but I call it genocide.”

Magnolia Park goes hard and goofy 

A school bell rings and it’s time for a lesson in pop punk. Bounding onto the stage with red dreads, tight blue jeans, and neon kicks, Joshua Roberts of Magnolia Park grinned down on a wetter than usual audience. Sunday morning gave us a reprieve from the near ninety degree heat with a steady morning shower. Undeterred, Roberts welcomed his audience with the confidence of a millennial pop-punk Messiah. 

“Don’t be a little bitch!” he dared them. “Let me see you jump!”

Riot Fest goes hard. It can be overwhelming to have so many hype men trying to get you to match their freak. Still, some bands talk the talk, and others walk it. The enthusiasm and energetic performance of Magnolia Park did the latter and had the audience unabashedly moshing in the rain.

“Everyone get into the pit!” the bassist roared into the mic. “Throw your friend into the pit! Throw your dog into the pit! Throw your grandmother into the pit!” he joked. 

The energy was perfectly summed up by their first live performance of “I 2 I”, a rock cover off Disney’s new compilation album “A Whole New Sound”. Max of Goof Troop fame (iykyk), was projected onto the screens, bringing back a rush of nostalgia as the band resurrected the song with blaring bravado. It was undeniably goofy, and undeniably fun. 

“Raise your hands if you’ve never crowd surfed before.” Dozens of eager hands shot up. “All right then. Get up here!” Wet and laughing as Magnolia Park played yet another banger, the uninitiated got lifted.

* * *

With over 90 bands over three days, there are just too many incredible moments to  write about in one small article. We loved Riot Fest, and can’t wait to be raging with you again next year. These are our favourites; what did we miss? 

The post Riot Fest returns to Chicago hotter than ever appeared first on Quip Magazine.

For its eighteenth iteration, Pitchfork assembled headliners Black Pumas, Jamie XX, and Alanis Morrissette to pull in thousands of fans. Still, the beloved three-day festival always shines its spotlight on smaller artists who haven’t found their way into the public’s playlist just yet. Here are seven runaway acts that shone bright and captured our attention over a talent-packed weekend. 

Above + cover photos by Pooneh Ghana for Pitchfork

Doss brings the heat

It’s not just any DJ who can get a crowd to unapologetically mosh in the dead heat of Summer. Yet New York club scene darling Doss slunk onto the stage and did exactly that without breaking a sweat or a smile. If you ever wanted to be in the rave from The Matrix, go to a Doss show. It’s glitchy 90’s electro house with a beat that gets into your lungs and makes you want to sweat. 

Doss builds a sound that feels both lush and danceable. Her use of synths envelops you and gets your hips swaying. Then a sudden throwback lyric cuts through the mix with a smack of nostalgia to make you want to get some air time. “If the music starts we’re never gonna stop” a high-pitched chipmunk voice droned on repeat. You could see people cramming in together, ignoring the heat, just to feel the heat and noise a little more.

Above: Doss by Holt; Below: Yaeji by Cole Kincart for Pitchfrork. 

Yaeji makes it rain 

Pitchfork is a loyal curator.  If they like an artists’ work they are not shy in bringing them back to a bigger stage. I saw Yaeji at Pitchfork back in 2021 and was impressed by their use of choreography, playful lyricism, and earnest stage persona. 

The 30-year-old New York DJ gave a nod to that last P4K performance: “I am a very different person now, then I was then, I’m very excited to be vulnerable and to learn from you. And you from me. If you resonate with my music you are a mirror of me in some ways. And vice versa.” 

Yaeji understands the balance of holding her audience’s attention without sacrificing artistry. What follows is an elegant spectacle. House music expertly crafted to get you dancing, but delivered with soft vocals imbued with a solemn exuberance. 

Both years I saw her, Yaeji came flanked by a few dancers, who offer simple but effective choreography. This time however, the trio seemed to embrace and satirize hip hop dance tropes. One moment they’re twerking, the next rolling onto their backs and shaking their legs in the air like grade schoolers. It’s embodied and unapologetically gleeful. 

As a parting gift, Yaeji offered an unreleased dance track called “Don’t Touch Me. There’s a little dance to it, so if you like the song go hard and get into it with us.” The crowd obliged as Yaeji grinned. “It looks really cute from up here”.

Above: L’Rain by Kimberley Ross for Pitchfrork. 

L’Rain delights and confounds 

When music is at its best it evades thought, circumventing the mind to allow for an uncritical experience. L’Rain, is the heart-child of musician Taja Cheek, embodied by a 5 piece experimental band of collaborators from NY. It’s hard to pin down into genre what L’Rain is creating. Elements of psychedelia, R&B, ambient, and jazz music weave in and out of the mix effortlessly until categorization is irrelevant. Genre won’t help you make sense of the feelings the music evokes anyways.

Cheek plays the bass with sparse but immaculate precision while her vocals glide effortlessly between stoic intonation and maniacal laughter. Saxophone floats in the stratosphere of this sonic dreamscape, punctuating the mix with yearning.  

Most of their set list came from the most recent album “I Killed Your Dog” – a complex exploration of what it means to “hurt the ones you love most.” You can feel that dissonance throughout the music. “How do you trust the ground when it betrays you in ways you didn’t think imaginable?” Cheek questions in the track “Clumsy”. The answer, if there is an answer, is issued in wordless sound.  

An exhilarating performance of “Two Face” lays down a propulsive jazz arpeggio on the keys while a countermelody articulates a floundering sense of desire. 

While most of her contemporaries seem intent on asserting statements of self, L’Rain dissects the emotional landscape without easy assertions or answers. The music that issues is astounding.

Above: Water From Your Eyes by Daniel Cavazos for Pitchfrork. 

“Water from Your Eyes’ vocal fry” or “Don’t sneak into a music festival as a kid and expect karma not to come for you”

“I have a mysterious illness” Brooklynite Rachel Brown murmured into the microphone at the top of Water from Your Eyes’ Saturday set. “Don’t worry it’s not contagious”. 

“I snuck into Pitchfork 10 years ago for all three days….” she laughed “All three! And this is what I get”. She shook her head. “Karma’s a bitch. “ Nevertheless there was something about Brown’s subdued yet sardonic delivery that seemed a pro pos with Water from your Eyes’ tongue-in-check style of indie rock. 

Alternating offerings between gloomy grunge landscapes with low riding, stomach churning bass to four on the flour indie pop numbers, this duo seemed intent on subverting expectations. Lead guitarist (and the groups other half) Nate Amos plays the guitar with a wide range of affect, alternating between dissonant Mad Max arpeggios and the soft peel of metal chimes. 

The group seems to revel in their contradictions – grunge counterbalanced with tenderness. Capitalism cut with complicity. As Brown struggled through the set, I couldn’t help but notice the irony of a limping nonchalance. Karmas a bitch, but sometimes it isn’t half bad.

Joanna Sternberg by Daniel Cavazos for Pitchfrork. 

Joanna Sternberg bugs out 

A three-day festival will catch up with even the strongest legged and willed person. It’s a mixture of hype and sheer exhaustion. By Sunday, your legs are begging to be horizontal. So when I saw a lonely figure placed in the center of the cavernous Red Stage, it felt like the perfect time to sit down and zone out for a second. 

Folk singer, Joanna Sternberg might have been feeling the same thing.  It was hard to tell with their stream of consciousness approach to banter that left us wondering what universe they were in (and if they’re accepting visitors). Both in their songwriting and presentation, it was impossible not to be charmed by the sheer lack of persona. 

Sternberg’s style lacks varnish. I wouldn’t be surprised if many find it initially off-putting. But it’s that lack of polish that explores an almost childishly honest interior landscape. It eschews overt complexity or artistic obfuscation and asks the question that’s right in front. “Is everybody running from me? Or am I running from everybody?” their soft metallic voice crooned. 

Halfway through a song Sternberg stopped abruptly. “There’s a bug on me! I’m sorry. I just…. have a particular phobia”. They stopped to inspect themselves for said bug. “I know a lot of you have tattoos of them, but I just can’t”. The crowd giggled. “Taylor Swift had a bug fly into her mouth while performing and she kept going” they wondered out loud. “That’s the toughest thing I’ve ever seen”. 

Akenya by Daniel Cavazos for Pitchfrork. 

Release your album please, Akenya! 

Chicago-native, Akenya floated onto the stage enveloped in a puffy tulle top and sleek chessboard colored pants. With an impressive resume of collaboration with stars Chance the Rapper and Noname, Akenya is already a staple of the Chicago music scene. Regardless of whether you’ve heard of her, you’ve most likely heard her. 

With a style that bounds between jazz and classical, hip-hop and soul, Akenya offers up a sound that is uniquely her own. She’s an accomplished arranger, and boasted what might have been the most nuanced sound mixing for the entire festival. Each instrument blended perfectly with the next, spiraling together to create a cosmically transcendent sound. 

In songs like “Decay” (one of two singles she’s released), the trio of vocalists punctuated the music with cloud-like chords that made the crowd gasp. No doubt she made a slew of new fans during her Saturday performance who are all wondering the same thing: Akenya, when are you going to drop your first album? 

Sudan Archives by Cole Kincart for Pitchfrork. 

Sudan Archives surprise 

My editor told me I should check out Sudan Archives. I really enjoyed their album Natural Brown Prom Queen, but their stage time conflicted with 100 gecs and I’m a sucker for their goblin mode style of hyperpop. “I’ll just stop by for the first 15 minutes and come back,” I told myself. 

I did not go back (Sorry 100 gecs, I still love you). From the moment Sudan Archives (real name Brittney Denise Parks) sauntered onto the stage I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. And it’s only her there. Dressed from head to toe in an almost medieval harlequin bodysuit, with a violin strapped to her neck and its bow holstered in a quiver, Sudan Archives delivered what felt like an entire universe in about 45 minutes.  

Playing pizzicato, singing, and swaggering around the stage, never looking for the ground, Archives was beyond confident. Clad in an indomitable party vixen persona, it felt like watching a god descend from Olympus to toy with an audience. Songs like “Ciara” were armed with sultry vocals, impressive bar work, and simple but effective choreography that had the crowd’s collective jaw on the floor. Pulling her bow across the violin like a gun, Archive took aim at being the most virtuosic performance at Pitchfork. With a gun’s flare she asked: “Do you get the picture now, bitch?” 

Beyond the theatrics, Sudan Archive’s is an immaculate musician.  Alternating between vocals, electric drum pad, and frenzied violin solos, Parks consistently got the crowd roaring. “Say it with me now:” she commanded, “I’m not – Average!” The crowd shouted it back to her in confirmation. Sudan Archives is anything but.

The post Seven artist who ran away with Pitchfork appeared first on Quip Magazine.

As songwriters and producers, there’s no one who’s quite like Young Fathers’. Their sound defies classification, blurring the lines between hip-hop, punk, and gospel. Yet seeing them live, the Scottish trio becomes even more astoundingly unique. Their sense of rhythm is inescapable here. An almost mantric repetition, that pulses in and out genre, somewhere between chaos and tenderness. 

They served up a smorgasbord of past hits, from “The Queen is Dead” to “Shame” that enveloped the crowd in a manic energy. Their music is subversive and playful, yet often felt underserved by a sound production geared towards a larger space. An excessive amount of reverb on the vocals often drowned out the nuance.

At its best, Young Father’s pour out equal parts method and madness. Here it felt a bit closer to the latter, which left the punchiness of some of their work feeling redundant in a muddy wash of sound. 

The show was at its strongest when Alloysious Massaquoi’s vocals were at the helm. In “Tell Somebody” and “I Heard,” his voice cuts through the muddiness of the sound design allowing the group’s enigmatic but potent lyricism to shine. 

Regardless of the sound production, the energy of the night was undeniable. Tracks off their latest album Heavy, Heavy brought the crowd into a smiling, sweaty frenzy that felt akin to a church service. “Feel the beat of the drum and go numb. Have fun. Go on” The four voices sang together like a robeless choir, carrying the audience into a stage of fervency that felt revolutionary and still unstoppably joyful. 

The post Young Father’s bring some manic joy to Chicago’s Vic Theater appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Below the almost ominous red neon light, a glowing rib cage of sound panels encased the stage. The club queen of Jersey, UNIIQU3 strode into view dazzling with confidence (and more than a few sequins). 

“How you doin’ Chicago?” she boomed over the mic. The crowd responded with a lukewarm cheer. Then the beat dropped.

Jersey Club music is known for its uncompromisingly frenetic beat. It’s meant to get you moving. And UNIIQU3 is its most confident emissary, strutting across the stage throwing ass and spitting bars like the best of them. 

“I need all the love tonight Chicago!” she shouted out. “And I promise, I’m gonna give it right back.” Without losing a beat, she commanded the crowd like a dance (hall) captain “Shake that thing from left to right.” You could feel the frost dissipating and see the crowd begin to gyrate. 

“Ladies this one for you” she announced mid-set and launched into her breakthrough hit “Off the Chain” (her collab with TT the Artist). The kick drum pulsed through the speakers and into the audience’s hips. “Booty so big, have mercy!” she proclaimed with a playful twerk. 

The whole set felt like a sermon of sexy body positivity. “It’s the affirmation anthem you know you need,” she said before dropping into her latest single “Price Going Up”. A teaser for her upcoming EP Ramen Noodles (in collaboration with Black Caviar), this peppy banger got the crowd bouncing up and down with its steady trampoline baseline. It’s a surprisingly optimistic anthem, a fast-paced manifestation of a stellar new year. “My price going up / all the way up // and my whole crew in the cut.” 

It was a short set, but UNIIQU3 understood the assignment of what any good opening act should do. The Queen of Jersey Club got the crowd to shake off the cold and turn up. “Let’s do a vibe check,” she said. “Say I feel good! I feel great! Say Jersey! Club! Queen!” She led the crowd in a call and response. “Now scream.” The crowd obliged. Why wait for the weekend to party? 

Upcoming tour dates:

Feb 16 | Morelos, Mexico @ BAHIDORÁ
Mar 1 | Denver, CO @ Secret Location
Apr 12 | Detroit, MI @ Magic Stick

Cover photo by Artistland Studios

The post UNIIQU3 transports Chicago to Jersey Club appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Here are our top moments from the festival! 

Aluna Had us Beggin’

Aluna took the Shipyard stage looking like a real-life little mermaid. Wearing an aquamarine net skirt with flowing green dreads, she appeared like a mirage in the sweltering heat. As one of the first acts of the festival, she was the perfect performer for a crowd just beginning to rev up. 

Her single “Beggin’“ (co-released with Chris Lake) got the crowd gyrating with its slinky groove. In tandem with her effortless gravitas and confident vocals, her music wove a trance that brought your hips into the music. “I’ll get you beggin’, beggin’” she sang, “Cause I’m your weakness”. It was a perfect appetizer for a long weekend.  

Elohim Stops the World and Melts 

Framed by the towering stands of the Seat Geek Stadium, Elohim appeared in a flowing white ensemble complete with white gauze to shield her face from the sun. “I’m just here to connect with you” the track whispered atop a rhythm that pulsed with affirmation and love. 

Elohim captures a feeling of sexy ache with a wide variety of styles that undulate between the tender and the ominous. Songs like “Hallucinating” invited the crowd into a lucid dream that blurred reality. The visuals behind her evoked both beauty and horror, with an unfolding view of what felt like internal skin. 

Midway through the set, Elohim removed the white gauze from her face. “Kiss me with your eyes open” she sang “so you can see me when I’m melting.” As the sun beat down on her audience, the lyrics almost felt like reality. 

Image by Justin Montano for North Coast

Elderbrook’s Unstoppable Energy 

Elderbrook isn’t a DJ who stays in his booth. This Grammy-nominated producer has too much talent and knows it. Building a dynamic setlist to showcase his dynamism would be a feat, but Elderbrook wants us to engage in his music as fiercely as he does. With keening, soulful vocals that would make any pop star jealous Elderbrook reminds us that this is not a canned set. With that in mind, he launches his body across the stage with the bravado of a CrossFit trainer who can explain the workout while also doing it. His multi-tasking feels so slick and effortless like a basketball player completing a pass without looking. And while the showmanship could at times feel like a party trick, his songwriting is so ambient and heartfelt, that you can’t help but go with him for the ride. 

A Wild Ride with Blond:ish

I was walking fast to catch the top of Blond:ish’s set. I got flagged down to take a photo of the happiest construction worker flash mob I’d ever seen, when I heard Gene Wilder’s off-kilter warble singing the opening lines of “Pure Imagination”. I snapped the photo, handed the camera back to a yellow-vested cutie with a stop sign, and found my way to the Shipyard stage just as a thundering bass note erupted beneath the syrupy sweet melody. 

The rest of Blond:ish’s set was exactly like its prologue suggested. A wildly diverse, unpredictable ride that felt like traversing the tunnel of terror with Willy Wonka himself. With horn-heavy grooves, and an encyclopedic sample bag, Blond:ish felt infused with a Caribbean rhythm that was trance-inducing and supremely danceable. 

Chill Dome = Chill Time 

Looming behind the shipyard stage was a massive dome that looked like the Michelin man had lied down for a nap. At five o’clock on Saturday, I felt like doing the same. I queued up in a small line while chugging a ubiquitous Liquid Death, hoping “The Chill Dome” would live up to its name. 

I was met by a gust of cool air and a soothing darkness. Across a soccer pitch of astroturf, hundreds of festival goers were spread out, basking in the shade and taking a well-earned moment off their feet. A laser light show projected onto the ceiling as a DJ played an ambient, nostalgia-heavy beat. The Chill Dome felt like sneaking under the bleachers during a high school game for a moment away from the crowd. In a festival all about spectacle and hype, it was the perfect respite. 

Image by THEMCDUB for North Coast

Dancing in Hell 

I passed by the Fire Pit several times on Friday afternoon without much interest. I saw the pyrotechnic rig secured to the top of a massive geodome climber and assumed that was where the name came from. It wasn’t until the sun had set that I noticed the furling red flames that crawled underneath the dome’s ceiling. That can’t be real I thought as I strode closer. Yet packed tight with no more than a hundred people and a DJ, this was a party fit for the halls of hell (the hell where all of your friends are.)

In a festival known for spectacle, this small visual effect was the most jaw-dropping. From far away, it looked like an HD volcanic screen saver, yet from up close, there was no denying the reality of the flames that broiled above you. Its heat was palpable. As a pyrotechnic blast shot out into the night sky above, you could feel the temperature it expelled pressed down onto you. 

Close enough to watch your friends bleed sweat, while a series of DJs kept the party burning hot, this was an experience that had to be felt to be believed. I watched two partygoers lick the sweat off each other’s skin and giggle. It was euphoria you could taste.

Cover image by Valeria Avalos for North Coast.

The post North Coast Music Festival 2023 is pure euphoria appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Images by Alexa Viscius for Pitchfork

Grace Ives vibes & choreography

Grace Ives shrugged her way onto the stage, looking as though she had just rolled off a dorm couch. With a big yawn and an orange Gatorade, you could tell this Brooklynite was making the trip to Chicago worth it. “I performed at Sleeping Village last night and I fell off the stage,” she admitted to the audience. “It was an accident,” she followed with a wry smile.

Yet as her set progressed, Ives showed no signs of slowing down as she strutted around the stage like an unhinged pop star. It was crowd work at its finest, with choreography that felt unique, sardonic, and just a little janky. The crowd got into it, giving their own moves right back.

Images by Daniel Cavazos for Pitchfork

We interrupt this broadcast to present JPEGMAFIA

I doubt anyone received a more enthusiastic welcome than JPEGMAFIA all weekend. A raucous energy ran through the crowd, who started chanting “Peggy” as the 33-year-old arrived with nothing more than a laptop and a lion’s share of confidence. But trouble was on the horizon. Maybe his computer was as fried as the sun-battered Sunday crowd, but his accompaniment began glitching midway through his second song. 

Peggy was frustrated. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it, y’all!” he said, sitting cross-legged on stage, with a lagging track playing overhead. “Cut the music!” In the silence, the crowd braced itself for disappointment. Then just as suddenly, he launched into an acapella invective with such impeccable fury that it almost felt planned. The crowd roared back to life. 

Technical difficulties continued, but Peggy was indefatigable, attacking each number with bravado and a sense of humor that only made him more endearing. “I have one more acapella song for you. It’s actually a cover”. He broke into the first line of Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe”. “Fuck! Where’s my auto-tune?” he shouted. He switched it on and dove right back in.

Images by Poonehghana for Pitchfork

Weyes Blood casts a spell

If you’d never heard of Weyes Blood before Saturday night, you were not alone. While critically acclaimed, she occupies a very specific niche of psychedelic folk music that hasn’t quite found its way to the mainstream. As the penultimate act on Saturday night, she appeared like a pagan Pan-Am priestess in a flowing white dress with a cape she twirled through the mist. A disgruntled audience, who just two hours ago had been made to evacuate the grounds due to storm warnings, was immediately transported. 

The next hour was a resplendent, glowing rendition of her material from “Titanic Rising” and her most recent album, “And in the Darkness, Hearts Aglow”. Without tracking, Weyes Blood’s rich vocals and ethereal instrumentation created a spiritual experience that had us basking in the rain. “This next song is our most psychedelic. So if you have some on you, take them now,” she joked halfway through the set. There was no need.

Images of Sen Morimoto by Daniel Cavazos, image of Lucrecia Dalt by Julian Bajsel for Pitchfork.

Howling with Sen Morimoto

“I’ve wanted to play this festival for 10 years,” Chicago local Sen Morimoto told us. “And here we are!” With a silky, light voice, Morimoto’s vocals floated atop a heartbeat rhythm. His 8-piece band lives somewhere between sultry R&B and big band jazz, making it easy for Friday’s crowd to shake off the work week and fall into its rhythm. 

“This next song is about dogs,” he said as a prequel to his infectious, let-loose number “Woof”. “If you feel like barking or howling… do it!” The audience obliged with gusto. “I’ve never owned a dog in my life,” he quipped at “Woof’s” end. Then he launched into a frothy version of Cher’s “Believe,” which got the audience howling all over again.

Images by Julian Bajsel for Pitchfork.

Lucrecia Dalt and the leaning drum tower of Pitchfork 

I’d never heard of Lucrecia Dalt before. I didn’t line up at the front of the stage in anticipation of her set. Feeling that end-of-festival fatigue, I went to grab a beer and a moment in the shade instead. Yet from across the grounds, I could hear a haunting track that felt like a sonic mirage calling me back. The sound was like the feeling of sweat evaporating off your skin.

I made my way to the stage and saw Dalt, sporting a Sontag strip of gray hair. Standing stoic in front of her synthesizers, she commanded the stage with mesmerizingly soft yet punctuated vocals. To her left stood the most baffling drum kit I’d ever seen — a Babel’s tower of percussion, framing its drummer Alex Lázaro, surrounding him from every angle. The vestiges of a traditional drum kit combined with a wide array of Latin percussion built a propulsive beat that felt both groovy and off-balance.

Dalt and Lázaro seemed indescribably connected and precise, yet at the same time spontaneous. It felt as if we were witnessing an act that would never be repeated again.

Images by Poonehghana for Pitchfork [cover too].

Perfume Genius marries the chaos

As Mike Hadreas, the frontman of Perfume Genius, spread an endless spool of yellow tulle fabric over the stage, I knew we were in for a chaotic performance. The always-operatic Perfume Genius knows how to use a prop. Dressed in a “Mike’s Palace” tee with grungy jeans, Hadreas was accented by long red rubber gloves and his bashfully sly persona. His band plays with polyrhythmic precision that crawls beneath your skin and makes your body vibrate (shout out to Tim Carr’s powerhouse drumming).

The music is so full of erotic longing that it brought people to tears just moments after making them dance. Quiet moments like “Jason” only amplified the sonic boom of Genius’ more explosive tracks (see “Otherside”). The music was remarkable, with dynamic peaks and valleys that kept the audience’s ear. Yet beyond that, Hadreas is an honest showman. He experiences his music with us. By the set’s end, he had wrapped himself in a puffy wedding gown of the (“not quite”) golden fabric, tied himself off with a mic cord, and trudged across the boards like the bride of destruction. Like his sound, which often turns in on itself, breaking down, and exploding into something new, Perfume Genius revels in the chaos. It made for a hell of a show.

Images by Daniel Cavazos for Pitchfork.

Everything Leikeli47 did

I was a stranger to Leikeli47. I’d stumbled on her music on some playlists, but never taken a deep dive. But from her first step onto the Blue stage, she commanded the whole crowd with unflagging confidence. Not to mention a voice that doesn’t quit! On top of her big brash sound, she was one of the few artists whose vocal clarity cut through the festival sound mixing (that often reduces lyrics to sludge) and made us hear every last word. 

Her lines are funny, nuanced, and self-empowering. It’s ballroom rap fit for the gods! And on Friday night, she made us feel like gods, as she pulled half the crowd up on stage to strut their stuff while she went off. There was vogueing, there was twerking, there were LEWKS. If there was anyone that had the crowd in the palm of their hand, it was Leikeli47. Hearing the Pitchfork audience sing along to “Carry Anne” was pure delight. “This my pussy, I can do what I want / Mmmm I’m a big girl now” we all shouted in unison. I may have started the show with a stranger but left feeling like I had found my new bestie.

* * *

Those are our top moments from 2023. What did we miss?

The post Pitchfork 2023: Seven artists who stole the show appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Opening the night with their latest single “disappear,” Wallice lifted the crowd from its humpday slump, channeling 90s grunge rock with bravado. In contrast to their ebullient sound, Wallice maintains a relatively shy stage persona. Her hands touch earnestly to her chest inviting the audience into her emotion. When the choruses kick into full gear, her long black hair occasionally whips up and down like a turbulent black sea. 

In most of her songs, the verses are kept sonically slim to allow Wallice’s sonorous vocals to shine through. This is helpful for the moments that lean toward bedroom pop. Wallice’s trademark lyricism, which blends pensive self-awareness with a wry wit is not to be missed. 

Late in her set, she plays the syrupy tune “Dramamine” which drips with need and confusion, only to follow it with “Hey Michael” a diss track for the unearned confidence of straight men. “Hey Michael, you American Psycho, / where the hell did my night go?” she lambasts her subject with an on stage eye roll. 

Her most exciting tracks are her most recent. “Best Friend” and “Loser at Best” are knock-down and drag-out firecrackers, while a softer (and unreleased) “Why Do You Love Me” carries a more cinematic energy. The night was the perfect teaser for her newest EP Mr Big Shot  which drops Friday, June 23rd

At times the performance felt too polished. The show was supported by tracking, which kept the set on a smooth course, but left little room for the unscripted. Whenever Wallice did speak to the crowd, they responded enthusiastically. “On the count of four, we’re all gonna scream,” Wallice said midway through “Headache”. And scream they did.

The post Wallice teases new EP “Mr Big Shot” at Lincoln Hall appeared first on Quip Magazine.

Yet the release of Collapsed in Sunbeams in 2021 did not, for me at least, live up to the anticipation. It showcased an artist with remarkable talent still finding their stride as a songwriter. Parks’ trademark lyricism felt weighed down with too many friends’ names and awkward pop culture references. The production by Gianluca Buccellati felt unnecessarily edgy and aggressive. 

Today, two years later, Arlo Parks returns, with  My Soft Machine. Instead of Caroline and Charlie, she sings more directly about her own experience. There are still a lot of pop culture references (from Juliette Binoche to Clare Danes) but they feel less out of place here. No longer a voyeur, Parks finds immediacy in painting vignettes that cut out the middle man and are more explicit with emotion.

The production of the album supports this, choosing a soft but lush tone that lends itself to Parks’ vocals and the trip-hop beats that carry them. The album at large basks in ambiance. It’s a quality that lulls the listener into its groove while Park’s relentlessly poignant and conflicted sense of lyricism challenges the ear.

My Soft Machine (like its predecessor) opens with a poem set to music. “Bruiseless” reminds us that this is not pop and that we should be prepared to explore Parks’ themes with a sense of complexity and playfulness. No line sums it up better than “[I feel] like a peony ripped on the chain of a dirt bike”. 

“Impurities” invites us in with its catchy trip beat that channels Japanese lo-fi. “Don’t hide the bruise /when you know I’m watching babe” is the mantra here. It’s an invitation towards vulnerability, that feeling of being seen with all your flaws which allows you to experience a new sense of wholeness and love. 

That experience glides right into the third track “Devotion”. This might be the album’s strongest song sonically. The bass rumbles below the track, like a dirt bike, ready to take off.  It opens up to a final chorus that is effortlessly catchy and anthemic. “I’m all yours baby!”

Later in the album, “Weightless” (the album’s first single) departs from the excitement of vulnerability to paint a picture of a withholding partner. “There are sandflies in the champagne / You’re closed off, I’m so drained.” The lyrics tied to the song’s steady beat, fight against the feeling of slow ruin that creeps in with each line.  It’s the rhythm of someone unwilling to let go. “I don’t wanna wait for you / but I need you so I won’t go”.

“Pegasus” (feat. Phoebe Bridgers) is a remarkable song that showcases the album perfectly. It’s syrupy sweet, with overwhelmingly beautiful verse lines that speak towards love that feels open and healing. It’s what Parks’ is after. There’s a charming sense of hope she carries in her music. Unlike many of their indie counterparts, Parks’ seems to seek the silver line in moments of even the most painful reality. The naiveté that love can make us feel is not derided or viewed through a cynical lens. It’s celebrated. It’s a stunning track, you’ll find yourself falling back into again and again. 

At times the songs in My Soft Machine can feel repetitive. Verses paint vignettes and then open up into a mantra that is repeated three or four times for a chorus. Parks’ lyricism is so unique and poignant that it makes up for a structure that feels overused by the album’s end. On their own, these are still excellent songs, yet all together they start to feel a bit formulaic, especially by the album’s end. 

Overall, My Soft Machine is a tenacious exploration of affection. It finds Arlo Parks more in her element, supported by a luscious production that will have its listener falling back into its groove again and again. It’s a remarkable step forward for an artist with an eloquent and unique voice.

The post Arlo Parks wants to show you affection on sophomore album “My Soft Machine” appeared first on Quip Magazine.

“Rice” kicks off in an exuberant ritual of sound. An electric sitar slides us into a mantra — its repetition frames the album with its overarching question. Like a runner without a finish line, is it even worth asking: is this all there is?

That question is infused into the bass and rhythm section of “Rice” and much of the whole album. There’s little time to overthink inside this relentless trance. “Hear it coming / round the bend …. See the turning tide. … You can die like this.” Lyrically, Young Fathers are as enigmatic as ever. Still, a through line emerges: there is magic to be found in the mundane. There are a lot of nuances here, but you won’t be able to unpack it in real time. That might be the point. 

“I Saw” continues the trance with a beat that feels like Goldfrapp’s “Ooh La La” dialed up to a thirteen. This branches out into a resplendent choral release. The narrator bears witness to a culture of bad seeds “buried between justice”. A land of voyeuristic wanna-be winners that value safety and control over vulnerability. 

Its most joyous track, “Drum”, is the response to the call out of “I Saw”. It’s a bacchanalian celebration of survival. It’s all going to catch up to you so why not live in a state of release instead of exerting so much control. The beat drones into the numbness of surrender. “Hear the beat of the drums and go numb. / Have fun. / Go on.” 

That surrender releases into the album’s most sweeping track. “Tell Somebody” sits in suspension as its slowly swelling orchestra calls for connectivity in an increasingly lonely world.  “You scream, but your soul / your soul ain’t sound.” It’s a deceptively simple track that stuns. Your pain is not you, but it is a part of what connects you to your humanity. 

Geronimo (the album’s first released single) explores the trap of legacy. Its powerful vocals feel almost like a self-help audiobook, whispered over a traditional hip-hop beat. It’s a calming number, that intones the album’s mantra — living for the future is an easy way to miss your life. 

As a whole, the album lives in its own sonic universe. The percussive nature of rap rides the smooth drone of house music, then opens up into choral pop revelation. Each track offers something distinct and new. It’s catchy without being formulaic. It suggests genres without ever falling into them. 

Lyrically, Young Fathers are never caught trying to make a point or imparting a message. It careens in and out what it is to feel your own life as years of memory and meaning compound within you. “You either sink or swim, all or nothing”. 

There’s an attention to detail in Heavy Heavy that never gets too lost in the technical – though the album is a technical feat of unique and baffling precision. Fathers honor its instinct, which is what makes their music so full of joyous abandon. They’re not trying to sound like anyone. In an industry that seems more concerned with producing mimicable hits, Young Fathers does something truly inimitable.

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