Cuco, Triathalon & Victor Internet: An Emo's Double Header

I had a ticket for the early show; doors at 3:00 P.M. Cuco was slotted for a 5:45 P.M. slot, and when I saw the line snaking around the low shopping mall next to Emo’s, I knew that while I waited I was going to be cooked alive by the July heat. 

As we inched our way closer to Emo’s, young fans would stop to peer through cracks in fences, trying to catch a glimpse of the artist whose name was emblazoned in sunset pink on their yellow t-shirts: Cuco. For now, they’d be kept in suspense. 

The sun ironed out the wrinkles on my forehead, and the drowsy pace of the line left me feeling like a gecko glued by sweat to the walls of the shopping mall boutiques I leaned against. Everyone was just passing their time before the show. Chatter revolved around shaking off hangovers and last night’s acidic escapades, even though the lines average age couldn’t have been above sixteen. A grown man four people ahead of me played Cuco’s “Summer Time High Time” through his phone’s speakers and danced. I chose to do a bit of reading on my phone, but I couldn’t help but notice when another guy quipped that the outfits of the concert-goers were “fifty percent PacSun, fifty percent thrifted.” When I asked which description I’d fit into, I was appraised for a few seconds before being placed staunchly into the thrift store camp, a characterization I cannot deny, though I don’t care for snap character judgements—or so I thought. 

As the crowd surged through security, I made it inside with just enough time to gulp down three cold glasses of water and make my way to a wall close to stage right before the music started. 

Eastside & Cuco x Austin Johnson

Victor Cervantes aka Victor Internet opened the day with “U Got My,” a persuasive number about reciprocating energy and choosing better for yourself. He never wasted a second on stage. During “Tinder Song,” Cervantes opened his phone and swiped through the Tinder app while singing to the crowd about lost love, crooning “Sometimes I find myself thinking of you.” Mr. Internet danced and choreographed, lent time to his band members solos, utilized his undeniable presence to move his audience and, at one point, educate them on concert etiquette: “We are very excited to be here with y’all, to perform for y’all. It’s our favorite thing to do, so please- be respectful.” Cervantes left in a hurry after his set, bowing with his laptop in hand before leaving his band members to close it out with a crescendo. 

I’d found a spot near one of those man-made paths that opens up at concerts. All night, a steady stream of people slid passed. The crowd was from all demographics: college students in jerseys swaying while hitting Juuls; hispanic teens weaving, dads hovering over their kids. All of us—thrifters, PacSuners, and myself—fell hush and watched as a bearded man stepped up to the microphone and addressed us: “From the great beyond, and sea to shining sea, I give you...Triathalon.”

Triathalon showcased their daydream pop sensibilities: gentle, pastel melodics and vivacious heart. Songs like “It’s You” off of their 2018 album “Online” like evenings of windows open love-making, the group breaking down and starting up with the ease of a lovely vision. Kristina Moore (keys, vocals) and Adam Intrator (guitar, vocals) harmonized into dreamy oblivion while Chad Chilton (drums) kept the beat with white knuckle precision and Lamont Brown and Hunter Jayne dripped on their talents at bass and guitar respectively. The tightness of their sound can be attributed to their time together as a group. Triathalon has been producing music together since 2014 when their jammy, surf-rock infused EP “Lo-Tide” dropped. They’re a troop that’s constantly adding layers to their sound. “Hard to Move” weaved between downbeat romantic pop and braggadocious drum kit infused with indie-instrumentals; “Courtside” is a casserole of hollow keys and sweet guitar pluckage layered between smooth progressive rock experimentation. Triathalon’s music is oxymoronic—they make intricacy look easy.

Between Triathalon and Cuco’s set, bachata and Tame Impala played to the delight of the audience, who screamed and danced wildly with the fade-in of each new track. Then Cuco and crew took the stage and the roof came off of the building. 

Psychedelic Spanglish Soul (Photo x Austin Johnson)

I got a couple of songs into Cuco’s set before I was pulled aside by my creative director. He handed me an orange wristband, and before I know what'd happened, I was backstage in the dressing room talking to the artists that I’d just seen perform twenty minutes ago (talk about creative direction). My journalistic aplomb dropped off someplace between starstruck and just plain scared. In the dressing room (my first stop) I was suddenly face-to-face with Triathalon’s Kristina. She complimented my key necklace (I’d put my car key on my necklace because my shorts didn’t have pockets) and talked about the qualities of the English language with my director while I took in the scene.

It’s a relatively small area. There’s a narrow hallway and two short sets of stairs leading up to both stage right and stage left. The small dressing room which houses all three bands sits catty corner stage right. The room—furnished with a low brown couch, a fridge, snack bar, and separate bathroom with shower—is a space for slow coffee drinking and phone scrolling. Everybody is doing their own thing. Victor Internet’s drummer Rueben (Ruby) is munching on sea salt pita chips and tells me that there isn’t much free time between tour dates to explore the city. “It’s essentially show, shower, sleep, and then wake up and get ready for the next show. If we’re lucky, maybe a bar. But that hasn’t happened often.” Ruby tells me that the bands do get to hang out a bit at times like this, but it’s often the case that “(they’re) working with (their) bands during downtime,” and that time with Cuco’s group and Triathalon’s and Victor’s is sparse, but that they enjoy each other’s company.

At one point, after stopping to check Twitter, I look up and I’m face to face with Omar Banos aka Cuco. He’s my age and just about my height, rocking an all black outfit save for his shoes. I gather myself quickly, ready to unleash the full force of a highly journalistic line of questioning...I ask him if he gets asked about his tattoos a lot. He responds, “Yeah. Kinda.” He smiles easily. I compliment his shoes, a pair of Balenciagas (if I’m not mistaken) with a red tag hanging off of the laces. When I ask about the red tag, he said simply, “It’s that off-white shit,” before pausing to flex them by flipping each foot as if to check for gum on the sole. I’ll do better. 

I meet him again later in the dressing room, and I ask him how the tour was going so far: “Good...well.” He reciprocated Rueben’s sentiments about touring life, saying that, “Yeah, there’s no time (between shows) to go out,” but that tonight, they’d be “getting fucked up.”

Eastside & Cuco x Austin Johnson

Being backstage at a show is nerve-wracking. I’d never been backstage before this Saturday at Emo’s, and I’m confused by the feelings. It’s an incredibly humbling experience to find out that the people that you’ve only seen on social media are themselves just scrolling on their phones between their sets and sipping lukewarm beer. It was confusing. Being backstage was a bit like being the one guy at the party that nobody knows but who wants to know everybody; I was lost. I didn’t want to intrude on the little personal time that the artists get between their sets, so I shook hands like I was addicted to my own palm sweat, and outside of that, I was a fly on the wall.

Cuco, Triathalon, and Victor Internet are similar in their online presences- active, jokey, and prone to brandishing only the freshest of memes. They’re much the same in person. Being backstage broke down the barriers of my conceptions; the online personalities now stood before me smoking and padding their sweat-beaded foreheads with shirt sleeves. These guys and girls had anxieties weighing on their shoulders, miles from home, and yet they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Everyone was warm and shook my hand and gave me a “How are you?” or a “What’s up?” The camaraderie was omnipresent, and everyone was happy to be in Austin, Texas. 

Take for example Victor Internet. He was amped and laser-focused. When I walked backstage for the late show, he was doing vocal warmups and generally looked ready to rock the house. The man could not be shaken from the task before him. He was ready to seize the moment. That night, I probably apologized to him four separate times for inconsequential things like being slightly in the doorway or holding the door with my fingertips for him after I walked through, but he only smiled and said “Thanks.”

Banos is just a regular guy too. During one point in his psychedelic set, he swung his foot around and knocked over a Modelo next to his mic-stand, soaking the setlist and prompting him to drop his shoulders and stare at his band as if he was saying to himself and them: “Really?” It was a moment of uncoolness, of clumsy normalcy, in the life of an up and coming artist, but that wasn’t what the audience saw. They saw was a man placed center stage, bathed in streams of yellow light—not the twenty-one year old touring the country with his friends, easy going and thoughtfully quiet behind the scenes. It didn’t matter in the end. Two seconds later the next song started and the shoulders lifted again. Banos turned back to the audience, singing the first lines of “Bossa No Sé” while iridescent patterns morphed and blobbed on the screens behind him and beer bubbles fizzled and popped on the scuffed black wood of the stage.