“You said ‘sad’ twice.” Yeah, I know.
Wormy, also known as Noah Rauchwerk, brought the comedy with his nihilism-infused music at the Music Hall of Williamsburg late last year.
Opening for Aaron West and the Roaring Twenties, he had a unique crowd to impress. After all, Aaron West’s music is closely linked to the pop punk sound of The Wonder Years as the bands share lead singer Dan Campbell. So, the audience is largely populated with the type of fans who would like nothing more than to open the pit and bash their heads together. However, an Aaron West show is hardly the place to throw crowd surfers in the air.
It is, instead, the perfect place for the type of artist that draws you in with relatability and the sound of an acoustic guitar. Wormy’s work was the perfect soft, warm opening, reeling fans in with a familiar sorrow-filled narrative. Much like Aaron West, Wormy’s music felt like a slice of a larger tale to be told, and it’s one that can be done with a bit of humor.
Each song was infused with such obvious personal experiences that it felt quite on the nose at times. Wormy reminds us that music can be filled with metaphor and frilly poetry, but sometimes the truth is best delivered with a blunt approach and a few tactful jokes. He invited fans to step into his authentic life with lyrics infused with a humor that is often, sadly, relatable.
“I don’t want to be left with the burden,” he directly tells fans with songs like “Cocaine Bear.” There’s no sugar coating the hard truths of the world. He’s not tackling some sort of generational issue, he’s showing vulnerability and fans are meant to meet him where he is with their own stories, their own lives, which suddenly seem not so singular.
As for the music itself, there’s a beauty in the twinkly, sad genre that doesn’t quite have a name. Midwest emo has seemed to absorb that style, but Wormy’s music was a part of some sort of other alternative genre, which didn’t seem so hell-bent on sticking to any mold. Even the delivery of the lyrics were wrapped in a sound which can best be described as authentic. The music, the guitar, the light drums were a compliment to the messaging. A slow sense of melancholy for the story Wormy told, which was all too familiar, washed over the Brooklyn audience.
Don’t expect a high energy show filled with dancing and letting loose. Wormy’s music is meant to be actually listened to, hanging to each word, each beat. The feeling of letting go, while reserved for some shows, is pretty much depleted. A Wormy performance is more about remembering, standing in solidarity with those around you, and finding you aren’t alone in these fragments of the human experience.
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