WET LEG AT THE GREEK: CHAOS, CHARM, AND CATCHY FISTS
WORDS BY ALEXANDER SERVENTI. PHOTOS BY NIKKI NEUMANN.
There was an electric, tattooed energy bursting from tattered denim at the Greek Theatre this past Friday. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, sleeves rolled, eyes wide, waiting for something wild. I first encountered Wet Leg when they opened for Harry Styles back in January 2023, and I’ll admit, I underestimated them. Back then, they were the quirky newcomers stealing hearts with wit and deadpan charm. Now, they have fully claimed their place. With their sharp humor, cheeky lyrics, and chaotic magnetism, it is refreshing to see a female-led rock band thriving in a pop-saturated era, and even better to see them headlining one of Los Angeles’s most iconic venues.
Opening the night was Mary in the Junkyard, a three-piece from the UK fronted by vocalist and guitarist Clari Freeman Taylor. Their self-described “angry weepy chaos rock” filled the Greek with raw, tangible emotion. During “goop,” Freeman Taylor switched to bass while Saya Barbaglia picked up a viola, creating an unexpected blend of punk edge and classical texture. The mix of wiry strings, pulsing bass, and breathy vocals made the track an instant standout, one that has already earned a spot on my Power Pop Bubblegrunge playlist.
A sign at the entrance warned that strobe lights would be used. I did not think much of it until Wet Leg hit the stage with “catch these fists,” and each flash felt like a playful jab straight to the eyes. I liked it. Rhian Teasdale bounded onto the stage with easy command, her grin equal parts mischief and power, and the sold-out crowd immediately rose to its feet. Their second album, moisturizer, released in July, folds perfectly into their debut with overdriven guitars, pulsing bass, and relentless drums that make stillness impossible. Whether you were in the pit, in your seat, or later screaming in LA traffic, there was no resisting it.
A personal highlight came with “davina mccall,” a song that floats above the charming chaos with unexpected sweetness. Teasdale’s voice intertwined beautifully with that of guitarist Hester Chambers, creating a delicate harmony that turned their offhand declaration of love into something universal. I am a sucker for a love song, deal with it.
They closed with the post-punk siren “CPR,” draining the crowd’s last ounce of energy before exploding back to life with “mangetout.” That song captures everything great about Wet Leg: the sharp wit, the unapologetic femininity, the joyful defiance that proves rock and roll has never been a boys’ club.
When it was all over, the stage lights dimmed, the crowd howled, and I could not help but think that rock does not need saving. It just needed Wet Leg. I will be waiting on the chaise lounge for their next LA show.
