Pop Break Live: Goth Babe with Bay Ledges at Franklin Music Hall in Philadelphia, PA on August 10, 2023
Written by James Barry
It was a mild August evening. The asphalt was steaming under the low sun, wet from a brief afternoon shower. On North 7th Street in Philadelphia, men were waving orange flags, guiding cars into fenced parking lots, a tattooed couple were finishing a spliff on the sidewalk, and waves of young people were breaking at the entrance to a weathered brick warehouse like it was a shoreline within the city. Under the royal blue “Box Office” awning, through the open red doors, and into the cavernous standing room of Franklin Music Hall they went.
Aquamarine and emerald lights glowed throughout the space, and a yellow painted bar flooded with bodies sat in the wall near the stairs to the upper deck, where the seats were already packed. The floor was about one-third full. Chatter buzzed through the air like radio static. Anxiety found its outlet in chipper conversation and mixed drink orders. A merch stand near the entrance displayed t-shirts and hoodies and hats that said Goth Babe. He was the night’s headlining act; neither goth nor a babe.
The doors had opened an hour earlier. It was 8 p.m. and there was no one on stage, just a vacant drum set and other equipment sitting in the shadows, untouched by the moving lights. Then the background music stopped, its sudden absence betraying its ubiquity like the pause of air conditioning. The lights dimmed, and the entire stage was cloaked in darkness. The babble ceased; the audience’s attention was captured. A trio emerged from the curtains and the lights returned in hues of violet and magenta.
A tall, lanky long-haired man in beige trousers and an open button down shirt took center stage and grabbed the microphone. He greeted the crowd and said, “We are…” but the group’s name was warbled, lost in the noise. Then the music started. And the tall, industrial room was transformed into a beach.
The group played a fresh sound; a distinct brand of alternative seaside pop somewhere between Childish Gambino’s “Redbone” and Still Woozy’s “Lava.” The crowd was immediately compelled to move. The vibes were immaculate. Then, after finishing the night’s first song, the singer once again announced the group’s name. And this time everyone could hear it: “We are Bay Ledges,” he said.
He was standing next to a short table. Resting on the table was a magic box of vocal effects. And he displayed his mastery of it on “Like a Bird,” a song with a melody so infectious it was classified as airborne. With the pitch of his vocals raised by several notches, it sounded like the group had brought a new singer on stage. He was a man of countless voices. And his diversity of deliveries gave the set a unique dynamism. He was in total control of his shapeshifting powers. He adjusted his pitch to the song, and within each song, matching the energy like a sonic chameleon. Yet this was not camouflage. He didn’t change to hide himself; he changed to accentuate his musical environment.
After a few songs came the set’s greatest surprise: a passionate cover of LCD Soundsystem’s “Home.” He stripped his vocals of their effects and channeled James Murphy for a few minutes. The drummer kept impeccable timing. Those who recognized the song bloomed throughout the crowd like wildflowers in a glade. They sang along to the words, and, for a few minutes, they turned the show into a dance party. It was as if the iconic LCD Soundsystem disco ball had lowered itself from the ceiling, illuminating the expanse like the sun emerging from an overcast sky.
The set ended shortly after the addictive hook of a song called “Straight Jacket.” Bay Ledges thanked everyone in attendance and left the stage. The room was almost full, with people filtering in, walking to the bar unaware they had just missed the show’s better half. For those who had arrived early enough without knowing there was an opening act, Bay Ledges had been an apparition; a fleeting messenger carrying gifts of joy.
Then came a long intermission; the bustle of time between sets. After about 40 minutes of downtime, of jockeying for position, of late arrivals filling up the floor, of tipsy conversation rambling on, a drummer and a keyboardist took the stage. The two commenced a sprawling, monotonous introduction. After a few minutes, Griff Washburn ran to the mic stand in a dad hat and overalls. Goth Babe was finally on stage. The crowd roared with excitement, they volleyed beach balls over heads, and Washburn commenced the set.
For large parts of the song, he would hold the microphone to the crowd and wait for them to sing, but few people seemed to know the lyrics. Apparently displeased, he kept motioning for everyone to join him, but the echo remained faint. Once the song ended, he welcomed a fan on stage along with a giant pool float. Washburn told the crowd to hold the float up and let her surf the waves for a couple of songs. After a couple minutes, though, the crowd seemed tired of holding weight overhead so frequently; the float’s circles amongst the people grew shorter and shorter.
The interaction felt forced. It was a duty imposed on the crowd, not one they volunteered for. The same was true of the next gimmick: a crowd-surfing cardboard cut-out of Danny DeVito. Washburn told the crowd to hold DeVito for the remainder of the show. It wasn’t clear who this prop was meant to entertain. Was it for Washburn’s own enjoyment? Was it just supposed to look cool in video clips of the show? For the crowd, it was another miss. DeVito was sent back on stage after a few songs.
For much of the set, Washburn was strictly the vocalist. And a large feature of Goth Babe’s sound was its massive production. The vocals often felt like bridges between peaks in the songs’ instrumentals. For listeners of EDM or the types of remixes one hears on the sticky floors of a frat house, these seemed to be the highlights of the performance. For the rest of the crowd, these moments fell flat. It was underwhelming when the ostensible climax of a song featured the face of Goth Babe headbanging to a backtrack. He wasn’t singing. He wasn’t playing an instrument. He was moving to the music like a fan. There was no difference between him and the crowd.
The highlights of the set were the songs featuring Washburn on acoustic guitar, with the backtracking stripped down. There was an intimacy to these performances, and an enhanced live element. The crowd was more connected to Goth Babe in these moments. And, as Washburn is the star of the group—Goth Babe is his project—these songs properly showcased his artistry. There simply weren’t enough of them. The room decongested as the set wound down. Some left early, some visited the Bay Ledges merch stand Washburn generously pointed out across from his own. Then the show ended, and the crowd dispersed into the indigo August night.
Many would hop in their cars, search the internet and discover the frontman who had captivated them for an hour was Zach Hurd, an artist from Maine. Then they would learn Bay Ledges was a project Hurd started in his bedroom about seven years prior. And as wonderful as songs like “sunsunsun” and “keep going” would sound on the ride home through moonlit Philly streets, they wouldn’t measure up to the live versions that had dazzled Franklin Music Hall.
Hurd’s stage presence had turbocharged the tracks. His charisma, his contagious exuberance, his dynamic vocal performance, his lithe dance moves, they all worked to enhance the live experience. The digital copies were mere replicas, secondhand goods. Like a sunset, Bay Ledges was something one had to see in person.
