The music scene emerging today doesn’t have a name yet, but maybe that’s fitting. Led by a young generation of musicians, visual creatives, and devoted fans, this new movement—defined by raw, unfiltered performance, lyrical honesty, and live instrumentation—is electrifying venues, dive bars, practice spaces, and bedrooms all over the world. In the aftermath of a pandemic that left us all feeling hungry for connection, it’s fostering community and reprioritizing a life in analog.
To paraphrase Victor Hugo, revolutions are born out of necessity, not chance. Modern music history would back that up: psychedelic rock exploded at the height of the Vietnam War; pop music triumphed amid the excess and unfettered hope of the ’90s; and a new wave of indie rock found its legs in the angsty aftermath of 9/11. Now, Gen Z and Zillennials are in the driver’s seat, making music in the face of the climate crisis, the advent of AI, the war in Gaza, and a second Trump presidency.
This yet-to-be-named scene blossomed during COVID-19. Stuck at home in lockdown, artists had the opportunity to experiment and redefine their sound—and maybe even use a stimulus check to invest in new instruments. (Such was the case of Adam Kenter of the pop group Starcleaner Reunion, who spent his on a Juno-106 keyboard.) Groups started, some re-formed, and many more folded and never recovered. “In New York, the music scene had to die and come back,” says Gigi Giobbi, drummer for the rock band Been Stellar.
While the pandemic changed the artists, it also revolutionized how fans found new music. Sure, the TikTok search bar is not as romantic as sifting through a dusty record bin, but by typing in keywords like “shoegaze” or “Midwest punk,” fans could find a niche community that catered specifically to them. Doing this bypassed the label system, turning the fans into the tastemakers—and giving artists unusual control over the way their work was consumed and distributed. It was online, during the early days of the pandemic, that bands like Momma gained traction, and Natalie Lu, better known by her stage name, Wisp, blew up after her first song went viral on TikTok. After COVID, there was a rush to take these online communities offline, to make them something real. “People weren’t just going to see their favorite band,” says Lu. “They’re looking to meet different artists, to build friendships.” Instead of an online message board, there are now dozens of thriving local scenes. In New York, people flocked to venues like NightClub101, TV Eye, Knockdown Center, and the Ridgewood Presbyterian church-turned-event space Stone Circle. Rachel Brown from Water From Your Eyes and Thanks For Coming even played some of their earlier shows in a park. Others, like YHWH Nailgun, Godcaster, and Chanel Beads, opted for an abandoned train tunnel. Basically, wherever you can plug in, you can play.
This past Governor’s Ball saw a powerful convergence of key figures in the movement, six years in the making: Wisp, Radio Free Alice, and King Princess among them. But the influence of this growing, yet-to-be-named scene was most obvious when Brooklyn-based band Geese hit the main stage at 4:45 p.m. to play their homecoming show. A sea of thousands of people from all walks of life made out, moshed, and screamed the lyrics to “Au Pays Du Cocaine” together. The band was raw, perfectly imperfect, and oh so talented—a microcosm of the moment in music they represent.
As if the propulsive power of this scene wasn’t evident from Geese’s massive crowd, take it from Jackson Walker-Lewis of the New York electronic duo Fcukers. While Walker-Lewis and his bandmate Shanny Wise are now on tour with Harry Styles, he noted during their set that the last time they played Gov Ball, only two short years ago, they went on directly after festival openers School of Rock New York, a music education program.
While the scene is marked by the return of guitar music, the introduction of unconventional instruments, and genre experimentation, the real engine is the live component—resisting automation and the anonymizing influence of AI in favor of real, human sound. Generative software cannot re-create the carnal energy of a Fcukers show, hit the drums as intensely as Geese’s Max Bassin, improvise cello and saxophone like KatzPascale, or command an audience like Cole Haden from Model/Actriz. The ultimate manifestation of the scene is its audience, who pack into clubs and gather under bridges to dance in a sea of their peers. They show their devotion by shutting off their screens and feeling the drums in their chest and the feedback ringing in their ears.
As Model/Actriz’s Haden says: “There’s always room for you.”