The you-had-to-be-there feeling of music and nightlife has evaded us in the internet era. Rare occasions, such as Charli's pop-up concernt, remind us what it was like.
By Kish Lal
Published
I’m in a restaurant on my own the day after seeing Charli xcx perform to a sold out show in Williamsburg with just 650 people in attendance.
My friend is running 30 minutes late because she accidentally took the train to Jersey. I uncharacteristically don’t mind. Maybe it's the chilled red wine I’ve drunk hastily hitting my bloodstream. We’re meeting before we head to Knockdown Center for Madonna’s invite-only Confessions II party.
Over the last few days I will have attended Charli’s Music, Fashion, Film strictly no-phones-allowed listening party at the Metrograph, her $10 pop up live show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, and now this very exclusive Madonna event.
At the Metrograph, 150 or so of us sat in the dark with our phones locked up in pouches and listened to an album that doesn't sound like it's for us, or for anyone, really. It's raw, diaristic, more confession than pop record, circling mortality, ego, narcissism, the specific horror of watching yourself become a product. It felt like reading someone's diary over their shoulder. I wondered what happens to a diary when 650 people are filming it.
Something is in the air when it comes to how music is being rolled out lately; a new dedication to intimacy, eschewing the pyrotechnics and exorbitant pricing of stadium shows for something a little smaller, closer, and as I'll find out firsthand, sweatier. Charli is calling it “anti-marketing.”
“Truly believe anti marketing will become a thing soon…” Charli shared on X: “Still marketing but it’s just a different approach, more intimate, personal, private, one on one. less about the projection of scale. i’m into it xx”
When I first got tickets to her pop-up show, I thought it was a scam. I received a text on Thursday, July 9 at 11:16 AM with a link to tickets while I was brushing my teeth. The tickets were only $10 so if it was a scam, I relented that I could handle losing $20 on a whim. In fact, I considered not going at all because I had other plans. But then I saw the pandemonium online: people begging on Instagram, X, and Reddit that they were willing to pay 10x the original price for a ticket to see Charli perform, for what was relatively speaking, just a few fans.
Following the cultural phenomenon of Charli’s last album, Brat, the Grammy-winning pop star could “scale” and sell-out a much bigger venue with ease if she wanted to. So, it’s kind of radical that she opted to play in this sticky venue, that’s a haunt for (what we Australians lovingly refer to as) rock dogs who want to see indie rock, alternative, and underground artists.
On the night of the show, I sipped on an Aperol Spritz at a small Italian restaurant before pushing through the thick, wet plume of humidity that hung low in the streets of Williamsburg. When I got inside the dark venue, it was much smaller than I expected.
The bartender who served me my ‘XCX Margarita,’ flavored with a dash of black currant syrup, was already drunk. His flannel soaked with sweat at 8:30 PM. As he made my cocktail, a girl behind me in line asked me if she should get the ‘Bratberry Mule with the Music Hall Souvenir Cup.’ It was $26. I told her she was better off just buying a t-shirt. She laughed and agreed, bumping into my shoulder like we were old friends.
Upstairs, the crowd had begun to pool into every open corner, climbing onto the balcony and any elevated surface. Almost everyone was dressed in grey, black or white, like we had all received a memo that screamed “no Brat green please.”
As I squeezed through the crowd, strangers’ cold, wet skin rubbed against mine. This is all a part of the deal, the social contract of seeing a musician at a small venue. Our shared love doesn’t bond us, so much as it sets into motion a silent agreement that tonight, we’ll politely invade one another’s personal space.
When the strobe lights began to flash, it was time. Fashioned with overlapping Persian rugs, crumpled, lived in couches, and even a small coffee table, the stage was a tangle of cords and unidentifiable cool girls swaying and laughing as Charli climbed on stage. It felt like a scene out of a house party, a suburban relic I’ve sorely missed since moving to NYC.
She opened with "Playboy Bunny," a song that was absent from the listening party the night before. “Write a song like a slogan/Write a song then print it on a t-shirt/Write a song like a Playboy Bunny.”
The push and pull of closeness is funny. I don’t know Charli, but I was on my second consecutive night of experiencing close proximity to her. I was thrown into her most vulnerable lyrics in small rooms, while the rest of the world sat at home and pondered what she was doing. I felt like I knew something about her that some people didn’t, and after just one unexpected song, I’d be reminded that I don’t know her at all.
The other unreleased song Charli played was "Camera," which I knew. In fact, it has quickly become one of my favorite songs. I can’t remember any of the lyrics besides: “How it makes me feel, how it makes me feel, yeah it makes me feel.” These lyrics play in a loop inside my head as I write this.
Everyone has their phone out, screaming, swaying, falling into one another, dancing, singing. I look up at the stage, not through my phone and without filming for a moment and I realize I can make out Charli’s face, her expressions, even her makeup. When she performs "Apple," she points to a woman in the soundbooth, who’s trying to remember the TikTok Apple dance. “I can see you white t-shirt, I can see everything from here,” Charli laughs into the mic.
I know Charli can’t see me though. I’m behind the sound booth. A spot I chose because there was no other room by the time I walked in. A spot that allowed me a ledge for my margarita but also limited my 5’2 frame from seeing Charli’s feet. I didn’t need to see her feet. I saw her face, something I haven’t been able to see at a show in a long time, I realized. Usually I go to a show and all I see is someone, as small as an ant, darting across the stage, only confirming they’re who I’m there to see thanks to giant projectors and screens.
But this isn’t a stadium show, and it isn’t even a preview of Music, Fashion, Film. She performs "Anthems" and "Pink Diamond" from How I'm Feeling Now, her 2020 album which she recorded in lockdown.
When she plays "Party 4 U" my friend whispers in my ear, “You need to film this.” I do but put my phone down to scream-sing the rest of the song. I throw my hands up at one point and my finger catches onto the wristband of someone behind me. I apologize. Later my friend jokes that it was my first lesbian experience.
What made this feel truly like an experiment in anti-marketing, in intimacy, in closeness were her surprise guests. Her duets with Kim Petras, performing Jeep, and Clairo, singing "Sofia," the latter of which she introduced as one of her favorite songs, felt more like a scene out of a private karaoke room. At one point Clairo stops singing to giggle, Charli laughs and says “sing bitch!”
The show closed with "Wink Wink" and "Rock Music" which she quipped was “controversial” before headbanging and eventually exiting the stage. There was no encore. Still, most people stood in place, gawking about what they just experienced, rattled but beaming. My friend and I laughed about how we were in shock. I decided to buy a t-shirt after all.
The next night, as I wait for my friend to arrive so we head to Madonna, I can’t wait to tell her about Charli’s show. When she finally arrives it’s the first thing she asks about. I order more wine and tell her everything.
Knockdown Center is only a few blocks away. Madonna's Confessions II party promises its own version of closeness: another artist who could fill a stadium choosing, tonight, not to.
I think about telling my friend what I think tonight will be like, what it feels like to be close enough to see a face instead of a projection. But I don't. Some things you have to find out for yourself, in a crowd, sweating next to a stranger who bumps your shoulder like you're already friends.
We finish our wine and go.
