I think Chappell Roan is about to become one of the most successful musicians of all time, and this summer will be the point we look back on as the moment she caught fire. I arrived at the mainstage a full 30 minutes before Roan’s scheduled start time, and was surprised to find myself completely and utterly late. Before long, I was lost in the throng, some 30,000 people all pushing towards the front, cheering at nothing as the electric charge of Roan’s imminent appearance climbed and climbed.

When Chappell Roan and the band took the stage, the sound was deafening. Dressed in a stunning, drag-inspired fairy outfit, Roan wears the pop-star persona as if she was made for it. And from the very first song to the last, 30,000 people screamed every single word. Cleverly, most of the straightforward lyrics were displayed behind her, which means that I—as someone who had never listened to an entire Chappell Roan song in my life—can’t stop singing the hooks to “Good Luck, Babe!” and “HOT TO GO!” for the life of me.

We were like lemmings headed for the cliff. Again and again, people collapsed from the heat around me. One person next to me spent more than five minutes on the ground before finally getting medical attention. When she got back to her feet, I assumed she’d be headed to the exit. But no—she got right back to dancing and screaming her heart out. We might expect this lack of self-preservation from someone who’s been wearing a diaper at the front of the crowd for the last four hours, but we were nowhere near the stage. The show was simply that unmissable.

It’s hard to describe what makes Chappell Roan so completely phenomenal. Perhaps it’s her incessant energy as she bounces, crawls, and glides across the stage. Perhaps it’s the mostly unsung but utterly exceptional skills of her band. Maybe it’s Roan’s electrifying singing voice soaring over some of the most irresistible pop songs I’ve ever heard. She’s a sensation, a natural-born icon, and she put on one of the best shows I’ve seen in my entire life. 

By now, I think we’re all ready to say goodbye to the last generation of pop stars. We’ve had more than enough millennial acts cram their boring songs about stupid men down our throats. If the crowd at Chappell Roan’s Osheaga set is anything to go by (and it most definitely is), we’re ready for hot tracks from weird queers. We’re ready for something more real, something in sync with the discordant world we live in, something that reaches out, grabs us by the throats, and makes a mess of us. “Lightning in a bottle” doesn’t even begin to describe Chappell Roan. She’s a nuclear bomb in a Birkin bag, and I can’t wait to see where she touches down next.

Photos By Tim Snow

DIIV, a Brooklyn band that has been around since the early 2010s, could be said to be in the second division. Prized by connoisseurs of shoegaze and post-punk, DIIV performed at Osheaga and kept us glued to the Verte stage.

Nothing new under the blazing sun, perhaps, but it is always a pleasure to discover late in the day a group that has fully mastered its references and is capable of telling a 50-minute story without any loss of interest on the part of the audience.

There is no real frontman in this formation, the singer and bassist Caulin Caufield does his job quite adequately but clearly does not have the ascendancy of his colleague Zachary Cole Smith. Obviously, the guitarist is the main designer of the music proposed here, the central musician of this American quartet accompanied by two guitars, a bass, a drum kit and electronic complements that enrich the textures generated by the guitar pedals.

It’s heavy, it’s textured, it’s hypnotic, it’s unkempt like its leader. And it’s really good. We suggest you listen to the recent album released by Fantasy Records, Frog in Boiling Water. Let’s not see any contempt for Quebec’s amphibians here.

Photo by Benoit Rousseau

First and foremost, let me declare my respect and fealty for Green Day. As one of the all-time greatest bands to walk the Earth, there’s no denying the influence and importance of their early catalogue—a fact that they seem keenly aware of, considering their tour for their new album, Saviors (Reprise Records, 2024) is actually just them playing Dookie (Reprise Records, 1994) and American Idiot (Reprise Records, 2004) in their entirety.

Green Day’s new music is not good. It’s a washed-out imitation, trying to recapture not only the glory days of the band itself, but also anything even remotely popular from the pop-punk and alt-rock world in the last 20 years. And again, it seems that Green Day is completely aware of this fact, playing only a handful of songs off their new release, and then diving into an hour and a half of songs that we’ve all heard a million times.

Is it cool to see “Holiday” and “Basket Case” live? Sure, kind of. They sound exactly like they do on the recordings. Billie Joe Armstrong’s stage banter is well-rehearsed and devoid of surprise (except for when he forgets where he is in the song and asks what verse he’s on). Mike Dirnt keeps it locked down, playing root notes on bass like someone who makes a million dollars per year playing root notes on bass. Drummer Tré Cool, for all of his skill, resembles a Weekend at Bernies-esque meat puppet being controlled by a grip backstage. 

So what’s my problem? Green Day has atrophied around these ancient songs like a brittle old muscle, becoming aging, Botox-bloated men in denial who refuse to let any new life into their performance, only bothering to release a new album in order to have an excuse to play their old ones. For a band who made their mark as rebels, outlaws, and societal outcasts, I can’t pick out a single thing that’s now punk about Green Day. Between songs, I thought Armstrong might finally come out and say something that meant something. Perhaps he’d use his bulletproof status and inconceivably massive platform to speak out on the injustice that they claim to be against. 

But what do we get instead? Lame platitudes about ignoring the “propaganda” and “focusing on the music and being together.” Spineless, empty rhetoric like this is insulting, and he would have been better off telling the truth: “I don’t give a fuck about anything except making money off of you suckers.”

After being treated to the incredible Mannequin Pussy (who spent much of their precious set time ferociously attacking the church, rich white men, and the Palestinian genocide) the day prior, I couldn’t have been less impressed with the substance behind Green Day’s performance. With all due respect to the incredible achievements of Green Day over the past 37 years, it’s time for these old men to step aside.

Photos by Tim Snow

If you ask me, Osheaga should be packed to the brim with local bands. And while I have my problems with this year’s lineup, there was one act they got right: Montreal-based, surf punk trio No Waves. 

Fast, thrashy, yet fun, No Waves has incredible energy onstage, more than filling the space of the truly cavernous Osheaga stage. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a band that was more stoked to be playing, and the energy quickly became infectious as we watched guitarist/vocalist Angel Parra Vela sprint across the stage, climb onto the monitors, and pause to give bassist Cyril Harvin Musgni a kiss on the cheek. All the while, we were kept on track by thunderous yet oddly eloquent percussion from drummer Sam Sussman.

For some seven years, it’s just been these three—a group formed as teenagers and forged over the course of countless basement gigs and illegal DIY shows. It’s this raw exuberance that makes No Waves so captivating to watch. There’s an ease and familiarity to every motion, an undeniable complicité between this tight ensemble that makes it look easy. 

So when Sam is screaming into the mic while playing a whirlwind beat, when Cyril stands and delivers a nasty bassline as if he were hardwired to do it, when Angel leaps across the stage like a bat out of hell—it doesn’t feel like they’re putting on a show, or focusing on hitting the right notes. They’ve mastered their sound to the point that they can deliver, raw, unfiltered expression, using their instruments, voices, and bodies as conduits to deliver a live-fire demonstration that you can’t look away from.

It’s a privilege to watch established, world-famous acts on the Osheaga stage. But to me, it’s even better to watch one of Montreal’s hardest-working bands step up to the plate and absolutely smash it, bringing all the energy of their infamously sweaty, moshy gigs to the institution of the biggest festival in the country. It’s been a long time coming, but this is still just the beginning for No Waves.

Photos By Benoit Rousseau