Walking into MOM’s Organic, I picked up some okay hummus and a handful of drinks, dressed in an all–black ensemble that told the world, despite my banal snacks, I was in for a fun night. The crowning jewel of my outfit, however, was the Poppy t–shirt from three tours ago, my only real tell to the night I was about to have—something my check–out assistant immediately picked up on. We talked about the artist’s one–of–a–kind status; her ability to bridge the gap between female pop icon and hard–rock superstar, transforming from internet oddity to the first female Grammy–nominated metal act, all without being cringe. But mostly, we talked about how jealous he was that I got to go to her show at the Fillmore—and for good reason, she was incredible.
Anticipation was buzzing at the door. A little too late for the opener, as life goes, but I could hardly keep the seat of my pants on. I had seen Poppy once before, as a junior in high school, and she’s one of those artists who irrevocably shaped my music identity. I remember babysitting my friend’s little brother in middle school, when we prayed he would stay safe while we went into the attic to watch “Lowlife.” We were ecstatic that a character from our favorite web series, as Poppy was more quasi–simulation than person at the time, was dropping music. I remember refusing to make eye contact with my mom in carpool when I made her play “Metal” on the radio, for fear Poppy’s “harder” sound might make her judge me. I remember I Disagree being my first foray into metal, hardcore, and the cathartic screech of a blown–out electric guitar—sounds I cherish to this day.
Despite my mounting hype, the security almost didn’t let me in. They scrutinized my ID at the door for almost two minutes, walking away as the card passed between the woman who took it, a supposed expert, and a third person in a conical party hat. Despite its brief tenure in birthday girl prison, and much to my relief, I got in. I’m obviously twenty–one, but only on the weekends. And it was a Thursday, so it was expected. Thank god for UV light.
Once inside, I immediately relished in my now–returned ID and bought $20 cherry–bourbon shaker drinks for my friend and I, replete with souvenir shaker glasses. Snaking my way into the crowd I found an odd mix—mostly straight white guys of all ages, some with girlfriends, some just bro–ing out, and plenty of suburbanite girls in a diverse array of fishline goth chokers and combat boots. Disunited in appearance, we quickly came together as a countdown appeared on screen and the murmurs began to quiet. When it struck “:01”, a prerecorded and disembodied Poppy voice affirmed this new union in our upcoming collective effervescence, saying, “And now everyone’s together / there’s no fighting / we’re all together now.”
She quickly followed suit with the following lines: “picture this / the end / you’re a stranger / you always feel like something’s missing / you remember your biggest regrets everyday,” aggrandizing the themes of social anxiety running rampant throughout her latest album, Negative Spaces. Such themes were embodied by my biggest complaint with the concert: the crowd.
They were more than a bit awkward. There was no pre– or post–concert chatter between strangers. The guy in front of me kissed the hand of his girlfriend in every intermission, as if apologizing for bringing her to the show—a woman who, brushing past me and my friend on her way back from the bathroom, made a bit more contact than expected. They seemed almost desperate for moshing, yet never really let it out of themselves. On “Bite Your Teeth,” Poppy even urged the crowd to form a circle—typical formation before a big mosh—but instead of the head–butting mess of a hardcore show, the audience just skipped around in a polite ring. Even the wall of death at the finale fizzled similarly before the end of the song, despite also being egged on by the artist herself. No one even seemed to know how to skank.
Still, Poppy is a performer of the first degree. Despite ducking behind a little curtain after every song, presumably to rest her voice, she kept the energy alive with interstitial video clips, instrumental breaks, and lighting displays. The stage design was incredible, with monstrous fog cannons, stochastically spectacular lights in every hue, and a tiered set for her four–piece band. She even had a little doll version of herself outside the tent, musing “Why is everyone watching me?” when she crept behind the fabric walls.
Even more than the physical production, however, was just how charming Poppy was. Crooning “Philly” in a sing–song voice every time she re–entered the stage, she made the popular trope of calling out the city you’re in to fit her own brand of cutesy–scary. She is able to take from pop what she needs while clearly remaining a hardcore act—a unique and delicate balance of genre. With her main influence being nu metal, a genre more distinctly mid–90s than contemporary, Poppy still manages to draw a younger crowd (who, if their hesitation is any indication, looked like they needed an event like this) while still inviting the older generation to join in the fun. Her pop sensibilities and undeniable internet clout still swing big among Zoomers’ cultural memory, more than any Slipknot song could. If it’s any indication, the hardcore veteran I went with approved heavily, commenting on her “undeniable charisma” throughout a show he seemed to really enjoy, even if he didn’t know nearly as many words as I did.
Part of what made it so enjoyable for me, however, was the catering to longtime fans. At least five songs off the setlist were from I Disagree, a 2020 album, and her most recent record returns to a truer metal sound, put on hiatus by the indie rock of Flux and quirky pop of Zig. My early fanboy self was more than pleased, even if I missed the many costume changes from the first time I saw her. It was a huge vibe shift from seeing Still House Plants the night before (an equally good if not better post–rock concert, just more sonic Rothko Chapel than Metallica). To be honest, fully formed lyrics emerged from my unconscious, my totally coherent screaming surprising myself just as much as my friend.
In a village of concert venues, Poppy shined brightly under the Fillmore’s brilliant light. In addition to the full crowd beneath the stage, there was also an enormous amount of people on the second deck, just sitting for Poppy, a testament to her powerful allure. Even if the crowd didn’t know what to do with their bodies, whether sitting or refusing to mosh, we all knew how to sing along to one of the most singular performers of our generation. I just knew how to scream.
