I Snuck into UC Berkeley to See Wisp.
It was worth it.
Frankly, you can’t call freely walking onto UC Berkeley’s Memorial Glade park “sneaking in,” but sneaking is a romantic notion for those of us who, visiting our hometowns, get dropped into a haze of punk memories—of glowing lights, bony elbows-in-ribs, sweat stained shirts, and graffitied concrete.
When Wisp first started making shoegaze on TikTok using a pre-made backing track, I was unimpressed. 2023 was late in the second of 21st century shoegaze revivals, and the Spotify’s “Shoegaze Now” playlist was bursting with the same single-composer, computer-recorded, lofi bedroom sounds. While artists in the hyperpop scene are lauded for the same sort of cramped come-up, shoegaze is famous for its full sound that usually requires at least four or five members to create the illusion of even more instruments being played. Even current mainstays, like julie, continue to be scrutinized by some for sounding clearly like a trio. So naturally, a shoegaze vocalist (vocals are famously less important to shoegaze mixes than other genres) going viral for a song she didn’t even make the backing to felt like a gimmick. While I have the urge to say that songs like Wisp’s “Your Face” should stay in the drafts, if Wisp hadn’t published “Your Face,” amateur quality notwithstanding, her virality, however questionable, would never have pushed her to pursue music full-time, and improve. So, partially because it was free, partially because of the allure of sneaking in, and partially because I missed my hometown’s shoegaze scene, I put my skepticism aside and came to the show with an open mind.
Surprisingly, I was not disappointed. I had listened to some Wisp songs before the show (I enjoy “Guide light” and “Breathe onto me”), and in comparison to “Your Face,” they showed significant growth. Wisp has shown that she is able to build her songs around her voice in a compelling way that bridges pop structure with shoegaze sensibilities. I was surprised to hear Lu introduce her entire band as “Wisp.” Given the importance of a full band in shoegaze, and alternative music in general, it was refreshing to hear the band addressed in such a way, especially because of its solo origins. To me, this not only represented Lu and her band’s genuine connection, but also their understanding of the sonics of shoegaze: a peculiar balancing act between creating a unified, cacophonic sound and highlighting different instrumentation.
Part of the reason why I had been keeping an eye on Wisp, even though I hadn’t liked her initially, was because she was from San Francisco. Many bands these days seem to hail from only New York or Los Angeles, and while shoegaze incorporates big players from Texas, Pennsylvania, Ontario and beyond, it seems like the era of Bay Area music scene domination, with bands like Jawbreaker to Green Day, died a long time ago. Naively, I want it back. When Lu said Wisp was “from Los Angeles,” a little part of me died. Disheartingly, it makes sense: it’s easier to find musicians, and find a musical community, especially shoegaze-wise, in Los Angeles. It reminded me a bit of how MGNA Crrrta said they were “from New York” when I was pretty sure their debut album clocked at least half of the duo as from New Jersey.
While the move from a small and original town makes sense, especially in this economy, it disheartens me to see the entire Bay Area haunted by the specter of capitalism (Silicon Valley), especially when it used to be an artistic and musical beacon. For this reason, I deeply respect the fathers of modern shoegaze for whom Wisp’s Instagram handle is named after (@whirrwhoreforlyfe), Whirr. While San Franciscans and anyone from an East Bay city would love to claim that Whirr is from there, Whirr is staunchly from Modesto. You might know Modesto as “Water – Wealth – Contentment – Health” from the Didion essay, “Notes from a Native Daughter.” Or, otherwise, you might know it because like me, you drove long hours to Modesto in late August to wait in line in 110 degree heat to see Whirr perform in the town’s meek city hall. Whether the enigmatic members of Whirr still live in Modesto doesn’t really seem to matter. I think there is something special, and perhaps nostalgic, and perhaps again naive, in preserving history and not letting New York and Los Angeles drain your sense of belonging and home. Sometimes, we don’t even have a choice.
Didion aside, what about the actual music? I appreciated UC Berkeley’s ACSU Superb club, which booked Wisp, for giving the student band openers a chance to play for such a large crowd. The Sunday Souls brought a summery, choral performance to the lawn, and Whalefall brought a more traditional punky-rock eclecticism that catapulted me into memories of 924 Gilman and Taishan Restaurant punk shows. Wisp’s acoustics, as well as aesthetics, worked well against the University’s towering, cream- colored library. Alternating between energetic songs and slower, more intimate ones, Lu played guitar alongside her band, but also got the chance to just sing, as she once did over her viral backing track. In between songs, Lu quipped about different small things, ending the set with a big thanks to her friends and family who had accompanied her on her arduous tour through the states last year. When Wisp exited the steps of the grand library, even those casually sitting on picnic blankets and hammocks all the way in the back were attentive and cheering.
While Wisp’s initial TikTok virality might be frustrating to musicians who have been making their own music tirelessly and unnoticed for a long time, I think that Wisp has made a genuine effort off her launch into stardom, through not only creating a community of dedicated fans, but even forming her own creative community within her band, and with other artists such as Panchiko and Midrift (who are also from the Bay Area, shout out Marin County!).
edited by Ezra Ellenbogen.
photos by Mimi Mikhailov.
