Wednesday + Mannequin Pussy

WEDNESDAY BIO

Can a self-portrait be a collage? Can empathy be autobiographical? What’s the point of living if we’re not trying to understand all the horror and humor that surrounds everything? These are a few of the questions lurking under the bleachers of Wednesday’s new album Bleeds, an intoxicating collection of narrative-heavy Southern rock that—like many of the most arresting passages from the North Carolina band’s highlight reel so far—thoughtfully explores the vivid link between curiosity and confession.

Bleeds is not only the best Wednesday record—it’s also the most Wednesday record, a patchwork-style triumph of literary allusions and outlaw grit, of place-based poetry and hair-raising noise. Karly Hartzman—founder, frontwoman, and primary lyricist—credits Wednesday’s tightened grasp on their own identity to time spent collaborating on previous albums, plus a tour schedule that’s been both rewarding and relentless. “Bleeds is the spiritual successor to Rat Saw God, and I think the quintessential ‘Wednesday Creek Rock’ album,” Hartzman said, articulating satisfaction with the ways her band has sharpened its trademark sound, how they’ve refined the formula that makes them one of the most interesting rock bands of their generation. “This is what Wednesday songs are supposed to sound like,” she said. “We’ve devoted a lot of our lives to figuring this out—and I feel like we did.”

Just like Rat Saw God, one of the defining rock & roll records of the 2020s so far, Bleeds came together at Drop of Sun in Asheville and was produced by Alex Farrar, who’s been recording the band since Twin Plagues. Hartzman again brought demos to the studio, where she and her bandmates—Xandy Chelmis (lap steel, pedal steel), Alan Miller (drums), Ethan Baechtold (bass, piano), and Jake “M.J.” Lenderman (guitar)—worked as a team to bulk-up the compositions with the exact right amounts of country truth-telling, indie-pop hooks, and noisy sludge. More than ever, the precise proportions were steered by the lyricism—not only its tone or subject matter, but also the actual sound of the words, as well as Hartzman’s masterfully subjective approach to detail selection.

Whether she’s purging her fascination with a gruesome true-crime case (“Carolina Murder Suicide”) or recounting why her old landlord Gary got dentures at thirty-three (“Gary’s II”), every image or scene is filtered through Hartzman’s agile, writerly brain. The particulars deemed essential—a wincing dentist, a crooked nail, a Pitbull puppy pissing off a balcony—all contain revelations about Hartzman’s specific obsessions and vulnerabilities, about the fragmented way she processes the world. She confronts this affinity for interpersonal soul-searching on “Townies,” remembering a high-school mischief partner whose sexual adventures triggered nasty gossip: “Off I-40 / crawled into your life begging on my knees / and I get it now / you were sixteen and bored and drunk.” Maybe sometimes the best way to locate truth or pain or dignity within your own life story, Bleeds suggests, is by crawling into someone else’s.

Not long before the first Bleeds sessions, Hartzman and Jake Lenderman ended the romantic part of their relationship. Worried about disrupting the group’s hard-earned synergy, the pair hid this development from the rest of Wednesday until the album was done. Written entirely pre-breakup, the songs on Bleeds were already grappling with grief and memory and the hidden elegance of the profane; the extent to which this compartmentalized heartache leaked into the final recordings is right now unknowable, and might always be. One thing that is indisputable, however: Even without considering its prescient overtones, the doomed romance of “The Way Love Goes” would’ve stung like an open wound; Hartzman’s literal, doubt-filled poetry is delivered languidly over soft-focus finger plucks and Chelmis’s mournful steel.

Hartzman’s distinct singing voice and its connection to her storytelling has always been at the heart of Wednesday, and she stretches that instrument with remarkable flexibility across Bleeds: Her vocal has never sounded sweeter than it does when she’s sentimentalizing pickled eggs on the twangy and timeless-feeling “Elderberry Wine,” and it’s never sounded more corrosive than on “Wasp,” a late-album sucker punch which has been rattling Wednesday crowds since the band started performing it out last year. Hartzman full-on screams through the latter’s eighty-six-second runtime, her figurative language distilled to its bleakest and most concise form: “My life is a spider web / built into the doorway / When you walk in you duck your head / and the wind is always blowing.”

Hartzman’s not concerned with bettering her voice in a formal sense, with trying to make it sound “good” against any conventional standards. Even now, as Wednesday’s visceral music reaches more and more ears beyond the mountains of western North Carolina, Hartzman’s focus remains challenging herself: reaching for a note she can’t quite hit, uncovering new textures while shrieking over thick layers of melody and muck. She wants to keep trying things, and to keep archiving evidence of that trying. At the end of “Wound Up Here,” while she’s sing-screaming the titular refrain, which interpolates a line of writing by the Appalachian poet Evan Gray, Hartzman’s voice breaks a little. “I love that part—it shows that there’s a place to go with the next album,” she said. “It’s like a cliffhanger.”

Bleeds is a reminder that Hartzman and her bandmates are exclusively interested in chasing glory through games they invent themselves—games with rulebooks you can only decipher late at night, in that freaky and perfect place between sleep and awake where you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or remembering something that already happened. In this arena of their imagination, the scoreboard’s a neon bar sign, the commentator’s a cicada, the mascot is an eighty-year-old Pepsi addict with no teeth. Wednesday is always World Champion, and the award hanging from Karly Hartzman’s neck isn’t an Olympic gold but rather a heart-shaped pendant—a clunky, rust-stained heirloom with countless funny and fucked-up stories locked safely inside.

MANNEQUIN PUSSY BIO

Mannequin Pussy’s music feels like a resilient and galvanizing shout that demands to be heard. Across four albums, the Philadelphia rock band that consists of Colins “Bear” Regisford (bass, vocals), Kaleen Reading (drums, percussion), Maxine Steen (guitar, synths), and Missy Dabice (guitar, vocals) has made cathartic tunes about despairing times. “There’s just so much constantly going on that feels intentionally evil that trying to make something beautiful feels like a radical act ,” says Dabice. “The ethos of this band has always been to bring people together.”

Mannequin Pussy reached new heights with the release of I Got Heaven via Epitaph Records, the band’s most fully realized LP yet. Over 10 ambitious tracks which abruptly turn from searing punk to inviting pop, the album is deeply concerned with desire, the power in being alone, and how to live in an unfeeling and unkind world. It’s a document of a band doubling down on their unshakable bond to make something furious, thrilling, and wholly alive. In the months following the album’s release, Mannequin Pussy carried that energy onto the stage, embarking on an extensive sold out US and European headline run and festival dates including Outsidelands, Governors Ball, Austin City Limits, Primavera, Reading, Leeds, etc., that solidified I Got Heaven as their most impactful era yet.

The album was met with widespread critical acclaim, earning praise from major outlets including Pitchfork, The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and NPR who highlighted the band’s ability to balance raw intensity with emotional vulnerability. The recognition marked a turning point for Mannequin Pussy, cementing them not just as a cult favorite in punk circles, but as one of the most essential voices in modern rock.