There was a moment early in the night at the second-ever US edition of C2C Festival, hosted at stalwart Queens, NY venue Knockdown Center—home to a door factory long before it was home to queer hotspot Basement—where I greeted a dear friend by the outdoor show space, under the suspicious omen of a slate grey sky just as an invisible sun threatened to set. We caught up briefly and exchanged pleasantries, both ready to head inside together to see the first act of the night, London-based electro-pop duo New York. Just before we moved to walk in, she took a quick look around at the other early evening stragglers, and managed a deep sigh before looking back at me in utter despair: “I picked the wrong night to quit vaping.”
Sometimes, a festival recap simply writes itself in a sentence—or at least sets itself in motion, setting a ball on the tee. I’m grateful for these small mercies as I tape up my bat. While the quip might be indicative of the atmosphere and crowd the night went on to attract, consisting of many music industry-adjacent twenty- and thirty-somethings, it shouldn’t cloud the weight of such an excellent, thoughtfully curated lineup, presenting some of the best left-of-center music has had to offer over the past few years. Another friend, also a music journalist, lovingly termed said lineup “the Super Bowl of Best New Music,” and it’s interesting to think of it with that framing in light of A) the recent death of Chicago’s Pitchfork Festival, and B) the ongoing lack of a recurring music festival with established acts in New York that will actually drive the city’s in-the-know cool set out in droves.
With all due respect to the acts playing this year’s Governor’s Ball that I like, the last can’t-miss, compelling lineup there happened seven years ago—and if you’re readingPastefor music recommendations right now, you’re probably in a similar boat in terms of taste. There are plenty of smaller, more specialized festivals spread across venues citywide that happen annually, but there’s long been a gap that should be easy to fill for an organization that, to quoteC2C’s website, could “[showcase] some of the most adventurous evolutions of the avant-pop music scene” all in one location, across a few stages. And the night’s lineup did just that—a ten-minute bus ride from my apartment, no less. In the night’s endless fog of smoke machine exhaust, dew-sticky sweat, and yes, sickly sweet watermelon vape smoke, a better future for “alternative” (whatever that means now) music obsessives seemed within our reach. I felt spoiled rotten reading each successive name on the flyer.
RecruitingPasteAssociate Editor Casey Epstein-Gross and a few industry friends as amateur photographers, I decided it might be interesting to document the night with our phone cameras, imagining that a collective photo diary would be the best way to capture the freneticism of both the performances and crowd. In terms of that freneticism, one thing I did find refreshing about the crowd was howinvested people seemed. Sure, I intentionally hang around people who live and die by this kind of art, so you’d expectthey’d be locked in, but I found this type of enthusiasm among more casual showgoers I chatted with as well.
One new friend, who we’ll call Sam, approached a group of us at one point to ask where she could find the main stage, as her boyfriend had bought them both tickets solely so they could see Arca headline, but she curiously and kindly asked for our recommendation of which openers she should make a point to see. (She then handed us skinny cigs straight from Korea.) For all the talk marketing people do about consumers craving “an experience” in an increasingly siloed, online world, this seemed the best method to create a musical one at this scale. It’s not quite “community,” because that’s something localized that you have to seek out consistently, but for those looking to discover something new or see an international act they’ve followed with their friends? This felt like the platonic ideal.
Post-lament over vape addiction, we headed inside to grab a quick look at New York, the atmospheric, glitchy pop project of Londoners Coumba Samba and Gretchen Lawrence. The pair, wearing matching hats and body suits, held poses for the entire length of their songs, name-checking the Bronx’s Southern Boulevard and captivating a crowd struck eerily still, as if the constructed art piece on stage would shatter with any sudden movements. With that warmup under our belt, we moved to the venue’s outdoor stage to see Titanic, the experimental pop project of cellist and vocalist Mabe Fratti and guitarist Hector Tosta, also known as I . La Católica.
Transparently, the group’s 2025 sophomore recordHagen was one of my favorite releases of that year, though I feel safe disclosing that as multiple sources unfamiliar with the record prior to the fest shared that the set stood as their most pleasant surprise of the evening. Assisted by a percussionist and a trumpeter, the alchemy of the performers on stage transcended even my expectations, as the clear, angelic tone of Fratti’s voice cut through the biting haze of Tosta’s shredding like she was fated to deliver the word of the gospel herself. Someone else I knew later noted he’d seen me gripping to the barrier for dear life during the set as I leaned into the swirl of sound, letting pink smoke from the machine positioned right below my chin blow up into my face as I struggled to hear every note of what might have been my favorite set of the night.
Casey,Pastestaff writer Grace Robins-Somerville, and I all made a pitstop at what Knockdown Center calls the “Champagne Room” near the back of the main hall, where we were treated to a selection of free flavored Red Bull-infused cocktails until the room opened up to the broader crowd at 10. While my sidekicks chose to take advantage of the relatively quiet and ample seating for a while, I wandered back out towards the mainstage to see Malibu, whose most recent record,Vanities, I enjoyed but did not find myself seeking out again over the course of the last year or so.
Yet, re-entering the main room, I vaulted headfirst into a cloud of white smoke, as if angels had descended and crashed through the warehouse ceiling while my back was turned on the way to the restroom. For the entirety of my time watching the set, I never saw an actual body cross the stage. In the video I took for later reference, all I can see is a blistering beam of light splitting the shaking floor down the center over the hypnotic trance of musician Barbara Braccini’s ambient soundscape. What sounds meditative on record sounded like a force exercising its divine power in the room, seeking to expel whatever strangled, haunted noise holds it. I spotted a friend from a label in my haze and told him that his wristband would get him free Red Bull in the back, though I couldn’t quite look him in the face when I said it, fearing what might happen if I averted my gaze from the light.
By the time my friends returned, we reunited for one of the most anticipated sets of the night by Iceage frontman Elias Rønnenfelt, whose records both with his band and solo I have always admired, but also can’t say I revisit with much frequency (I would very much recommend “No One Else” and “River of Madelaine” from 2024’sHeavy Glory, though I didn’t expect to hear either song played). Ahead of the release of Iceage’s new album at the end of the month, we were treated to a set delivered by a seasoned pro, moving with rockstar ease around the stage as if to live up to his indie band bonafides on the more experimental bill. The crowd didn’t quite break out into a full feverish dance yet—still too early, the sun had just completely set—but those who pushed past us on their way to the front were the true devoted, throwing their body into the singalong with admirable force.
At one point, a man in front of me threw a wild arm around someone who I assumed was his boyfriend, enunciating each lyric with heartfelt, joyous desperation. Rønnenfelt, for his part, sings in broad, Liam-Gallagher-like vowels, leaning into the swagger of singles which sound dreamier or more abstract in their recorded versions. Given the recentviral firestorm in which he’s found himself unwittingly wound up (though I doubt anyone sending him death threats was even of age to have attended the event), my personal set highlight was the headbanging-friendly arrangement of last year’s single “Carry-On Bag,” a song about things you might not want TSA to find in the titular item. By the time he left the stage to wander the venue grounds among us for the remainder of the night, sweatshirt hood up and mostly blending in with the hipster masses, I found myself charmed and walked away vowing to visit some older Iceage albums ahead of the new record’s arrival.
Though my plan from there was to go back inside to check out aya’s set, someone in the know with YHWH Nailgun—local art-rock scenester heroes, who I had seen live innumerable times in the last year or so as they promoted their excellent debut record,45 Pounds—warned me that I should stick around to hear their set first. “Aren’t they playing their whole new record?” I asked, certain I could float back and forth between artists and get a good sense of both performances.Well, yes, they informed me, but said the new recordMagazine was only eleven minutes long. And so, my feet stayed planted.
Those who loved45 Poundswill find much to love in what we heard of its follow-up, expanding into more dynamic territory even as it carried the same blistering, scorched-earth punch. Truthfully, as with any YHWH performance, I found myself disoriented by the sheer delirium of the sound as frontman Zach Borzone staggered and swooned over the percussive firestorm like, as my friend described it, “a zombie that’s only learned to walk backwards.” By the time the set screeched—both literally and figuratively—to an abrupt halt, I was able to dodge out of the way as those who hadn’t received the tip-off stood scratching their heads, befuddled. The band’s illegibility is maybe the foremost thing I love about them, but in this case, it also served a practical purpose.
I walked back inside, by the grace of whatever holy maker exists above us, to club disturber aya climbing on a folding table around her collection of gear. Even if she held the stage alone, she delivered a wholly physical performance, collecting the cables strewn around her and whipping her weight forward for the mic stand to hold her. She shouted something into the microphone between songs, but I struggled to hear her as I contended with the feeling of the beat pulsing in my throat. Notably, it was also the first set where I actually saw people dance, thrashing against the barrier as more bodies poured in and the clock struck ten. Though she seemed to be testing out a good deal of new material—thrumming drum and bass that doesn’t abandon the tension or density of last year’s breakthrough record,hexed!—the crowd up front was locked into whatever she had to deliver.
A man in front of me pulled my same Titanic move at the barrier, though he took the opportunity to rock back and forth like aya’s performance has invoked a benevolent spirit within him and he has no choice but to physically shake it from him. I would say now that if Titanic had any competition for my favorite set of the night, it might have been this one, though I felt overwhelmed enough by its intensity that I took a breather from most of Avalon Emerson & Charm’s set that followed it. As their sparkly, vocoder-laced take on synth-pop floated through the building, I ducked in and out of the air slowly cooling while the night soldiered on, circling from the front of the building to the back to interject myself into different conversations. My ex-vaping friend, by this time, had purchased a new vape from the Knockdown Center all-gender bathroom and walked me through an explanation for how she would go cold turkey again after tonight, though I could only half-process her logic.
I got myself back at the barrier for Los Thuthanaka, the collaborative electronic project of siblings Chuquimamani-Condori and Joshua Chuquimia Crampton and current belt-holder forPaste’ssong of the year in 2025, only mentioned in hallowed tones amongst my friends with more high-brow taste. I teasingly call the band’s prostrating believers a cult, but each time I’ve watched the duo perform their near-ritualistic barrage of collaged dance music, I can’t say I don’t understand what inspires such affection in the most zealous believers. Accordingly, the setwas great, but given the music’s intentionally repetitive nature, I found myself whipping my head around to assess the state of the crowd’s willingness to dance. The record’s rhythms often come in hiccuping jolts, which made me believe it’d be more suited for rocking your body in place than breaking out any choreography. Yet, I soon found myself mistaken as a large swarth of girls made the space for an effortless two-step at the barrier, moving with delight. I stepped back to let them take my spot at the rail, happy to watch them prove me wrong.
By the time the crowd stepped away and turned over for Nourished by Time, the current belt-holder forPaste’salbum of the year in 2025, we were smushed like sardines stage left, surrounded by an influx of new people looking to stake a claim on prime crowd real estate as the penultimate act of the night asked for more bass in the monitors. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen NBT mastermind Marcus Brown and his band every time they’ve played a live show in New York to date, but it was evident to me that the sound mix was off throughout his set. Still, this hardly stopped the Arca-faithful vying for the best view from dancing along with their friends, nor me and my own crew from singing all the words like we had a mandate as Greek Chorus while Brown danced with us from his perch. The takes on “Shed That Fear” and “Daddy” from 2023’sErotic Probiotic 2, in particular, seemed to fully turn the crowd over onto Brown’s side.
Once Arca took the stage shortly after 2 a.m., I found myself nearly tripping and swaying into the arms of the people milling around me patiently, a bit more docile in the midst of their exhaustion at the end of a very long night. Still, it speaks to Arca’s power as a presence that when she finally emerged from the green room, most of the arms in the back of the warehouse raised to wave, as if she’d even be able to see us from at least a football field away. “Good evening, Nueva York!” she yelled to deafening applause from all of us gathered as her mix slowly began to strobe, “I love you guys, havefun!” We shuffled to the stuttering beat drop, not daring to take half measures on one of her commands.
Though I exited the set early, dying to call a car with no bus in sight, I made sure to ask my friend who’d managed to get great sightlines of Arca by the night’s end how the rest of the set was when I saw her the next day. “Intellectually?” she asked me, at which I balked a bit but replied, “Sure.” She informed me, slightly disappointed, that Arca had only played a few new songs and mostly DJed through her set, rather than giving a more full-fledged performance.
And what about emotionally, then? “Oh, I cried,” my friend responded without hesitation. I suppose that’s all one can ask for from a night of so-called adventurous discovery among our current avant-pop giants: movement that confounds, the force of the body dancing and proving you wrong, a grateful tear falling just as the lights go out. I left my building to go grocery shopping the next morning with visible glitter still in my hair, watching young children holding tight to a parent or to each other point at me as I passed them. I’ll have to hope one could glean all of that meaning from the shimmer of the cheap body glitter spray, left over from the hunt. City kids are sharp. I’m sure they got the gist.
Elise Soutar is a New York-born-and-based music and culture writer.