Indie darlings are faced with a paradox. How do you stay alternative when you’re hurtling towards mainstream success? It’s a question that Geese, an apocalyptic, counter-cultural New York four-piece “America’s most thrilling young rock band”, must navigate. And at Troxy – an East London venue they sold out in days – they answer it by holding onto their strangeness for dear life.
In the last year, Geese have gone from cult favourite to breakout stars. Their latest record, Getting Killed, was named the best album of 2025 by the New Yorker. Their lead singer Cameron Winter is often compared to Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger and Thom Yorke. Maybe your mum hasn’t heard of them yet (“Goose? No darling. Is he a rapper?”), but they’re on your edgy cousin’s Spotify wrapped.
When the band steps out on Wednesday night, a cool slice of Brooklyn on the Commercial Road, they don’t play like they’re desperate to please. They play three heavy numbers in a row – “Long Island City, Here I Come”, “Getting Killed” and “Islands of Men”. Each is performed with the same crashing, frenetic intensity. Backlit by strobes, you can’t see the band’s faces – they’re just lank-haired, lanky-limbed silhouettes. Winter’s diffident, melodic drawl is hard to make out in the deliberate carnage. It feels like Geese are making a point: you don’t “get us” just yet.
The crowd embraces the demonic din. There’s moshing, crowd surfing, pounding fists. As I look over the sea of head banging, it’s striking how few phones are recording. If the little vape clouds had been cigarette smoke, we could have been forty years in the past – enjoying a post-punk night on the East Coast.
When Winter finally steps into the spotlight, nearly halfway through the gig, the response is euphoric. The frontman has enjoyed significant success in his own right – many credit his solo album, Heavy Metal, with putting Geese on the map. Fans love his clever, bonkers lyricism: apparent nonsense that somehow cuts right to the soul.
Even under the stage lights, Winter is half hiding: his eyes covered by a greasy fringe, his persona ironic. “I love you too,” he tells the crowd, deadpan. “I love everyone who says they love me. I even love the sons of bitches who didn’t say they love me. I play for everyone. A man of the people.”
Winter loves to flirt with a messiah complex. When they play “Cobra” – a mesmeric, coiling masterpiece – he channels Jesus the supplicant as he sings, “Baby, let me wash your feet, forever.” From there, they pivot into “Taxes”. Max Bassin’s restless drumbeat and Dominic DiGesu’s plaintive bass thrum under guitarist Emily Green’s chiming refrain. Winter raises his face to the heavens as he sings: “If you want me to pay my taxes/ You better come over with a crucifix.” The crowd join him for the defiant crescendo: “You’re gonna have to nail me down.”
So that’s how Geese will answer the indie question. The harder we try to anoint them, the more they’ll martyr themselves on the cross of hard rock. Geese may be killing it, but they won’t stop playing like they’re Getting Killed.
[Further reading: The mystery of Dolly Parton]
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