We Went to the Bassvictim Show and This Really Smelly Greasy Guy Rudely Shoved His Way in Front of Us

by Sloane DiBari, Opinions Editor, Ben Rosielle, Contributor

About a month after the release of their most recent album and five days after the publication of their messy Pitchfork profile, Bassvictim was set to play the ’Sco on November 11…and not without incident. “Last American stop oberlin [sic],” read one post on the duo’s Instagram story, accompanied by a photo of producer Ike Clateman. “Get ready for the worst show we will ever play lol.”

 A series of manic story posts about the venue’s “no vaping” policy followed: “we will be kicked out if we vape even though my vape is litellary [sic] 0 nicotine, what u so afraid off? A beautiful cloud of yummy relaxing, healthy flavour vapour designed for health conscious yummy mummies and anxious Marias ????” one particularly distraught post read, presumably written by vocalist Maria Manow.

Oberlin—or, more accurately, Oberlin plus dozens of out-of-town fans—seemed ready to embrace the chaos. The line for the show went out the door on a Tuesday night. One of our friends called it “worse than Jane Remover.” We were cold. We were scared. We were hyped to be Victims of the Bass.

Actually, we were mostly hyped for the opener: Worldpeace DMT, the burgeoning solo project of British performer and producer Leo Fincham. If anyone was fooled by Fincham’s downhome coonskin cap and acoustic guitar, their assumptions were soon dispelled as he made a few clicks on his laptop, stepped on some pedals, and unleashed an onslaught of digital distortion and feedback. Fincham’s vocals at times sounded like they were being fed through a paper shredder, their jaggedness clashing delightfully with bouncy computerized bass and percussion accompanied by barely-audible acoustic guitar strums. 

Aside from the one song where Manow filled in for Rowan Please—the Nico to Fincham’s Velvet Underground, as it were—Fincham proved his solo chops as he sang both his and Rowan Please’s parts. The highlight was the project’s most popular song, “Love Yourself”, a distinctly cute but nonetheless punchy anthem for the music obsessives who spend a little too much time online. Fincham crooned a particularly cheeky Rowan Please line, self-effacing but with just the right amount of bite: “Leo wrote this song for you / And sorry that I fucked your dude.”

Fincham is both an amalgamation of everything in rock that preceded him and an entirely new, ineffable figure. Up on that stage with his acoustic guitar (which, about halfway through his short set, would be fitted with a harmonica holder), he was a Bob Dylan for the digital age; he was Los Campesinos! on Adderall; he was a one-man Animal Collective with a bowl cut and a dream; he was Worldpeace DMT. 

After an agonizingly long wait between sets, Concert Sound’s Arica Pfirsch took the stage to announce that the show would be over if anyone—audience, performer, or otherwise—was caught vaping. The screen behind the stage began playing Fight Club in reverse on 2x speed, a move that was perhaps not entirely legal but one that certainly colored the atmosphere of their performance.

Hundreds of bass-hungry audience members screamed in unison as Manow and Clateman stepped onstage. Clateman, clad in an unassuming black sweatsuit with the hood pulled over his head (possibly to conceal his mutton chops), seemed to be hiding from the audience as he crouched down behind a CDJ on the floor. Manow was his polar opposite, wearing what appeared to be leggings featuring the likeness of King Tutankhamun and strutting around the stage with an unabashed confidence.

Bassvictim opened with “It’s me Maria,” sending the crowd into a frenzy as Manow shout-sang the lyrics with childlike enthusiasm. After a few more songs, Manow spoke to the crowd. She commented on how Oberlin’s campus felt weird and movie-like to her as a European, and explained that she was playing with fidget spinners onstage for anxiety as the ‘Sco didn’t allow her to use her nicotine-free vape, prompting spirited boos from the nicotine-free vape-loving audience.

As less-than-devoted fence-sitting quasi-Bassheads, we will not hesitate to criticize Bassvictim for the one-dimensionality of their live sound. If you know what one Bassvictim song sounds like, you basically know what they all sound like, and if you know what they all sound like, then you basically know what they sound like live. The beats themselves thrive in a live setting, as pulsating sub basses that sound subdued on your AirPods become chest-pounding on club subwoofers. That being said, there isn’t anything novel or interesting about this experience; it’s just Bassvictim but louder.

What was interesting was Manow’s performance: erratic, inconsistent, and thoroughly entertaining. She sang and screamed into the audience, exchanged a hug with a particularly enthusiastic gift-giving fan, and stepped into the crowd during “Air on a G String,” discreetly hitting the vapes of various audience members in the process. Clateman, on the other hand, remained crouched over the CDJ the entire time as if he was in a particularly intense prayer session at the Church of Bass. The most exciting thing he did all show was chuck a Gatorade bottle into the crowd. Class act.

Despite Bassvictim’s technically less-than-stellar performance, the crowd was enraptured. A girl next to us enthusiastically sang along to the instrumentals with the inflection of a seal, and even the ‘Sco staff had a little dance party on top of the bar counter. Has the ‘Sco ever been so lively on a Tuesday night?

Even if the audience was loving it, we weren’t. Special shoutout of hatred to the smelly greasy guy who aggressively shoved his way in front of us so he could be in the front row, and then shoved his way back before the show even ended. Another shoutout to Clateman and Manow’s terrible vibes: they whined about not getting to vape, , and said that they were going to give this performance half effort on Instagram. On behalf of less-than-devoted fence-sitting quasi-Bassheads everywhere, we would like to apologize for the in-character actions of our favorite toxic post-ironic guy-producer girl-vocalist “indie sleaze” duo.