words Mai Tane Hermosa
My best hit before Christmas: I was invited to watch Cumgirl8. Not sure what this is all about, but with that name on the business card, I can only expect something sexy and rebellious. Arriving at the venue was like witnessing the spirit of a Vincenzo poem, told on dark nights of fire and techno.
On stage, bathed in a dark red light stands a Rapunzel (AnaSofia) with a blonde strait voluminous hair that reaches the floor, along with a cream-colored dress full of embroidery, reminiscent of other decades (I imagine her stepping out of the forest in the movie The Others by Amenábar) and black studded leather boots with sharp heels. Her only instruments: her voice, her charm, and a Stephen almost hidden in the left shadow of electronic effects.
Blonde kitten, irreverent and cheeky, with schematic hip movements and voice effects—almost an apparition. She is free, he is open. Irreverent, and unapologetic, AnaSofia moved with a serpentine grace, sharing inner monologues and queered poetry through her experimental sound. Her performance blurred the line between concert and theatrical performance, filled with moments so intimate they felt as if they were happening in her living room. She shares her inner monologue with you, an experiment of life like new is every moment. Adorned with these demonic red lights and a guttural yogurt of vocal effects while she sings close to us in the crowd. The people are with her, I am with her, and she is with everyone—drinking and sharing energy. We are a foamy wave. Each song is spaced with open interactions with the audience, leading to cheeky, sweet, and theatrical exchanges. She turns small details into big events, making us laugh and connecting deeply with her. She is the queen of the space, which is full of souls that don’t want her set to end. She moves like a siren, a land-bound mermaid calling all the bitches to come howl and vibrate together. Her reddish silhouette rises with her arm high above us, and she steps into the pit to mix with the crowd. The crowd was with her, completely enraptured.
Her music is heavily DIY, full of rage, life’s joy, and art in the moment. Between songs, blending themes, she speaks to us and almost recites poetry about the search for identity. Queer freedom fills the space with art, fashion, and electronic subversion, making us part of a fight against the system’s normativity. She could easily be an emblem herself. The audience gives her a standing ovation and is filled with disappointment when “Tutti Frutti” turns out to be her final song. “We want more!” we scream, but the queen apologizes.
At this point, I wouldn’t say the audience strictly reflects the feminist aesthetic I was expecting. Instead, a catalog of all ages, mostly rock-looking men in their mid-30s/40s, praised AnaSofia’s performance as she twisted into a complicated bow towards her audience, saying goodbye and blowing us a kiss.
During the break, bands like Amyl and the Sniffers, Shallowhalo, and Kuntess played over the speakers as the room continued to fill up. My companion, a Mexican man in his 50s and a lover of Latin music, made me doubt my decision to invite him. But surprisingly, he was taken aback by the devoted crowd, which didn’t even bother pulling out their phones to record—they just sang all the songs. His second surprise came when he realized she was only the support act.
The New York-based band Cumgirl8, made up of four women, walked through the crowd unnoticed and sneaked onto the stage, wrapped in winter coats. They slowly transformed under the shadows and took the microphones with almost no clothes, powerful, confident, sexy, and so charmingly original that their performance was impossible to forget.
Cumgirl8’s wardrobe was an art piece in itself: provocative bikinis, straps around their necks and legs, cropped shirts, fishnet stockings over vibrant tights, and hairstyles evoking a mix of childhood and Japanese streetwear. Each member of Cumgirl8 seemed to tell her own story through her style. The guitarist Avishag Cohen, went for a more biker-inspired look: black pants, a leather jacket, a tank top, and short hair, projecting a sexy and intimidating vibe. The vocalists—one blonde, the other brunette—played with twin but opposite outfits, like a yin and yang of punk, capturing everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, the drummer, Chase, in a bikini and sneakers, looked as if she had just skated over from the beaches of LA.
The show began with blue lights, and they announced it was their last concert of the year, reflecting on what a great tour it had been. They were amazed to see so many people ready to give it their all on a Tuesday night.
From the first chords, Cumgirl8 made it clear that subtlety had no place here. A wild burst of hard rock resonated with brutal force for starters, pulling the audience into a whirlwind of distorted guitars and frenzied beats.
The main singers (and guitar/bass players), Veronica Vilim and Lisa Fox felt like punk Japanese princesses. Fun, carefree, and feminine, they passed the time between songs chatting like Paris Hilton, slithering gracefully across the stage. At times, I wasn’t sure if I was watching a concert or a play. Their ADHD-like energy turned the stage into a mix of endless, endearing moments. Suddenly, we weren’t in a venue anymore—we were in their living room, sharing an intimate evening with them.
The blonde guitarist raised her Fender in the air, and silence fell over an expectant audience patiently waiting yet animatedly commenting and shouting. The basement at YES isn’t very big. It seemed full before, but now, from the front row to the very back the place is packed. They are an army of misfits, free spirits, outsiders- and we are right there with them. Our blinking, jumping heads bathed in their choreographed voices, throwing their bodies to the floor reminiscent of vampire porn films from 40 years ago.
White and yellow lights on us as they ask, “What did you have for breakfast?” And someone shouts back, “WAFFLES!” And now the song includes Waffles in it. The guitarist jumps into the crowd and everyone around takes out their cameras with flash. I’m so grateful i can see what is happening through the multiple screens. Mosh pits have been happening all the way through the gig pushed by their raw, direct and unfiltered vocals about capitalism and patriarchy intertwined with guitar effects that switched between sharp whispers and melancholy loops while we don’t stop hear gems like: “Do you wanna think of love? Come and taste me” or “My pussy just exploded!”
Toward the end, the drummer activated a synth track, leapt into the front row, and began howling gutturally, singing wildly, erotic, and festive. She climbed onto the monitors, tried to hang from the ceiling, and energetically shook her body, her perfect figure mesmerizing the crowd.
The night turned into a forest of exorcisms, impossible postures, and dancing in every direction while each member of the band demanded attention. Their contagious energy made you want to start your own band. Black lips, extreme eyeliner—was I in the middle of a cyberpunk jungle?
A guitar chord that evolves and wraps everything together in a mystical mystery. By this point, my friend’s phone is filled with photos and videos, and he’s too embarrassed to show them to me. The audience is in awe of them, even bidding to buy the shirts they wore that night. An auction organized by the girls happening in the last 3 songs that ended with an auctioned bottle of tequila passing lips among the women in the front row. What else could possibly happen? Man, they came in, turned the stage and the crowd upside down, and left like queens of chaos, anti-normative feminist propaganda with hairy armpits…And to think they slipped in through the crowd without anyone noticing them…
