Alice Teeple 
This weekend, the restless roar of Brooklyn’s art-rock rebels, Candy & The Kids, unraveled the stillness at Sleepwalk with their signature chaos. Brett Rubin, all ferocity, mullet, and jagged edges, stood front and center, while Michael Jurin, plucking strings with sharp precision, and synth sorcerer Bret Winans, conjuring strange and swelling sounds, formed a trio that shook the walls.
The night began with the peculiar brilliance of Lumberob, who unleashed a performance that spun somewhere between the cryptic croon of Captain Beefheart and the wild ritual of an exorcism. His looped synths howled and hiccupped, grinding and growling. “Electro-skank, dada-ska noise,” Lumberob later described his delirium of sound, before adding, “I’m generally channeling some demonic psych auctioneer.” His set throbbed with eccentricity, a twisted tangle of skittering loops and spastic dancing that threatened to tear through the room.
Then, without warning, Candy & The Kids burst onto the stage. They tore into the crowd with reckless abandon, a riot of sound and swagger. Rubin’s voice cut through the clamour like a jagged blade, the room now alive with their electric, anarchic pulse.
“We’re CANDY and the KIDS!!!” a recording obnoxiously screeched, as Rubin fiddled with the pitch, playing it over and over. “WHO ARE WE?” he taunted.
“CANDY AND THE KIDS!” roared the room.
The band opened with Exercise, moving through Lost Kids and Downtown, before launching into a stage jumping frenzy with the hypnotic Here I Am.
Candy & The Kids struck the match, igniting the underground crowd—friends and fellow NYC synth scene die-hards—into a whirlwind of stomping, sweating frenzy. Primitive Heart was there, as well as the wackadoodle dark-lings from Lacey Spacecake, sloshing their drinks with wild abandon.
This was pure punk essence: a chaotic cocktail of noise and nerve. They spun the spectacle with reckless glee, stitching together the glitter-streaked swagger of glam, the unchecked fury of Riot Grrl, the manic delivery of Sparks, and the cartoonish buzz of the B-52s.
Rubin howled an intoxicating mix of androgyny and raw emotion, every note a visceral burst, as if channeled from some primal, untamed place. He stole the scene, blending the fierce fire of Kathleen Hanna, the cool command of Karen O, and the dark magnetism of Siouxsie Sioux into a rainbow-colored riot of sound and fury. Everyone went bananas dancing to Meow Mix, Timebomb, and closing the show with Number.
After the show, the band, breathless and burned out, drifted into the dim-lit bar like spent soldiers seeking shelter. The place was snug, a cozy cove beneath tin ceilings that shimmered faintly in the glow of beaded lamps. The air buzzed with the soft hum of conversation, and the decor, rich with warm woods and deep colors, invited a kind of easy intimacy.
Rubin, still damp with sweat, leaned against the bar, his sly grin now softened by exhaustion. Jurin and Winans, equally drained, mingled among the crowd, their edges dulled but their spirits still alive with the electric charge of the set. They shook hands, shared smiles, and swapped words with the faithful. It was a space where the frenzy of the stage fell away, where the intensity gave way to quiet laughter, clinking glasses, and the warmth of familiar faces.
The night, once a riot of noise and light, faded gently into this quieter moment. The chaos left behind, the bar became a sanctuary, a small retreat where exhaustion met with ease, and the storm gave way to calm. And then it was lights out for these sweet Kids.
You can hear Candy & The Kids’ new album The Cover-Up here, covering post-punk and No Wave classics at the link below. If cassettes are your jam, order one here.
Follow Candy & The Kids:
Comments