New Colossus Fest

Tuesday, March 3

It's pouring down on Chinatown, and after eating extremely well and paying strictly in cash, we're heading to the first appointment of New Colossus Fest 2026: 190 bands from all over the world (no Italy this year, ca va sans dire) perform across 12 different venues in New York City for about a week, mostly clubs. Smoky, packed, sticky, and in some cases downright strange.

New Colossus Fest offers a bit of everything: from punk to indie, passing through singer-songwriters and oddballs with keyboards and drum machines. Ducking the rain, we head into “Piano's” (158 Ludlow St), a small but mighty club with two rooms, each hosting a different act. We run into the slight, eccentric figure of the Fat Concubine (UK) singer, barely 50 kilos of lanky, blond, ghostly-pale guy wrapped in a duster coat; shortly after, alongside a doll-like figure who looks straight out of a porn manga, they delight the crowd with a techno-noise show made for dancing and screaming. The duo is engaging, fun, and about as demanding as the first vodka lemon of the night. The place is well-populated by NYC freaks and holds its own against the Mos Eisley cantina. Meanwhile, upstairs in the upstairs lounge, Sexverbot (Germany), pale-faced, have just finished setting the stage on fire with plenty of punk-rock, harsh, nihilistic lyrics, and razor-sharp guitars straight out of the best Berlin tradition. People sweat, drink, sweat, drink. This is punk, be worthy of it!

Thursday, March 5

It's the turn of the Ki Smith Gallery (170 Forsyth St), first floor. A big white room, walls covered in brightly colored pop art, the usual freaks in and out of love. All of New York's “fauna” couldn't possibly fit in a single room. We head down a flight of stairs and it feels like being in a drama school for railway workers, folding chairs and a shabby little stage complete with curtain. The subdued atmosphere isn't enough to dampen the powder of Bonnie Trash from Toronto, Canada. Four women dressed in black leather mix metal, doom, stoner, and a voice reminiscent of Siouxsie that sounds like it stepped out of an '80s goth club in Berlin. Serafina, the lead vocalist, is captivating and mesmerizing; she has a magnetic gaze that pierces through the handful of seated onlookers. Shaved head, a hieratic pose, powerful, dark, vaguely fetish. With her sister, guitarist Emma, they run through one hard-hitting track after another, all tightly played, sharp, relentless. They win us over instantly, if only for the fear they instill. After the show they confess to being second-generation Italians, originally from Veneto. The classic lineup is rounded out by bassist Emma and drummer Dana. Chapeau, ladies.

A quick, chaotic changeover and Suburban Speed (USA) take the stage. Jordan, sax and cabaret in the style of Tom Waits, opens the set with a long suite. Beside him, B.T. plays timpani, keyboards and bottles. There's nothing normal about this band, thank goodness. The music is crooked, lopsided, entertaining. Anguished and searing, Jordan paints political scenarios that are sometimes comic, sometimes both at once. The alcohol level is high. Great stuff.

We would have loved to hear that madman Danny Blu, but his set, which was supposed to close the night, gets cancelled and is replaced by Fat Concubine — and we've already had our fill of them. The rain calls to us and we escape to another club, the Silver Lining Lounge (145 Bowery). We cross the neighborhood past $1.50 pizza joints and a few dimly lit cocktail bars. We head toward the music.

Silver Lining Lounge is the exclusive club of a 4-star hotel: dark blue carpet, little tables with lamps, flesh-and-blood female deities pouring drinks, and the Colossus caravan invading this crooner-style joint, where you'd expect to hear Nat King Cole playing. Next up are Torture and the Desert Spiders, a trio led by Anna Kunz. She sings with a force that inevitably recalls our own Janis Joplin, plays guitar like an old bluesman, and sells you second-hand songs that still work perfectly well. The bassist and drummer behind her play like "support riders on the breakaway," managing to bring out every note Kunz writes, every rough edge of her songs, every gash torn open by her guitar. The show is real, authentic, genuine, no frills, quality stuff all the way. Cash only policy. Approved!

Next up are Feet (UK), playing their first-ever American show. They're steeped in Kaiser Chiefs and the British scene. Energetic, engaging, a bit crowd-pleasing. Singer George Haverson jokes around with the audience and sets off a handful of the right songs to wipe out the memory of Lower Manhattan's wet streets. Outside it's pouring rain. In here, people are shouting with joy. We like them a lot.

Change of scene: Ryan Breslin on lead guitar and backing vocals, Dexter Baker on bass, Nathan Sautereau on drums. This is the K's, hailing from Earlestown, a small town in the borough of St Helens, between Liverpool and Manchester, in northwest England. From the look and the arrangements, you'd say they were raised on beer and Oasis. Live, their music leans heavily on vocal melody, but on record they're decidedly heavier. Extremely professional and tight, they don't exactly win points for charm. But they deliver what they promise, and maybe a bit more. A score? 7. While we're wandering backstage to get some posed shots of them, Shaggo, led by Zack Shaggo, start playing: tiny, red-haired, made of pure muscle and adrenaline. On stage with her are Ariel on guitar, Sam on bass, Didi on drums. Great, joyful punk stuff that hits its peak on the track "the BOSS." "I hope this e-mail found you dead" — and we're already all singing along. Before closing the set, Didi, dressed as a woman as a matter of principle, launches into a series of anti-Ice and anti-Trump broadsides, drawing a roar of approval from the crowd.

Once again tonight, New York City has given us its share of thrills. All that's left is to walk back across it in the rain, hunting for a cocktail to warm our bones and a sandwich from a 7-Eleven. Tomorrow is another day.

Friday, March 6

The big draw of Katz's Deli pulls us toward the East Village. Magnetically drawn to the pastrami sandwich from "When Harry Met Sally," we sit down in the classic American diner amid photos of celebrities, fretful waitresses, and a sandwich stuffed with a full pound of roast beef. Surrounded by Black families, Italian-American families, Jewish couples, and a few tourists, we chew happily away. A short walk to work it off and we're off to Baker Falls (192 Allen St), a stage tucked in a corner and the place already packed. A makeshift line check and Hause Plants from Portugal take the stage, delighting us with a show built entirely around rhythm as its backbone. A drummer and a bassist who's also running a drum machine, saturated sounds, and a BPM that never dips below 140 — this stuff really makes you move your ass. Singer Guilherme Machado Correia carries the show with two excellent musicians; the songs are catchy and crowd-pleasing, impossible to stand still to. Dance-punk undertones and saturated basslines introduce the single "Do It Like This." Bodies sweat, hips move, beers and cocktails pass from hand to hand. New York is always thirsty, and who are we to say no?

Another makeshift stage change, and this time it's The Slates from the UK. Average age 20, playing their first-ever American stage, happy and sweaty, they deliver an energetic, sunny, fun show — pop heavily streaked with rock. You'd think they'd been doing this for decades. Louis Barnes is a seasoned frontman, singing and working the crowd, steering the set toward exactly what you'd dream a club gig could be: catchy hooks, sweat and beer. Jude Wales on bass, dressed like a suburban middle-class boy in a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit zipped up to the neck, sweats his heart out, whips up the crowd, jumps on the amp, and is rightly delighted. Behind the drums, Cohen Hall, not even 20 yet, hits hard into the East Village night — he's the engine room of this train. Joe Briggs is the band's clumsy boy, not missing a note on guitar, and everything he does gives the sound a dirty, raw edge, at times poppy and enchanting, but always balanced and in service of the songs — no effects, no pedals, just a cable straight into the amp and off you go.

The sheer joy of being on stage in NYC at 20 years old washes over us, and we respond in kind, lucky to have watched this band of youngsters play live, living out a dream, screaming their "what have you done?" at the top of their lungs.

We lived through a magical night — this is what we did, kids. Such a Perfect Night. Hard to take the stage after that blast of rock'n'roll, but so it goes. Makara from Thailand, a psychedelic pop-rock trio, mostly instrumental, obsessively well played: all in all, they get sweaty bodies dancing to a more relaxed rhythm, but no less sensual for it. A great band, solid and determined. Chill-out guaranteed.

What's left of these nights? A few headaches, a few empty glasses, but above all one clear truth: there's still plenty of music being played live, fuck AI! There are still people shutting themselves in a basement to play, rehearse, meet up, argue over an arrangement, and thrill at the chance to play abroad. There are still people shutting themselves in a club to dance, shout, get slapped around by the decibels, order just one more beer, and screw tomorrow's hangover. Rock is alive, it needs us, it needs you. Forget the doomsayers, get down to the clubs and be part of it.

(Photo by Riccardo Piccirillo)

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