Midnight Crawl — A Night of Sweat, Stash, and Sonic Hypnosis

Gutter Glitz Staff

There’s loud — and then there’s Midnight Crawl.

This past Friday at Lesco, the fog was thick, the drinks were warm, and the vibe was downright ominous. Not the scary kind — more like the kind that tells you something unholy and unforgettable is about to go down. And it did.

Midnight Crawl has been, well, crawling their way into the local scene for a few years now. A slow, gritty rise. No viral gimmicks, no TikTok stunts — just raw, real, dirty-good indie rock from three boys who know how to work a bar and wreck a stage. Yeah, they all work together at the same bar, slinging drinks and working their asses off — but show nights? They play harder at other people’s bars. And they leave no survivors.

Let’s break it down:

Josh on bass — cooler than cold. His groove? Smooth like molasses but sharp enough to sting. Modest little booty shake here, cocked hip there — like he’s making eye contact with your soul while acting like he’s just stretching. Iconic.

Evan, guitar slinger and local sorcerer, wielded his six-string like a divining rod. And that stash — thick, wiry, undeniably enchanted. It twitched every time he ripped into a riff, which was often. His solos didn’t soar — they stalked, circled, and pounced.

Then there’s Travis, behind the kit, doing absolute war crimes to those drums. Just bangs. All muscle and mayhem, keeping the beat like it owed him rent. You could feel his playing in your chest, like your ribcage was trying to escape.

The whole set felt like a lucid dream: sweaty, foggy, hypnotic, loud. Songs bled into each other in the best way, like a fever you didn’t want to shake. The crowd didn’t dance — they surrendered. Eyes closed, heads rolling, drinks forgotten on sticky tables. Total submission.

Midnight Crawl doesn’t ask for attention — they drag it out of you. Grit, charm, and chaos wrapped in one howling, beer-soaked package. The best part? They’re still climbing. Still crawling. Still bringing this beautiful mess to bar after bar, stage after stage.

And just when you thought they couldn’t go harder — they dropped “Monkey Pump.” Their latest release is a snarling, pulsing, head-nodding beast of a track. Raw, fun, unhinged in all the right ways. It’s not just a song — it’s a statement: Midnight Crawl is here, and they’re not asking permission.

You missed Lesco? That sucks. But don’t worry.

Next up: Casa del Popolo. That’s right. They’re bringing the chaos to one of the city’s most iconic indie stages. If you’ve got a heartbeat and even half a soul, you’ll be there. Don’t miss this. Or do — and suffer deeply from the worst kind of FOMO.

Midnight Crawl is oozing out of the cracks of this city. And they’re coming for you.

By Gutter Glitz Staff

Let’s talk about Thee Soreheads — Montreal’s own riot grrrl wrecking crew who tore the fucking roof off M TELUS April 17th. They weren’t just opening for Grimskunk (yeah, that Grimskunk — local legends and certified punk royalty).

Picture this: the venue is balls to the walls packed — sweat, beer, and bodies in motion. The crowd is feral before the first chord even hits. Then Thee Soreheads come out, and it’s like someone lit a stick of dynamite in the green room and let the chaos walk on stage.

Maria Jimenez? Absolute fucking animal. She doesn’t just sing — she declares war. She’s jumping, rolling, howling, commanding the crowd like some punk rock general.

When they hit their track “I’m Not Your Doll.” Holy fuck. That song was a molotov thrown straight into the patriarchy’s living room. Maria Jimenez snarled and screamed with every ounce of fury and defiance a body can hold, her voice cracking through the noise like a lightning bolt made of barbed wire. It wasn’t just powerful — it was necessary. A blistering anthem about autonomy, consent, and telling every gaslighting creep to fuck right off. By the time she was on the floor, eyes wild, shrieking into the mic like she was casting a spell — you felt it. Deep. Uncomfortable. Cathartic. Perfect.

This band doesn’t just play music — they play truth. They’re raw and loud and don’t give a single fuck about your fragile ego. With vocals that channel the spirit of Kathleen Hanna and lyrics that rip the mask off patriarchy, white supremacy, and toxic bullshit, Thee Soreheads are here for liberation through amplification.

Ally McPake is a sonic assassin on guitar — riffs like rusty chainsaws and tone that could peel paint. Hugh Lapham holds it down on bass, swaggering in the groove like a demon, and Max Verreault on drums? An absolute beast — like Animal from the Muppets if he went full anarcho-punk and never looked back.

Consent, resistance, fuck-the-system rage — you don’t just hear it in their set, you feel it in your bones. These aren’t just songs, they’re battle cries. Thee Soreheads don’t just make noise. They make meaning. And April 17th, they didn’t just open — they owned that stage.

And yeah, you get a second chance.

If you didn’t catch them at M TELUS, redeem your soul on May 10 when Thee Soreheads take the stage at Santa Teresa Fest, opening for Les Breastfeeders at Montecristo. That’s gonna be another night of pure fire and you do not want to be the one reading about it afterward like a sad little gremlin in your band tee.

This band is putting the punk back in punk rock. No apologies. No compromises. No holding back.

Thee Soreheads aren’t the future of Montreal punk — they’re the right fucking now.

By Gutter Glitz Staff

Last night at Bâtiment 7, something electric happened. No, the fog machine didn’t short the power (though it tried), but POOLGIRL cannonballed straight into the heart of MTL’s DIY scene — and holy hell, did they leave a ripple.

The space was packed tighter than a deflated water wing, shoulder to shoulder with punks, queers, and glitter-dusted dreamers all waiting for the drop. And when pool party hit? The floor became a damn lake. Literally — everyone sat down. Like, full squat, fog-machine haze catching the stage lights just right as lead vocalist Randy commanded the space with a cheek-splitting grin and enough pep to power the Orange Line. In a world where irony’s currency, this was raw joy — glittered, grounded, and grounded in glitter.

The whole band came in smiling like they knew the secret to the universe (they do: it’s fuzz pedals and feeling your feelings). Gwenna Pirozzi’s basslines slapped like a chlorine-scented revelation. Manya Ziemiecki held rhythm like it was the last towel at the pool, Laura Clark’s lead guitar ripped like sunscreen-streaked shredding, and Rachel Bradbury drummed like the lifeguard had just called last song. Together, they weren’t playing a set — they were throwing a full-blown splash zone.

You could tell the crowd knew them — lyrics shouted, limbs launched, sweat shared. But even the newbies were moshing like they’d been poolgirls since day one. It’s only been a little over a year and a half since they surfaced, but the scene’s already holding them up like floaties: buoyed by love, volume, and that unshakable DIY spirit.

With their debut EP I CAN’T SWIM out this year (a title that already feels iconic), poolgirl’s not just treading water — they’re jet-skiing through the underground. And with new music dropping end of May, they’re about to hit tidal wave status.

Next up? The band dives into Flourish Festival in Fredericton, before surfacing again at La Sotterenea on May 29th. So, grab your goggles and get in the deep end — because poolgirl isn’t waiting for you to test the water. They are the water.

Final thoughts:
Montreal’s DIY scene might not have a lifeguard, but with poolgirl around, who needs one? Catch them now, while they’re still soaking wet and out of control.

By Gutter Glitz Staff

Montreal’s punk scene just got a wake-up call. At the debut alt-arts spectacle “Lust and Loud Guitars” — a night of drag, burlesque, and pure sonic bedlam — one band kicked the doors open and screamed their name into the dark: Jackki Harrt.

Led by their firestarter frontwoman Jackki herself — who leapt onto the Bluedog stage in a cape, through fog, and into legend — the band brought a sound that felt like riot grrrl energy reborn for 2025. Their opening track “SHEVAMP” hit like a sermon from the gutter, equal parts sexy, spooky, and unhinged. She jumped around like a sober lightning bolt, commanding attention, and unleashing catharsis.

Behind her, the band tore through the noise with ferocity:

• Dro’s guitar lines snarled and shredded with precision, co-writing the music with Jackki and channeling pure punk adrenaline.
• Amanda laid down basslines that punched straight through the floor.
• Phil held it all together with brutal, sweat-drenched drumming.

Though Jackki and Dro are the songwriting duo at the core, the whole crew hits like a unit with years under their belt. Their sound blends the sharp hooks of The Offspring, the grit of Bikini Kill, the playful darkness of early Arctic Monkeys, and the freaky charm of Viagra Boys.

The crowd? Obsessed. Phones out, followers gained, future festivals calling — literally. Jackki Harrt’s been invited to perform at the upcoming Doomsdays Festival this June, and if their debut is any hint, it’ll be the set people talk about all summer.

Credit to La Grâce Pourpre Productions and Cult of Anarchkey for curating such a killer night. Drag and burlesque acts stunned between bands, and legendary indie rockers Midnight Crawl closed the night — but Jackki Harrt opened it and stole hearts in the process.

Next up: a fiery return to Turbo Haus, this time sharing the stage with grunge punks Passerine, hard rock heavyweights Scarlet Wives, and a featured underground poet curated by La Grâce Pourpre. It’s more than a gig — it’s a movement.

Catch them now, before the world catches on.