I’ve always preferred the explosive yet silky stylings of Wet Leg after dark. But even in an early evening spot on Osheaga’s mainstage, Rhian Teasdale and the band tease out a raucous crowd with their sultry, low-lit thrash.
Teasdale is impossible to look away from, equal parts writhing and levitating, her polite singing voice soaring massively overhead. The kick drum punches us in the throat, and the grinding, hypnotic guitars distort and phase with every hit. Teasdale drops to her knees for “CPR,” her poison-candy words diffused through a red telephone.
On the calmer songs, “liquidize,” or “davina mccall,” she searches faces in the crowd, singing straight into the eyes of untold thousands of sweaty fans. Her band either thrashes or sways behind her, depending on circumstance, but Teasdale’s motions are poised to the point of choreography, feline and ferocious.
Older tracks like “Chaise Longue” take new form, now with heavier, harsher melodies and even less chalance on Teasdale’s part. Her band plays flawlessly, but might as well evaporate into thin air behind her when she gives us the vulnerable, yet ever-self-assured “mangetout.” All eyes are on Teasdale, and it’s no mistake.
In farewell to their earlier, more collaborative works, Wet Leg now exists around her magnetism and presence, and no one’s standing in her light.
Photos by Tim Snow
