When Amber Bain sat down to play her “saddest song” of the night, the first half of her encore (“One for Sorrow, Two for Joni Jones”), you could hear a pin drop. Under the fluorescence of a well-set spotlight, the whites on the keyboard refracted. I’d been leaning against the barricade, chin in hand, when I heard some shuffling. Two people next to me were wiping away quiet tears. The tender moment was a stark contrast from the bursts of energy rippling through the crowd a mere ten minutes before. This dichotomy is the allure of The Japanese House. Pushed from the Royale to meet ticket demand, her show Sunday at Roadrunner was the grand finale of her 2023 tour. It was also the biggest audience she had ever played, which she relayed with an air of wonderment. Fans braved a brief downpour to wait in the slow-moving line before doors and filled to the top row of the balcony bleachers, shoulder to shoulder. 

None of this is surprising, despite her apparent awe. Bain’s June LP In the End It Always Does has become a staple of the year for indie pop listeners, receiving rave reviews from press – and a spot on my own Wrapped. Her recent work’s impact is undeniable, especially on queer audiences as she tackles the struggles of adolescence (“Boyhood”) and the trials of heartbreak (“Sad to Breathe”) with lyrical vulnerability and George Daniels’-produced synthy infectiousness. 

quinnie

quinnie, who also marveled at the turnout when I spoke with her after the show, played an equally enamoring opening set. Entirely stripped-down with just two guitarists and her socks, she ran through her impressive catalog in seamless harmony. “Man” and “Touch Tank” were obvious crowd favorites. The latter brought her a viral hit in 2022 (and also crawled into my Wrapped last year, cementing itself as my most streamed song). When I asked what show of the tour had been her favorite, she smiled. “This one!” 

Right on time, Bain followed, setting herself up in front of a simple backdrop which changed colors throughout the show. With The Japanese House, there is no need for theatrics. She burst into the first line of “Sad to Breathe,” the slow-tempo intro melting into the energetic rest. She was ready – and so was the audience. Dancing to the cameras of their friends, the group beside me pantomimed lyrics and spun each other around, nearly vaulting over the barricade when she began the vibey, “Touching Yourself.”

It was within this initial string of the setlist that I recognized Bain’s impact. Her performance was relentless, a kaleidoscope of newer tracks (“Morning Pages,” a coveted collaboration with MUNA), and classics (“Saw You in a Dream,” an ode to grappling with loss). By the time we had reached “Dionne,” which nearly exclusively soundtracked my previous December, I was transported in time.

 “I know it’s not very sexy when somebody loves you this much and knows you this well/ But it’s the way it is,” she mused. I laughed along, half at the version of myself that I was eleven months prior, and half at the way that Bain so bluntly captures the embarrassment of life and love. “Wishing that someone would film the way I’m looking at you right now,/ I wanna watch it back and then kill myself.”  

Her brief exit and emotional interlude culminated in a brilliant sendoff, the beloved “Sunshine Baby,” inciting hands thrown in the air and hips swayed. She looked triumphant, a completion to this cycle of shows, and a personal milestone completed. The closure of a loop. 

“Putting off the end,/ ‘Cause in the end it always does,” she sang. “In the end it always does,” we echoed back.