If you’re a music listener of more discerning predilection (i.e. a snob), you might have something to say about Role Model’s audience. Snaking around the O2 Apollo, there’s a queue that’s overwhelmingly young and female, most dressed in either cowboy hats or some form of fit-checkable gig chic. Just par for the course for another dreamy TikTok boy that the kids like and that you, the arbiter of true taste, don’t need to concern yourself with, right? Well, putting aside how insanely reductive such a viewpoint is, there’s never no value in any artist as a barometer of popularity. If you do write Tucker Pillsbury off simply as fan-pandering bedroom-pop (which, granted, his earlier work kinda was), you’d miss the uptick of his latest album Kansas Anymore that’s rooted more in Americana and dusty, spacious storytelling. Y’know, the sort of thing that said snobs might call “real music” had it come from someone with a predominantly male fanbase…
Of course, it’s not like TikTok music can’t succumb to preordained limits, while at the same time, still having something to it. Chloe Slater is TikTok-indie incarnate, from the chattering vocal affect on Sucker, to a Pale Waves-esque gloss on Harriet and Sinking Feeling, to a declaration of “think of everyone who’s ever pissed you off in your entire life” before leading a crowd-wide scream on Price Of Fun, skewing young and fashionably put-upon. There’s also the potential for overreach, namely in how War Crimes’ addressing of geopolitics remains couched in a digestible indie sound that mighn’t resonate outside of a very potted preface (especially when the very next song Death Trap gets flippantly introduced as “about a shitty landlord”). Still, a nice indie-rock crunch in spots can do a fair bit, and when Slater hits a pocket of energy—see Death Trap’s well-received cartwheel—that’s when her likability as an artist calcifies more readily. Even if this is miles away from percolating outside of its parameters (and if you don’t care about that, don’t even sweat it), it’s still perfectly alright for what it is.
As for our headliner, enough time in this room would convince you that Role Model is the greatest, most popular, most era-defining artist in the world. He’s not, for the record, but truckloads of charm require precisely none of that to still hit. The fact that every song gets a singalong just as loud as Pillsbury’s own voice speaks literal volumes. He’s along for the ride mostly, a very loose, casual presence that’s noteworthy, if for no other reason that his band are about ten feet behind him and shrouded in darkness. The first time there’s even a beam of light on them, no less, is when Pillsbury is given someone’s digital camera from the crowd to take photos of himself, and snaps a few of the band for good measure. With him spotlit at the front of the stage from the very jump on Writing’s On The Wall, Pillsbury is, without question, the main character of this piece.
That’s also to be expected; he’s the Role Model, after all. And for as content as his overall demeanour is, it never slides into insufferable indie aloofness. From the conversational tone (“We’re gonna play some more songs for you, we are Twenty One Pilots”) to how the majority of lighting is soft, friendly yellows, there’s a warmth attuned to music splitting the difference between intimate, ground-level pop and open-ended country wistfulness. The one-two of Oh, Gemini and a little more love has the winsome, pensive romance that makes for the easiest of wins; a little later on, there’s a big folk-pop stomp and “ohhh”-along to The Dinner that’s as communal as it gets. It’s all so light and enjoyable, and edgeless in a way that’s not meant derisively. If anything, keeping anything harder as a sporadic inclusion is what lets it stand out more. Slut Era Interlude makes itself known through its harsh red lights, matched in a sexier vibe by the guitar and thicker clouds of keys and bass. Naturally, it goes down a storm.
So, yeah, maybe there’s not no truth to any ‘fan-pandering’ accusations, though it’s too well-meaning on its face to take umbrage with. The cover of The 1975’s Someone Else, for instance, is perfectly whittled to this exact demographic, but in the slightly rougher, more rustic mix and tenacious drumming, it simply sounds excellent. Any whisperings of further Matty Healy-shaped involvement, however, don’t come fruition. He’s not the special guest to come out on Sally, When The Wine Runs Out, as some in attendance have speculated; instead, it’s a fan brought from the side of the stage. And while there’s a bit of anticlimax to field given some of the names in Pillsbury’s contact list—for reference, the last two nights in London featured appearances from Niall Horan and Lewis Capaldi—it’s nice that moments like these can keep happening. For a fanbase as explicitly dedicated as this one, it keeps in reach the tentpole moment of the set within the biggest bop of the Role Model canon.
Because if there’s one takeaway above everything else, it’s that, even in a towering theatre like this, there’s enough in the execution to draw the distance in. Something like the ramshackle guitar and country sway of The Longest Goodbye simultaneously careens across these walls and feels starkly intimate. Conversely, Something, Somehow, Someway has Pillsbury sit on a stool and recite the lyrics from a notebook, in front of these few-thousand people screaming it back as if it were another anthem. It definitely helps that the songs themselves have a level of quality throughout that’s so immediate. Particularly towards the end with Some Protector as the closest thing to a power-ballad, and the upbeat, ‘80s pop varnish of Deeply Still In Love, you notice the shackles of ‘TikTok’-pop begin to break and fall. On this intersectional level, Pillsbury has popstar potential that’s coming into its own in real time. It’d be foolish to try and deny or invalidate that when the evidence is this concrete.
Words by Luke Nuttall
