New Friends Fest is an anomaly in the Toronto festival world: staunchly rooted in DIY practices that promote anti-oppression, unity and resistance, NFF is more than just a "music" festival where a bunch of bands play while sponsors peddle their unnecessary wears. Instead, NFF is a powerful testament to community, education and empowerment — it's more than essential.
The festival is now in its fifth(!) year, and the devotion shows: its dedicated following not only sold out all three days of the festival, but also proudly left each night sporting merch adorned with the festival's logo — two hands clasped tightly with a dagger through them, bonding them for life through love, blood and catharsis; I was absolutely one of those purchasers. And with 34 bands playing across three days and two stages, the 2024 edition is the collective's biggest edition yet, bringing in heavy hitters and spry upstarts in equal measure.
After a delayed start due to a power outage in the neighbourhood, the doors opened and the crowd slowly filed in for day one. Festival openers Basque started things off with a piercing bang in the basement (aka. Death Room), and from the moment their feedback rose, the day barely took a breath: from the first pits that opened during Kid, Feral and the sweeping chaos of Knumears, to the dramatic, dual-vocal cacophony of Heavenly Blue and the rousing anthems of Vs. Self, it was a joyous return for NFF, which only gets bigger, stronger and finer with age.
August 2
Votive's blackened, grinding (emo)violence is gnarled and relentless. And although it is, at times, ugly and merciless, there are some passages that are — dare I say it — pretty, even if their set was ruthless. Listen closely, and you'll hear beauty and melody buried beneath the downpour of distortion and screams (that's a good thing). The band relied heavily on material from their latest album, Towards the Pillory, an unrestrained and fantastic collection of songs bursting with tasty riffs, piercing vocals and a potent, underlying groove (groove?! You better believe it!) courtesy of Blake on bass and Eli on drums. Although NFF's very own Rohan plays guitar in this Austin quartet (you may know his other band), Votive have every right to be here. Whether mid-tempo or blistering, their songs are short and brutal, punctuated by Kyle's possessed howls. The band played without a word to the audience, until Kyle told a joke about this being Rohan's first trip to Canada. A perfect way to say hello. This is a band you must know about, and the sooner you introduce their cacophony into your life, the better.
Introducing themselves over all the feedback in the world, the cheer that greeted New Faves alums Terry Green was formidable. Hailing from Mississauga, the band are favourites in the Toronto scene, and the crowd's response was unsurprisingly explosive: the pit instantly opened up, and the stage divers finally got the memo, leading to a joyous celebration for a band that was sorely missed in 2023 (this was their fourth NFF, and it obviously won't be their last). Playing material from their earlier releases, as well as a slew of new material from their recently released full length Provisional Living, the band's set was tight and anthemic, with standout track "EASY" receiving some of the night's biggest cheers. From their subdued clean passages to the punishing noise they release in counterpoint, Terry Green are a formidable group that becomes more powerful with each release and show. Adrian's vocals shredded their way above the sound, clamouring for space amidst the swirling din created by the rest of the band. The underutilized mic stand was flung, tossed and raised aloft like a baton, never once holding the mic, while drummer Adam (the band's secret weapon) kept it all in check. It was powerful and intense, just like all their shows. "Rousing" comes to mind. Admire them, people. They've earned it.
It's been more than a few years since screamo stalwarts Jeromes Dream made it to Toronto, and the fervour they inspired Friday night wholeheartedly reflected that absence. Within milliseconds, the crowd split open and the energy in the room was profound, bodies flailing and slamming and careening across the cavernous Main Hall floor.
The three-piece played tracks from across their storied discography, and it was deafening…but then it wasn't…and then it was!…and then it wasn't. These explosive loud-quiet-loud dynamics were punctuated by abrupt starts and stops and Jeff Smith's penetrating vocals. Members from other bands, volunteers and even the festival's organizers showed their undying fandom, stage diving, crowd surfing and spending as much time in the churning pit as any of the attendees. The first few rows were a mangled, tangled conglomeration of flailing limbs, upraised arms, and euphoric scream alongs. It was belligerent and glorious, a phenomenal band giving the audience an opportunity to expel as much energy as humanly possible. It was dissonant, wild and unhinged: this is elation.
The band didn't utter a single word until very late in the set, when Smith thanked the audience and the festival, and asked us to take care of each other. It was short and heartfelt. But they didn't really have to say a word: they had the assembled masses eating out of the palms of their noisy hands. At the end of the set, the crowd cheered and clapped and begged for an encore, yelling "one more song" over and over again, but to no avail: the band had said all they needed to say, and soon, the crowd began to disperse into the cool night.
August 3
Boxcutter started day two by playing a noisy, energetic and politically charged set that saw lead vocalist and guitarist Toast Wong step off the stage and play amongst the crowd. The inclusive pit saw bodies of all shapes, sizes and proclivities slamming and headbanging. When members of the thrashing attendees fell to the ground, they were instantly helped back up and checked in on, a punktastic practice that should be present at every show (I'm looking at you, meathead hardcore bros… you know who you are). Their set was raw and passionate, a group of young, talented musicians making some truly harrowing noise that whipped the crowd into an early frenzy. Near the end of their set, they were joined on stage by Jazz Cook of Keening and Willa Coward, who added a chaotic, confrontational energy to the proceedings. But it wasn't all crashing, tremolo'd guitars and pounding rhythms (although there was plenty of that, courtesy of drummer Kai Lumbang and bassist Starlight): a cello, courtesy of Ryan Greenlaw, added a droning, pulsating element, one that is often missing from screamo.
The solo project from American musician Shannon Taylor, awakebutstillinbed plays a potent mix of emo-inflected indie rock that knows when to sleep and when to rage (most likely while still in bed), with Taylor's throaty bellow soaring above even the loudest parts of the set. It's deceptively complex, with great chord progressions and an anthemic quality akin to Rites of Spring, Mineral, the Gin Blossoms and the best of '90s emo. From swoon-inducing reverie to slam-into-your-neighbour aggression, her driving, potent compositions have a dancey, grungy pop edge. Sometimes it's quiet, but more often than not, it's firing on all cylinders, and Taylor's formidable band — Brendan Gibson on guitar, Alex Botkin on bass and vocals and Marcy Krasnova on drums — handles the material with confident ease. It's melodic, but with a decidedly caustic edge, and it got the crowd bouncing (always a good thing). The music builds and crashes, rises and collapses, and always does so with fury and passion thanks to the band's tight delivery. Early on, Taylor broke a string, but changed it "faster than ever before." Clearly, it didn't derail her performance one bit: we're all awake now.
Newfound Interest in Connecticut
Saturday night saw the return of Richmond Hill's Newfound Interest in Connecticut. Their expansive, cathartic compositions intricately blend post-hardcore, math-rock and emo, and while not this writer's usual cup of tea, their energetic, sincere and incredibly tight performance won me over in the end, bolstered by the crowd's ecstatic response. Although there were moments of respite amidst the wilder portions, the emotions during the band's set ran high: at one point, vocalist/guitarist Matt King broke down in gratitude at the crowd's jubilant response, wiping away tears and thanking the audience through a cracked voice soaked in appreciation.
Three guitars, dual vocals, a trumpet and even penny whistles(!) came into play. Bassist Mark Kowgier, the undisputed Most Energetic Performer™, leaped into the air, swung his bass around and made very concentrated eye contact with the audience while screaming along to his band's passionate compositions. Drummer Moshe Fisher-Rozenberg's jazzy, knotty backbone gave the swirling songs their mathy complexity, and his excitement was palpable, often standing while playing, unable to remain seated on his throne. Stage divers soared through the air, some outstaying their welcome on stage — Either jump or get off the pot, homie! — and the crowd surfing was relentless. Ironically, most of these songs were written, recorded and released before some of these crowd surfers were born, a testament to the band's reach, relatability and staying power. It was pure and exceptional, and by the end, I was more than convinced. Some bands you really do have to see live to fully appreciate their power.
August 4
Treehouse of Horror play chaotic, mathy screamo that started day three off right. Their blistering, maximalist approach is never exhausting, tastefully and often abruptly adding introspective, subdued passages when the whole thing teeters on the edge of collapse. Although they were the first band to play, the crowd got right into it, with a whole section of the audience screaming along with the band through raised arms and voices aimed at the Death Room ceiling. Drummer Alex is an absolute beast, keeping the front of house duo of Ryan (guitar and lead vocals) and Marco (bass and background vocals) in check, even as they thrashed about; Ryan in particular has an affinity for guitar swinging. Saturday's standouts Boxcutter have a friendly "rivalry" with Treehouse, with both bands encouraging the audience to insult the other band ("Fuck Boxcutter" and/or "Fuck Treehouse," if'n you want to play along). This kind of playful jibing showcases the closeness of the current scene in Toronto, with ironic in-jokes being shared with an audience eager for some fun and humour in an often self-serving and overly serious genre like punk (and all of its many, many subgenres).
Chicago's Your Arms Are My Cocoon is the brainchild of Tyler Odom, a bedroom project that's evolved into a beast of a live act. Mixing piercing shrieks with potent instrumentals that verge on distorted pop songs with a lot of howling, the beloved band had the audience, particularly the first few rows, screaming — and I mean Screaming — along to every one of Odom's romantic, melancholy words. With saxophone and twinkling flute in tow, the band has an added dimension of noise that many who, upon first seeing the instruments, would understandably dismiss. There's an unmistakable warmth to their sound, equally inviting and confrontational. This contrast added a nervous energy to the performance, as if something could snap at any moment, sending the evening careening into oblivion. It still did that, but in a good way. There were interludes between many of the blistering songs: sometimes, they were droning instrumentals played live, usually on saxophone; sometimes, light electronic beats triggered by Odom. Even during these brief pauses, people still danced and moshed and swayed. Basses were thrown in the air, guitars were handed to the audience to play, and the energy never wavered. It was fucking fun, and that's always a good thing.
Before Saetia's explosive set started, lead vocalist Billy Werner told the crowd that his voice was torn up and that he would need help. Coulda fooled me. Throughout their hour-long performance, the band never stopped flailing, screaming and stalking the stage, causing a ruckus while the possessed congregation — including the bands and organizers who stood side stage — and screamed along, danced, slammed and caused general, but very respectful, mayhem. Leaping and spin kicking just like the audience in front of him, Werner stomped and swung his arms wildly as the band — guitarists Tom Schlatter and Adam Marino; bassist/background vocalist Colin Bartoldus and drummer Steven Roche — played their blistering, complex compositions with a fantastic lack of restraint. Audience members jumped both off the stage and onto it, sharing the mic and engulfing the scene as Werner bounced between them, bumping into band and audience members alike. It was pandemonium of the sweetest kind.
Much like the other two headliners, Jeromes Dream and Raein, the band played selections from across their all-too-short discography, and once again, the audience's response — their moshing and dancing and screaming — was a testament to not only the influence of these songs, but the dedication of the scene's adherents. It was a special set, a special performance, a special night. This was legendary. By the end, everyone had entered the churning fray at the front of the stage: other bands, staff, organizers, the works, all of us fans, leaping and singing, clapping and throwing heart-shaped hands at the band. People crowd surfed while embracing. It was so chaotic and so very beautiful. Whoever was there, consider yourself lucky.
As the set wound down, Werner reminded us that "Community is everything. Respect, maintain, and take care of your community." And that is New Friends Fest. It's music, sure, but it's so much more. From the bartenders to the staff and volunteers and sound folks, from the bands and the organizers to the people in the crowd, this is a collective where everyone is responsible for the scene's continued success, for its maintenance, for its very survival. Live music is so goddamn important, and so is New Friends Fest — thanks to this exceptional festival and everyone involved, the scene is alive and well.