September 15, 2023
“This crowd seems too nice to mosh,” someone behind me remarked. We were waiting for Death Grips outside the Fillmore, in a line that snaked the block thrice over.
“Is this the end of the line?” a concertgoer asked us. We shook our heads, pointing over to the edge of Target Field, a good half-mile away from the venue.
The line was nowhere near unexpected: Death Grips, an industrial noise-rap outfit, has the sort of internet notoriety people dream of. Counting everyone from Jack Black to TikTok star Addison Rae as fans, the group has amassed a cult following unlike any other, slotting beside meme-heavy, 4chan-lite communities like JPEGMAFIA or Needle Drop fans.
The crowd also looked exactly how you’d expect — Handlebar mustaches and bleached hair, ripped black clothing, and ironic pop culture tees galore (Seinfeld, Bernie Sanders, and Björk were the most popular references). TikTok star Paul Karpov was reportedly in our ranks. Someone in an Ernie costume and another in a propeller hat and overalls sprinted past us to the bathroom.
Around 8:15, an unassuming trio strode onstage with little preamble. With no openers, no encore, and no small talk, Death Grips barrelled through their 29 song setlist in a little over an hour. Aside from a laptop and a drum set (played furiously by Death Grips producer Zach Hill), the stage was sparse — its imposing centerpiece was Stefan Burnett, otherwise known as Ride.
Though Ride is famously reticent off-stage, here the rapper shone. Shirtless and bathed in red light, he writhed and bellowed, his voice an anchor amidst the buzzing electronica. In a now-deleted interview with Fucking Hater, the group described their vibe as “raw like wet pennies,” as well as “post-Christian” and “post-Satan.” The comparison feels apt, with Ride breaking into convulsions at point, then letting out a series of guttural screeches amid fan-favorite “Black Paint.”
Fascinatingly, the darkness of Death Grips’ work felt like an afterthought that night: Songs like “I’ve Seen Footage” and “No Love” are existential dread, warped and corroded into pop hooks. In “Steroids,” Ride chants, “Can’t hide from suspicion/War-waging prescription/Street life breaks you like religion… Better get numbered, you’re profit.” Directly inspired by the group’s home base, Sacramento, their discography touches on everything from homelessness to the unyielding reach of capitalism. Yet at the Fillmore, these forces felt untouchable — this show was a safe haven, a delirious compact between the audience and the artist.
Though Death Grips’ catalog is almost impossible to sing along to, the crowd gave it their all, screaming the impossible “Get Got” chorus to the rafters. Concertgoers battered the guardrails, shoving and jostling with fervent glee. (This is all, hilariously, despite the “NO MOSHING” signs posted across the venue.) It makes you wonder what kind of chaos would have ensued had they played the Armory — Death Grips’ ruthlessly howled, sweaty set felt in many ways at odds with the Fillmore’s inexplicable chandeliers and the tinted bar.
As we left the venue battered and bruised, a white van pulled up on the street. Armed with a mic, someone took to the roof of the van and screamed. After a perfect set, another ragtag, surprise punk show? It was the perfect way to cap off this strange, incredible night.
Death Grips shot by Nikhil Kumaran
