“Sorry for the fog, I feel a bit shy,” Maria Manow of Bassvictim laughs in softly fractured English as curls of stage smoke blur her silvery blue hair, dark top, and thigh high socks. Somewhere nearby, her bandmate and producer Ike Clateman moves through the haze, barely visible. The pounding low end of their phonk homage “Canary Wharf Drift” erupts, followed by strobe like white flashes as hundreds of bodies jump in unison, shaking the room beneath their feet.
This marks the first tour for the fast ascending London duo and the opening of their two night run in New York City. Inside Brooklyn’s Market Hotel, the crowd is young, stylish, and buzzing. Girls carry tiny bags and wear shorter shorts with tall socks, while guys in tank tops excitedly explain how they drove down from Bard College. Manow dives into the audience during “Air on a G String,” their debut and arguably defining track, singing about sprinting through the streets with her underwear showing over slinky, seductive synth lines. Back onstage, she struts with confidence, completely unfazed and fully in command.
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Indie sleaze, a hazy idea of a grimy early 2000s cool that never quite existed in the first place, is suddenly everywhere. It fuels Spotify playlists and TikTok edits by the thousands. Anyone loosely connected to the look gets labeled with it, Bassvictim included, though they have always felt sharper and more inventive than most of today’s electroclash revival acts. Rather than simply embracing the label, they seem intent on both fulfilling and destroying it, leaning into total rawness. The result is a catalog of wildly volatile tracks that lurch from lurid bass blasts and folkish eeriness to gentle, nursery rhyme like murmurs. Their ear for sampling, melody, and fleeting moments of euphoria is magnetic. Yet watching their ascent can feel unsettling, like witnessing a therapy session unravel, as personal turmoil, outbursts, and chaos spill into public view.
There is an undeniable honesty to Bassvictim, in both their music and their behavior, that can be startling to observe. One moment they are DJing in an open field in Toronto alongside famous TikTok personalities, the next they are being banned from Berghain for treating it like a college party. Stories circulate of evictions, burned bridges, and unfiltered trash talk, with little concern for the fallout. On this autumn night, Manow seems close to walking away from it all.
At five in the afternoon, after the interview has been delayed by two hours, Bassvictim finally arrive at the empty Market Hotel. In the green room, Manow drops her belongings and immediately says she does not want to talk, insisting Clateman handle the interview alone. Her distress is partly fueled by losing a small good luck token, a cherished hair clip. “I just know how my mind is right now, I’m only going to say bad things,” she admits. “People think I’m confident, but I’m not.” Clateman, sporting scruffy sideburns, a patterned scarf, and a gray button up that makes him look like a hippie dressed for school photos, gently encourages her to stay and speak.
When I begin to ask whether they live together, Manow bristles. “Can you just do the interview with Ike?” she says, lifting her hands in frustration.
