When Rich Brian took the stage on Friday night, he had the entire audience on their feet ( it was standing room only) and with their hands up (that part was voluntarily). When I first saw Rich Brian in Berlin at a small club, he erupted onto the stage to make sure everyone was lively participating in the show while keeping himself the most animated person in the venue. In the last two years, not much has changed.

Rich Brian performs at the House of Blues. Photo by Ian Dobbins for WRBB.

Rich Brian (the stage name of Brian Imanuel Soewarno) turned 20 last month, and he’s been putting out music for the last 3 years, making him somewhat of a teen sensation. Within the last two years, he’s released two albums and dozens of singles, helping him move from a

 to an established voice in the game. His debut album, 

 showed us that he could write more than songs just made to be bumped and forgotten with songs like “Cold,” ”Introvert,” and “Glow Like Dat.” On his sophomore album, 

Rich Brian expands his sound like he’s already jumped ahead to his 

. The departure from the tone of his last album marks an already compelling shift in his career. He’s expanded his style with interludes, spoken word, and wide array of new instruments, and, very noticeably, singing lessons. Piano ballads, instrumentals, and catchy beats litter the album and set the tone for a quickly maturing young artist who is not ready to be defined by his past.

You would expect nothing less from the wunderkind, since his story is just as impressive. Rich Brian was homeschooled, and spent most of his time working part time in his parents’ café. He discovered YouTube by looking up how to solve a Rubik’s cube, which lead him first to sketch comedy, and then to rap. Having grown up in Jakarta and only being taught Indonesian by his parents, he learned English by listening to Childish Gambino and Tyler, the Creator, and began making his own music once he was introduced to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop.” The comedic tone and playful beats can clearly be heard as an influence in Brian’s earlier discography, but he was quick to move on to more serious songs. The self-taught prodigy has never slowed down, and now spends his time in his latest endeavor,

, when he’s not selling out venues of course.

The opener, August 08, is signed to the same label as Rich Brian, 88rising. The label tours together and records together, most notably on the track

 This closeness was felt throughout the night, as the performers introduced each other with affection and trust.

The entire show was electric, with Rich Brian humbly thanking the audience and moving across the stage with his goofy dance moves. He was charming, witty, and the dorkiest person there, but still remained the center of attention. Both his throwbacks and his new stuff were equally praised by fans (since only a couple years separate them) and he spent the whole night smiling while ‘taking requests’ (if you can do that in a venue as big as the House of Blues).

Rich Brian spent the night going from dynamic bangers, like “100 Degrees” and “Rapappapa,” to tracks like “Drive Safe,” a sappy favorite of mine that got the whole crowd waving their digital lighters. He took the opportunity to reflect on his journey, telling the audience how it was only a few years ago when he was just making beats on a laptop, being too afraid to talk to girls, and spending his free time in the depths of YouTube. He ended his spiel with a call for anyone out there thinking about pursuing anything to just go and do it. However far fetched it may seem, following your dreams might have you performing at the House of Blues in a couple years.

At the House of Blues, Rich Brian continues to mature his sound, with compelling results

She opened strong and never showed any sign of slowing down.

There were two pieces of tape on Julia Jacklin’s guitar waiting for her on stage. One said “Julia’s Guitar” and the other said “You got this.” She proved that night that she does, in fact, got it. She opened strong and never showed any sign of slowing down.

Early on during her set she took a moment to dedicate one of her songs to a fan who had driven hours to see her only to be turned away by Great Scott’s 21+ policy. (Incidentally it’s the same reason that, I , the photographer for the event ended up writing this review.) She lamented the seemingly arbitrary age limit to drink and enter clubs as she asked the audience two questions. “How old do you have to be in this country to vote?” and “And how long do you have to be to go to war?” When the audience gave both answers that were under 21, she just smirked and went on with the show, but not before dedicating it again to the boy standing just outside the door, in the rain, listening through the walls of the club.

That was the energy of the night. Quiet protests, simple frustrations and knowing smirks. On Jacklin’s latest album, she refuses to be polite or subservient to these frustrating things we’re all tired off. Whether it’s male privilege, like on “Convention,” or pressure to express your love physically on “Head Alone” or all the pressures to have fun when going out at night after a breakup.

It might not be punk rock screaming and thrashing, but her points are just as strong and poignant. She sings softly, does things on her own terms, and doesn’t do it to impress.

On “Convention,” she compares Trump being given a microphone with a drunken dinner date’s arrogance. She laments the idea that experienced, hard working and marginalized voices are shut out by ignorant, cocky men in politics and her personal life. She recounts her dinner date giving one of the worst pick up lines I’ve ever heard. “[I] buy the paper, but I read between the lines, I can show you how I do it, why don’t you come back to mine?”

She doesn’t have to point out his flaws, his blandness or how much she probably cringed hearing that. By leaving her point of view off the record we’re left to make our own judgements about this man.

The lack of protest in the song points out that the onus is not on the oppressed to shout and fight for their rights, it is on the oppressors to listen.

On “Head Alone” she belts out “you can love somebody without using your hands” and “I don’t want to be touched all the time, I raise my body up to be mine” and the audience sang it back just as loudly, each person singing it to someone specific in their mind.


The energy continued on in “Pressure to Party,” a hectic track dedicated to feeling so much pressure to have fun, to make conversation and to somehow forget everything inside your brain and to “just have fun.”


The low ceilings and low stage at Great Scott always offer an intimate setting for performers, and in turn, their audiences. Jacklin takes advantage of this when she delicately discusses death in songs like “Eastwick” and “When the family flies in.” Looking out over the audience, she let her voice linger and her eyes close as she ended the track and left us with chills.

By the end, she left the venue with a quiet thank you and an even quieter exit.

Julia Jacklin kicks ass in Allston

Cass McCombs is the kid from your middle school homeroom whose entire wardrobe is classic rock band t-shirts. He started putting music out in 2002, but I would have believed you if it came out 40 years ago. Not to say it’s dated, as Cass McCombs takes influence from a wide array of contemporaries; I’m just saying I wasn’t surprised when he took off his flannel to reveal a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

When I arrived, the opener, Sam Evian, was playing to a slowly growing audience, but charming a few loyal fans. By the time McCombs came on to play the house was nearly packed, but the show still felt personal and intimate. It wasn’t my usual scene. Instead of being pushed aside or getting an elbow in the face for standing in the wrong place at the right time, I was asked politely “if you could move, you’re blocking my view.” The audience wasn’t there to let loose or scream their favorite lyrics while they blow their eardrums; they were there to see what Cass McComb’s would do next. As a college-aged student, I felt out of place.

which borrowed heavily from classic rock and took a page out of the book of great jam bands of the past. Cass McCombs has been putting out music since 2002, but it sounds like he could have been putting records out since the ’70s. Tracks like “Brighter” from his 2013 album “Big Wheel and Others” seems to take influence from Neil Young with some twangy guitar and a soft, stoic drumbeat while the vocals seem like they would fit in perfectly on a Velvet Underground song, especially when McCombs goes into a falsetto when he sings “I stopped it for a little while” which seems to be a direct nod to when Lou Reed sings “I watched it for a little while” on “Satellite of Love.”

McCombs made chit chat with the audience, coming across as humble and honest. He never begged the audience to make more noise or to keep their hands up. McCombs let everyone in the room enjoy his music on their own terms, swaying peacefully in the front or standing motionless on the sides. He shied away from any bragging or much eye contact and looked more comfortable communicating with his band then his fans.

Much in the same way he let the audience enjoy show how they wanted, he let his band play on their own terms. They read each other well, and they knew how to take lead and fall back when they need to. It was clear they played just because they loved playing music. They played with ease, with creativity, and with knowing smiles on their faces.

They warped and extended crowd favorites like “County Line” and “Minimum Wage,” blending in new sounds into already complex pieces. I don’t know if the additions were created on the spot that night or if they were something the band had played before, but it felt organic and mystifying.

Despite songs that seemed to go on for extended amounts of time, the show did unfortunately come to a close, and I left the show feeling like I had to reenter 2019. It wasn’t what I expected, but it felt nice to go to a concert where I could appreciate the music on my own terms, and in my own time.

Cass McCombs: A Remnant of Jam Culture at The Sinclair

Alex Cameron is a man with a tremendous amount of energy. He ran from side to side, sang with his hips and put his face right up to the audience.

Alex Cameron writes music for the kids who live behind screens. He writes songs about only being able to open up to usernames and pixels; from the perspective of people lying about their age for nefarious reasons, and for people who find that they only fit in when they’re behind a screen.

Surprisingly, Cameron was no awkward recluse when he took to the stage. He was animated, dynamic, and unbothered by anything in the room.

Unsurprisingly, the audience was awkward and uncomfortable from the start, which was painfully apparent when the first opener, comedian 

, came on. Despite being a Boston native and former resident of the apartments above the Great Scott, there seemed to be little for the audience to connect with as she went from person to person trying to find some material to banter with.

 came on next and brought the audience back with a beautiful, stripped down and acoustic set. The 

star serenaded the room to a soft and peaceful lull with her slower songs, such as “Monster,” and “Not Used.” Then, she got everyone’s feet tapping in their cowboy boots when she and her violinist kicked the show into another gear with songs like “Tomorrow Morning.” They left the audience wanting more, which led nicely into Alex Cameron and Roy Molloy’s set.

The set began with the electric “Studmuffin96,” a song about a catfish pretending to be 21 and waiting for his online love to turn 17, the legal age of consent in Australia. The audience went wild, screaming out the lyrics along with him, and that set the tone for where we were going the rest of night.

The stage was mostly bare. There was a mic for Cameron, a table for his laptop, and a stool for Roy Molloy. Molloy is Alex’s business partner, saxophonist, and just a few months before the show, 

Alex acknowledged the minimal set up after the first song, telling the audience that his manager told him not to do this tour, as it would “make it look like they needed money.” He scoffed at the idea and then loudly asked the audience “Does it look like we need any f***ing money,” who all responded with an uproar.

Alex then went back to his laptop, where he played what were essentially karaoke versions of his songs, before returning to the front of the stage. With only a mic in his hand and saxophonist by his side, Alex made up for the minimal set up with his vibrant performance. I was there to shoot the show too, but in the dimly lit depths of the Great Scott it was nearly impossible to shoot a man with so much energy. He ran from side to side, sang with his hips, and put his face right up to the audience. He was drenched in sweat only a few songs in, but the audience demanded more, and he was happy to give. To aid his two-man show, he brought back Lola Kirke to sing a verse from “Stranger’s Kiss,” sung by Angel Olsen on the studio album. They traded verbal blows and ended singing face to face, before the audience gave her a warm send off. The show ended with Alex protesting and mocking nightlife culture with “Marlon Brando.” The thumping beat and macho, chest pounding chorus electrified the audience. After, without any encore, he left the stage as quickly as he had danced across it, and that was it.