Last night's Wolf Alice concert at The Mayan in Los Angeles felt a lot like being at a high school dance thrown by John Hughes. I don't say that because Ellie Roswell wore a dress that looked so similar to those Jessica McClintock dresses everyone was wearing at the time I started going to school dances (although she totally did and I loved it). I mean that in a really good but simultaneously painful, so-hopeful-you'll-get-asked-to-dance-by-your-crush way that puts a lead weight in your stomach. The captivating cacophony created from Roswell's voice and those crashing guitars makes it impossible not to feel. And feel. And feel some more. The set was wild and unkempt at times, tender and contained others (but fucking great the entire time).
If you have the opportunity to see Wolf Alice, take it (that means you, Houston; they're playing at In Bloom this weekend).