Performer Page
Performer Page
NONBINARY GIRLFRIEND
Portland, OR
a Nonbinary Girlfriend show as a mirror
by Kameko Lashlee Gaul
To find yourself at a Nonbinary Girlfriend show is to stumble on someplace you might’ve dreamt up as a kid playing fantasy, when everything felt a little more raw, a little less grim, and considerably more magic. (The type of place you might’ve imagined, maybe, especially if you were lonely: if you were trying to invent somewhere to belong.) The audience has a borderless quality– not an assembly of separate, smaller groups so much as a unified, many-headed entity, swaying in tandem, anchored by the pulse of the drums. Around the fringes of the crowd, showgoers are twirling ribbons. The whole scene is bound together, shimmering, by Anaïs’ otherworldly voice, which carries a stark testimony to their own grief, catharsis, and—now more than ever—anger.
“I think my first album was really sad and really pretty and it was, like, my inner child… and now I’m my inner teenager. And I’m really pissed, and I’m ready to fight: with myself, with my demons, with that fucking guy. I think sadness is perceived as very feminine, and I feel like my anger is another step in my gender expression. Maybe I’m not here to be sad. Maybe I’m not here to be pretty or to make you feel good.”
Something about the immensity of these feelings, broadcast through the vivid portrayal of Anaïs’ songwriting, is what lies at the core of Nonbinary Girlfriend’s incredible power. (It’s also part of the force that’s warranted such torrential praise from listeners, garnering them accolades like Willamette Week’s Best New Band 2023 and KEXP’s Top Albums of 2023, as well as a devoted gathering of fans both within Portland and elsewhere.) Their songs offer the audience permission to be as they are– fragile, fallible, and furious— in an unrelenting world. The sheer sincerity of their lyrics (from the heart-wrenching retrospect of it’s not realistic, is it?/that we would always stay the same?, to the unrelenting self-liberation of from now on, I’ll do what I want/and I’ll say what I want/and I’ll play what I want/and I’ll/FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”) sets off what can only be described as a domino reaction of profound feeling. Even the origins of their name radiate the same earnestness. “Nonbinary Girlfriend just popped into my head one day, like that’s it, that’s me,” begins their recollection, “and it wasn’t really about the term girlfriend, not about being a partner, just expressing that nuance in my gender. I’m always a little taken aback when people laugh… it was never meant to be funny, or a joke, or an oxymoron. And I feel like my gender has kind of evolved since. I feel like the “girlfriend” and the femme elements are something I put on and take off.”
These intricacies are often difficult to confront within one’s own person, let alone onstage, under lights, in a room full of strangers and loved ones alike. But Anaïs– with the long standing support of bandmates Sei Harris on guitar and bass and Eric Ambrosius on drums (“they’re like family to me,” Anaïs says, “they are like the safe and trusting foundation of this house, and they’ve been here since the beginning)– performs this emotional alchemy with incredible skill and care. It’s a mirror, really, that they’re holding up– not only to their own self, but to everyone else in the room. With exquisite tenderness, Anaïs raises the shrapnel of their heart to the light and effectively says: okay, here’s mine: I promise it’s safe for you to feel yours.
by Kameko Lashlee Gaul
To find yourself at a Nonbinary Girlfriend show is to stumble on someplace you might’ve dreamt up as a kid playing fantasy, when everything felt a little more raw, a little less grim, and considerably more magic. (The type of place you might’ve imagined, maybe, especially if you were lonely: if you were trying to invent somewhere to belong.) The audience has a borderless quality– not an assembly of separate, smaller groups so much as a unified, many-headed entity, swaying in tandem, anchored by the pulse of the drums. Around the fringes of the crowd, showgoers are twirling ribbons. The whole scene is bound together, shimmering, by Anaïs’ otherworldly voice, which carries a stark testimony to their own grief, catharsis, and—now more than ever—anger.
“I think my first album was really sad and really pretty and it was, like, my inner child… and now I’m my inner teenager. And I’m really pissed, and I’m ready to fight: with myself, with my demons, with that fucking guy. I think sadness is perceived as very feminine, and I feel like my anger is another step in my gender expression. Maybe I’m not here to be sad. Maybe I’m not here to be pretty or to make you feel good.”
Something about the immensity of these feelings, broadcast through the vivid portrayal of Anaïs’ songwriting, is what lies at the core of Nonbinary Girlfriend’s incredible power. (It’s also part of the force that’s warranted such torrential praise from listeners, garnering them accolades like Willamette Week’s Best New Band 2023 and KEXP’s Top Albums of 2023, as well as a devoted gathering of fans both within Portland and elsewhere.) Their songs offer the audience permission to be as they are– fragile, fallible, and furious— in an unrelenting world. The sheer sincerity of their lyrics (from the heart-wrenching retrospect of it’s not realistic, is it?/that we would always stay the same?, to the unrelenting self-liberation of from now on, I’ll do what I want/and I’ll say what I want/and I’ll play what I want/and I’ll/FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”) sets off what can only be described as a domino reaction of profound feeling. Even the origins of their name radiate the same earnestness. “Nonbinary Girlfriend just popped into my head one day, like that’s it, that’s me,” begins their recollection, “and it wasn’t really about the term girlfriend, not about being a partner, just expressing that nuance in my gender. I’m always a little taken aback when people laugh… it was never meant to be funny, or a joke, or an oxymoron. And I feel like my gender has kind of evolved since. I feel like the “girlfriend” and the femme elements are something I put on and take off.”
These intricacies are often difficult to confront within one’s own person, let alone onstage, under lights, in a room full of strangers and loved ones alike. But Anaïs– with the long standing support of bandmates Sei Harris on guitar and bass and Eric Ambrosius on drums (“they’re like family to me,” Anaïs says, “they are like the safe and trusting foundation of this house, and they’ve been here since the beginning)– performs this emotional alchemy with incredible skill and care. It’s a mirror, really, that they’re holding up– not only to their own self, but to everyone else in the room. With exquisite tenderness, Anaïs raises the shrapnel of their heart to the light and effectively says: okay, here’s mine: I promise it’s safe for you to feel yours.
