The Brooklyn Rail

Above a sea of harnesses and eyeliner, one lit candle stood flickering. Around it, dozens of blinking lights on sound equipment floating in the room. All wavering in imperfect unison, all a tribute to SOPHIE.

During her brief but bright time as a musician, SOPHIE created hyperpop tracks that continue to define the genre. At the bleak end of January, MTHR TRSA, Buffy, and Brendan Germain marked the three-year anniversary of SOPHIE’s death with an evening of performance art and lip syncing. The show was produced through their platform Hole Pics and featured an extravaganza of trans talent.

I’ll start at the climax: SOPHIE’s iconic track “Faceshopping.” That gut-churning beat comes in and Buffy kneels on the rolling cart she’s been wheeling around town from Judson to 3 Dollar Bill. She poses, writhes, teeters in her heel-less heels. A group of other performers enter, snapping pink gloves onto their hands. And then they’re covering her in viscous goo. It’s everywhere: coating her exposed body, making a sticky mess of her bright white wig. Music and lights pulse. Everyone takes out their phones.

It’s a perfect sample of Buffy’s work: hot, Instagrammable, disgusting, ear-splitting, feet always in Pleasers. Like “Faceshopping,” the roar and the spectacle contain sharp critiques of beauty standards, capitalist consumption of bodies, and what happens when you decide to fuck your anatomy up so hard you fall out of the system.

The evening flowed between minimalist group numbers and solo moments, often featuring other performers as magician’s assistants. MTHR TRSA begins with a perfect bit. “L.O.V.E.” starts with nineteen seconds of mosquito whine, and as it plays, she swats at the air, reaching and clapping to catch the invisible bug. When the beat drops, she shakes, possessed. When it drops again, she shudders, crumpling under the weight of the bass.

For another techno-forward track, “Sfire 1,” it was just Paris Alexander and a flashlight. It’s the ultimate custom strobe: in a flash, the outline of their body. Another flash, the pile of ladders heaped at the back of the stage. Another flash, the disco ball, and the whole space lights up. With maniacal precision, Paris hit every beat of “Sfire 1,” pulling surprises out of the room we’d been sitting in for almost an hour. And then they were above us. Climbing the lighting rig in heels and an ankle length dress, flashlight in hand. Blinding themself with every flash, shaking their mane until their wig flies off.

Later, Paris came back to their perch on the rig, still holding the flashlight. They stayed up there, lip syncing to “JUST LIKE WE NEVER SAID GOODBYE.” It hit something mushy inside me, the part that thinks about how so many of us didn’t get to have teen romances, not like this, not the way we are now.

I hadn’t seen you since I was about, mm, sixteen years old … And your voice, exactly the same / and it makes me feel, makes me feel / Oh, just like we never said goodbye

Even in a ferocious lip sync, blazing the flashlight in their face over and over, Paris manifested a tenderness not often found in nightlife.

SOPHIE’s music is intimidating. Performing to it is an act of bravery—taking on a legend. God Complex tackled “It’s Okay To Cry,” appearing as the sluttiest fish monster you’ve ever seen. Rosy gills cut along their face, almost open wounds. They curled down to the floor, circling as they lip synced “It’s okay to, it’s okay to cry.” Sensuous and abject. God Complex’s usual trick is stillness: stand above the crowd, make them beg for every move, become untouchable. At Hole Pics, I saw them for the first time vulnerable, small. And that’s the song, isn’t it? A loving embrace from the other side, comfort from someone who has been through your pain.

In keeping with SOPHIE’s discography, the performers exhibit an eclectic range of queer aesthetics. Amygdala emerges in a body-horror crocheted mask. Two performers pull strings of yarn out of their eyes, unraveling Amygdala’s face as they walk away. It’s gruesome yet endearing—you have to think, how long did it take to crochet that? Serena Tea does the glam staples: thigh-high boots, duck walks, an unbelievable latex situation, ponytail whips that could slice you open. The duo EXULT tears at their own clothes, and then at each other in a duet that melds passion and aggression. Swinging along railings to “Immaterial” and winking at the audience, Bri Joy gives us the go-go, pop lift we all needed.

We even get a “crying in the club” moment. MTHR TRSA under a polka-dotted spotlight, sob-singing to “Faceshopping (Euphoric Reduce Me to Nothingness Remix)” while the rest of the cast parties in slow motion on stage. Brendan Germain, dressed in all black as the gay man you fear/desire at every rave, passes out poppers.

At the end of the night, XClea took us to church. XClea, shirtless, smokes a cigarette in sequin encrusted strappy knee-high heels. Her performance was billed as a cover of “Is It Cold in the Water?” but it felt completely new: an unleashed gospel, warping and raging through the night. Moments of double voice, something coming through the mic and something altered; a sound that crackles in the worlds beyond artificial and real. My partner and I lean against each other. Chords spill out of the keyboard. We squeeze each other’s hands.

We will be mourned. We will be remembered. We will make each other holy.