Fuzz at the Moose House:
Who, What, How?

13 August 2026

Red Sunflower Band

Who? A three-piece: Kiyan, Teymour, and Jaden. I learn Kiyan and Teymour are twin brothers eavesdropping; Kiyan talks to a member of Tissue Culture about playing a super “corporate” show someplace downtown with a view of Camden Yards, and a man with a Grateful Dead bandana working on the body-shop side of the Moose House asks if they’re twins.

What? Instrumental progressive mathy combustible rock-jazz fusion. Just enough edge to bridge feedback and cohesiveness. Channeling free jazz energies through a Slurpee straw. Fuzzy, noisy, psychedelic jamming worthy of the praise of both Les Rallizes Dénudés and both Coltranes. There's moments during their set where they let Shahin really jam like nobody's business, and he's playing with an incredible fervence.

How? Impressed, and proud to have brought Brooke on! Glad to have worn earplugs, despite the ridiculousness of the orange CVS-brand eyesores sticking out of my ears, and excited for the next set. Happy that local bands are still interested in playing noisy, free-jazz, and even art-punk inflected rhythms without vocals, though I wonder how vocals would have impacted the more experimental or off-kilter segments. Thought a lot about Prognoz, and maybe even getting these guys on a bill together (17th birthday, maybe? I've got time.) Nostalgic about how this magazine really began, and upset I don’t know how to play the drums.

Ed Sheeraaam

Who? A one-man show comprised of Asher, a Delawarean in black sunglasses manning a black foldable table and a set of finger pedals. I learn his name through someone I stood next to; too embarrassed to say I'm writing for my own magazine, I ask him to ask for his name. I watch them talk about the pedals, how cool his set was, and, surprisingly, the finger boards he sat on the wooden, hollow crate holding all his shit. I can't help but chuckle at his hat. Later in the night, I realize he's part of Sextool; I've only ever seen Sextool play with just the tools. I wonder if the drums are the sex.

What? Facetiming a Facetime call, or putting your phone into a volcanic eruption; he spoke, and a delayed landslide of feedback came back. Putting the power in power electronics. Abrasive, strange, angry at parts and weirdly mournful in others. There was a recorder running, I think, which spat whatever he'd say or mumble into the amplifier, playing into the effects, and rumbling into itself before being replaced as quickly as it came, though he did save a few sections to let them expand. in ambience and sheer volume. Rocked the room a little bit; a black hole in an amplifier. If my head was a blender. If I'd run out of words.

How? Dizzy. Excited! Enthralled, and curious. Wondering how many local noise acts there are on the East Coast, and how many I could book. Wondering how this act would be explored in different directions; more melodic? More angry? How does he wanna move? Who's to say. This was, for me, the first sign that Brooke needs to keep on keeping on, or so to speak; we smile at each other, as a group of people leave the room around 10 minutes into the set, and she holds a camcorder taping it.

9Amygdalae

Who? A Philly four-piece, though credited online as five, comprised of Jetra, Brandon, Evan, Seven, Bobby. Talking to Evan later on, we chat about Death Grips (they've got a bootleg tee on, like, a black-and-white drawing of a hand, but totally deep-fried), local Philly bands (I glaze the life out of Cold Court, who they know through Drexel, and Microgoblet, who I saw, like, super recently), and how well they performed. Second time catching the group, though; first was a bill filled with various colored-belt genres I had to Google afterwards [for the record, 9 is "redbelt"]. During the band's frontman, Jetra, has to ask the crowd to move up on account of two things: it's rather expensive to book there, and the fact it's got a ton of "expensive shit". Somehow, the band's drummer remembers me from the last show they played in Baltimore, down at Unity Hall on Eutaw St. Is it the hair or the hat(s)?

What? Being very, very angry at something you can place exactly, but that something is a thing you know you can’t change. Loud, harsh, angry vocals as a defense mechanism. The performance devolved into crawling at times. Not part of the sound, but, a boy, clearly off something, in the crowd seemed like the music had been enveloping him the whole time. Everything about the band's tight drumming and guitar skills felt very compact, save for the vocals. Aggressive, even dancy with jazzy grooves and squeaks of misery. Somebody's gotta give the drummer, or maybe everyone in the band, a raise. A raise, or a residency. Whichever they'd prefer.

How? Awoken; I'd been fighting sleepy eyes all evening. Ready to dance, despite the camera, and how ridiculous I look at these shows when I dance. Made me quite thirsty, though; not sure if it was the room's size, or watching Jetra prance around and crawl. Thought quite a bit about what I’d like to drink: a walk to grab something refreshing (ultimately, a Kiwi-flavored Calypso) with a friend turned into a herd. Said herd was nearly kicked out for either being boisterous or stealing-- I couldn't really tell which was which.

Chanp

Who? A three-piece averaging 32 (just a guesstimate); Mike, Annette, and Sean of Euclid C. Finder. Striking up a conversation with the band before their set, we talk about a bill they played at Holy Frijoles alongside Insignia back in April. Kai'll never let me forget I missed that show; I can't count the number of times I've either seen him wearing Seven Crimson Suns merch, or talking about how damn good they were, on two fingers. Unfortunately, that show was one of many by which their loose, topsy-turvy 18+ restriction on shows blew open like Pop Rocks-- I've got a year and some change before I'm stepping behind those grates. Later in the evening, me and Mike chat, although rather briefly, about his Armand Hammer merch (no, not the Russian oil tycoon). Should've asked if he's seeing them in September. Carpool, anyone?

What? Noisy, boisterous, angry anti-capitalist sludgy, fuzzy, pin-prick adjective-hell guillotine rock. Shrapnel music. The reels your cool uncle likes on Instagram. Hammer and sickle post-hardcore "tension music" (their words, unfortunately, not mine)-- at some point in their set, I'm standing by Brooke when Mike and the band chant "Death to America". I chuckle: I don't know if I'm quite the spokesperson. They ask if Brooke could hit the lights a few times. Totally fucks up my pictures, but, there's a sonic bath that doesn't slip away, even through an open door leading into the one-way hallway. Annette and Mike share vocals like kindred spirits, juxtaposing brisk, at times unsure delivery with excellent guitar work, and the band's drummer losing his mind. Channelling the abrasive, claymore-like sounds of Daughters, Boris, and Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation, but shoveling their own sound through the veneers of American exceptionalism. Excellent shit.

How? Blown away by sheer magnitude; cannot believe I missed these guys all those months ago. Interested in talking politics with the band. Wondering how I don't see them playing more gigs, and then remembering they play with Star Card towards the end of the month. Shocked by how strangely romantic some of these melodies feel, even when they're steeped in decisive anger; I could slow-dance to some of this stuff, if I felt so inclined. Thinking of Chanp and Red Sunflower as sister ensembles for this show, I can't help appreciating how both bands bridge experimentation and fun.

Sextool

Who? A two-piece, sort of; a tall lanky man, Justin, running a desk of intricate knobs, effects, and sounds from a white, suitcase-looking thing, and a lamp with its neck bending down towards his supplies. Reminds me of a dentist's office, or, more specifically, the first time I went under laughing gas for a procedure. A man in the back manning the drums, Ed Sheeram, playing fragmented jazz segments and abstractly intimate backing tracks—- when the feedback starts going all to hell, or so to speak, he gives rudimentary accompaniments. The tall, lanky man in a thin shirt, ultimately ending the night in a face caked with sweat, was really nice.

What? Sharp, piercing electronics built from the buzz of a refrigerator or the sound of a microwave. Guttural vocals and pained sounds; the man oftentimes used a microphone attached to what could've been a human-alternative for fish hooks. It hurt even to watch, but when I asked him about how he didn't choke, he was much more down-to-earth about the whole ordeal. Cat scratches, a vacuum, glass exploding, bubbling water, or if I turned the minutiae of waiting on the living room into something much more sinister. Samples and field recordings work hand-in-hand here, alongside the vocalist's physicality. Dancing, crawling, and thrashing was as much to the music as it was the music taking form. But don't let my descriptions fool you: the band's drummer ozzed personality like it'd been strained from his pores. When the band's vocalist leaves for a few minutes, the drummer played a solo, afflicted and sluggish, like it’d taking poison damage.

How? Mystified; how do you stop yourself from, like, totally ramming into a wall with such a phyiscality-centric performance? When I talk to him, he tells me he doesn't always play with a drummer; how the hell did he not play with a drummer beforehand? Thankful, beyond anything even remotely comparable or measurable, that I could bring myself on that walk and head on into the all-consuming fuzz up those sidesteps, into the fuzz of the Moose House.