This year, it seems that ‘greenwashing’ no longer refers to the music scene’s attempt to appear eco-friendly, but to packs of festivalgoers all clad in a particular hue: #8ACE00. Previously known as the humble lime, the shade has firmly been rebranded as ‘Brat Green’. Thanks to the maximalist pop offering of Charli XCX, summer has been dominated by a near-compulsive need for fun that takes a sharp-heeled stiletto to the isolation of post-pandemic songwriting. Indeed, if Charli and Lorde have taught us anything, it’s that even the tenderest emotions can be worked out on the remix.
This is all to say: it’s hard being a sad girl right now.
Enter All Points East headlined by Mitski, the internet’s favourite chronicler of heartbreak. Supported by super-promoters Goldenvoice, and with further billing from the likes of Ethel Cain and TV Girl, the day felt like a conservation project to save the sad girl from going extinct. Should the cottagecore dresses, cowboy boots, rosary beads, and wet-look eyeliner spotted in the queue be a sign of things to come, the project might just have worked.
All Points East has long been criticised for tinny sound, so it was pleasing this year to sit in the shade of Victoria Park and hear pitch-perfect spoken word from Dan Whitlam before taking in the solid bedroom-pop offerings of Strawberry Guy, a Mac De Marco imitator for the softboy generation. Elsewhere, up-and-coming New Zealander Molly Payton played a storming headline set on the Amex Unsigned Stage while Suki Waterhouse offered up a frothy set of babydoll ballads that couldn't quite escape the confines of her miniseries Daisy Jones & the Six, including a cover of Don't Look Back in Anger that felt more ABBA Voyager than hard-faced Britpop.
The standout set of the day came from Florida's Ethel Cain, whose breakout hit American Teenager saw her rocket from a dingy gig at Heaven to a major supporting slot for moody supergroup boygenius in the space of a few months. Frontwoman Hayden Anhedönia's vocal control and stage presence have come a long way in the interval, and it is testament to her abilities that she kept the audience under her spell despite having to continuously stop the gig to attend to hecklers who seemed to want nothing more than her attention. When Anhedönia first debuted on the scene, critics rushed to draw comparisons with the likes of Florence and the Machine and Lana Del Rey but it is clear her brand of Southern Gothic Americana has established a mythology of its own. Spanning the fawning country love song Thoroughfare and the throbbing reverb of fan-favourite Gibson Girl, what remains to be seen is whether Ethel Cain will morph into a pop ingénue or lean into the unnerving storytelling that has won her such a dedicated legion of supporters.
In stark contrast, Beabadoobee took to the East Stage for a somewhat regrettable support slot. Despite a roster of breezy hits and recent chart-topping album, the singer felt swallowed up by the stage and seemed to be struggling with the pace of the set before slipping off the stage as the sun began to set.
Fortunately, what followed was a victorious set from headliner Mitski. Surprised by her own dizzying rise to fame, the Japanese-American singer has been dogged by the same poor crowd behaviour that follows the likes of Ethel Cain and Phoebe Bridgers. In response to this, Mitski has developed a frenetic, theatrical choreography that sees her crawling around on the floor wagging her tongue to I Bet On Losing Dogs or looking longingly at blistering white light as an introduction to The Star. It feels somewhat like Liza Minnelli does Twin Peaks, which is to say the whole affair is utterly captivating. Even when a handful of fans do manage to capture her attention through repeatedly chanting – what else? – “BRAT GREEN”, the singer handles the whole affair with stagey aplomb. In what could have been a dragging set marked by lovesickness and loss, Mitski has found a way to cut a path that feels fresh and daring, finishing with Washing Machine Heart to deserved applause. There's truly nothing more brat than watching an outsider artist stick to her guns only to come out on top.
