There’s something sacred about summer nights at the Greek Theatre—where warm air and golden hour filter through eucalyptus trees, and you suddenly forget Los Angeles is a city. On June 11, a mostly well-behaved sea of rich white people gathered to bask in the indie glow of Peach Pit, with the chaotic, delightful wildcard Briston Maroney as the opener. It was a night of contrasts: softness and distortion, love songs and slutty chords, spiritual mind-and-body-chakras openings and jorts under a dress. A lineup that could’ve easily coasted on vibes alone—but instead gave us catharsis, communion, and a whole lot of hair-swinging.
Briston Maroney walked onstage looking like a cute Jesus in a thrifted light pink dress and jorts, delivering one of the most unhinged, genre-hopping opening sets I’ve ever seen. His voice was a mix of heavily compressed grit and surprising moments of clarity, carrying both energy and emotion. His sound shifted constantly—fuzzy garage rock one moment, twangy alt-country the next, with occasional shoegaze ballads and bursts of prog rock intensity. The stage decor resembled a homemade aluminum jungle, with layered sound design featuring birds, bugs, and fire effects (with, during one song, a fake campfire). Rather than simply warming up the crowd, he created an atmosphere that felt both immersive and unpredictable in the best way.
He yelled, he preached, he meditated. One moment we were guided through breathing exercises (“inhale… exhale…”) with a deep and grounding voiceover and ambient meditation sounds, the next we were whipped into a frenzy by a bass-heavy rock breakdown that ripped like KALEO. He handed out trinkets to the crowd, called out boot-wearers with a soft country song, and brought out a Peach Pit violinist friend to join an acoustic ballad about legacy and fishing lines. A fan screamed, “Pop that hip, cute Jesus!”. By the time he shredded through the finale that started like Queen, the crowd was screaming for more, even though the set technically wasn’t over yet.
If Briston was the chaos, Peach Pit was the clarity. They rolled onto the stage with the casual cool of a band that knows exactly who they are. Their music leaned into polished, emotionally resonant indie rock—tight arrangements and vocals so precise they could’ve been lifted straight from the studio, yet still carried a quiet intensity that resonated even in wordless moments. While lead singer Neil Smith stayed mostly grounded at the center mic, lead guitarist Chris Vanderkooy let loose with classic rock flair, flinging his hair around like it was its own instrument. It was clean, nostalgic, and hit exactly the way fans wanted it to.
During the second half of their set, Neil asked who came to the show with a crush—and admitted he did too, though she’s now his fiancée. He counted their first dates together, saying he“Had to impress her back then, but joked by saying he “Don’t need to anymore.” He also shouted out LA as the first place they ever played after leaving Canada, noting familiar faces in the front row and gassing up Briston with a flustered “What the fuck, he’s so hot.” Later, he shared a story about taking MDMA at a festival and meeting Chris mid-trip. Their conversation, weirdly clear and heartfelt as they were both tripping, ended with “We should start a band.” He then played the song he first ever wrote for him, “Peach Pit”, completed with a whistle solo.
Peach Pit is one of the rare bands I have consistently listened to throughout the years, and finally experiencing their music live was a huge full-circle moment for me, especially since it sounded exactly like the studio version.
Peach Pit and Briston Maroney didn’t just put on a great show—they reminded us how good it feels to scream, to sway, to laugh around a campfire, and make lifelong friends through MDMA. It was the kind of concert that leaves you full—the kind you want to bottle up and sip from when everything else feels too quiet. Thank you for the music!
- Lio
