It's one of those days when everything feels like it's going wrong. You don't get your friend into the party (and nearly end a different friendship in the process), the guy you thought was pretty cool bails on you for his girlfriend, an ex–hookup hits you up at the worst time, and you’re sobering up in the cold wind. The host almost doesn’t let you into the venue because they don’t “do” press passes (despite you having an email confirming your press pass). All you have been looking forward to for three months now is this one concert, someone who you think made your Album of the Year, and still the opener is terrible. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll be worth it.
Weatherday doesn't disappoint. While the band supporting Sputnik—better known as Weatherday—clearly is an affair of friends getting together to rally behind an idea they support, Sputnik’s conviction carries it. Enhanced by a Swedish accent, their chipper words marry perfectly with their sweet, amateur falsettos. They remain charming throughout, mixing up their setlist and asking their drummer for his phone to read off of, quipping that they hope it won’t be too much of a problem when they toss it out into the audience at the end of the show. They are confessional in both their strengths and weaknesses—when they goof up a lyric, they do it with a smile because they know we're here for the music. Because the music is damn good.
Principally, it’s characterized by its earnestness. The words, written largely in English, carry a Barthesian “floating chain of signifieds.” A string of references that reference something don’t necessarily mean anything in themselves—but the nonsensicality only pulls the personal perspective further to the foreground. There are whole stanzas about buying Band–Aids in “Cooperative Calligraphy,” describing yourself as sparkling water in “Meanie,” or the gem of “A hornet’s life in just six words / Good and bad, but mostly bad” in the show-stopping “Tiara.” Their oddball lyrics—words that mean so much precisely because they don’t quite make sense—are a personal weakness of mine. Calling to mind the labyrinthine poetics of Jamie Stewart or violent ekphrasis of Dominick Fernow, Sputnik manages to bring in both an adolescent angst and a girlish wink as well as pull this synthesis off as adorable, not insane.
As if they weren’t hitting enough personal favorites, they also self–mythologize. As a PC Music devotee, the collective dedicates itself to building an almost artificial amount of lore for themselves embedded in the music they make, I know a thing or two about building lore into songs (looking at you IDL)—and Weatherday provides enough Easter eggs to keep a boy satisfied. The aforementioned Band–Aids, sparkling water, and hornets are mentioned in nearly every song, but so too do the cut lips from their debut, Come In. The character Agatha is back, too, this time with a goldfish and not just being dramatic (again).
Yet, relating in their brief Instagram post about the album, they “tried traditional songwriting,” and successfully, too. “You thought that you’d feel something by now” in “Hug” or “an angel, in the shape of an angel” in “Angel” are instantly chantable lyrics, even more important for a new album immediately on tour. Even if we don't know the songs, we could sing along with ease.
The crowd is a beautiful assemblage of Philly's best. I’ve never seen more collars and cat–tails on people in my life. There are two pretty boys in gym shorts, chains, ball caps, and brilliantly white Air Forces. The guy next to me reeks of Albolene despite making out with his girlfriend, and a Jesus–looking figure in a Weatherday T–shirt leads the mosh with a look in his eyes which broadcast that his life depends on it.
To be fair, the band is an odd mix, too. All clearly friends, but none that you’d think would go together. Admittedly, I'm a little distracted by the drummer being almost exactly my type (stupid haircut, stupider tattoos, and vaguely Mediterranean with a light beard, kind smile, and a subtle bicep vein) but I surprise myself by still being able to talk to them afterward about how the show went. Sputnik is the chattiest, relaying to me the difficulties of keeping their voice while on tour. They want to give it their all, they're saying, but doing it every night with little rest is hard. More importantly to Sputnik, the keyboardist, and the other guitarist, however, is to make sure I call out Wood Street Pizza. Go there and you might just catch them next time they're in town. The drummer just gives me a closed lip, go away smile, and a quick thanks.
Even without male attention, I can't deny the fun I’d had. While the crowd erupts at “Come In,” creating a wondrous, corporeal vortex out of what is clearly the best–known Weatherday song, the house nearly comes crashing down when Sputnik told us “if you haven’t moved yet, move for this one” for the finale, the aforementioned “Tiara.” Knowing all the words, I finally have the feeling that I am lost in the music. That rare sensation of self–obliteration, I think, is the point of identifying with art. That somehow I could displace myself and embody this person’s creation instead. Until I find it again, I’ll just keep trying to recreate it with Hornet Disaster on my headphones.
