Welcome to NC Music Factory, a delightful strip of bars, stages and activities catered to residents in their mid-twenties, but most frequented by unsupervised gaggles of teenagers and financial advisors in beer-branded rope hats and skinny jeans. It's not the only place to see shows in the lovely city of Charlotte, NC, but it is!
With the Fall afternoon rain already out of the way, it was a lovely Friday evening to take up an entire picnic table on the back patio of VBGB with a few four-dollar beers. This was my first solo concert and my first solo coverage piece, and for Omar Apollo of all people! I mean, I’ve been to festivals and events where I’ve wandered around by myself (check out our Gov Ball coverage for some said wandering), but I’d never been on a solo ride! I’d been to shows here at Skyla Credit Union Amphitheater plenty of times, back when it was still called the Charlotte Metro Credit Union Amphitheater (say that three times fast), but this was new. It felt like a new chapter in my concert repertoire, one full of nerves and excitement (but if I’m being honest, I was more just anxious that I didn't have anyone to talk to during the show). But the cool thing about North Charlotte is you never know who you’re going to see. As a native, you run the risk of running into every person you’ve ever met; kindergarten teachers, old classmates, that one kid you went to summer camp with in 2013–- it takes all kinds to fill the Music Factory, but it’s all part of the fun! There would be small talk aplenty later on in the night, I was sure!
As 7:00 PM rolled in, I hurriedly downed my drink and began making my way through security in order to make it to my seat with a few extra minutes to stop by the merch tent before Malcolm Todd hit the stage at 7:30. The lines at the merch tent moved about as slow as you'd imagine, overrun by chittering groups of fans, each giggling and pointing at the “God Said No” novelty condoms (individually sold for 5 bucks, by the way, which seems a little pricey for the promise of safe sex). Hung up alongside though were the more conventional pieces of tour merchandise, pieces like posters, records, photo books, and the usual assortment of tour shirts, hoodies and sweaters. One shirt in particular caught my eye, which read “I heart ugly boys” in bright cherry red across the front, an ironic statement given Apollo’s track record for dating conventionally gorgeous men.
A cool thing about shows headlined by or involving an LGBTQ+ artist is that the fashion never fails. There were some of the sharpest dressed people in attendance that I had ever seen; we’re talking full glittered jumpsuits, Canadian tuxedos with tiny denim ties, blended with the shortest shorts and most sequined shirts you’ll ever see. It was truly a mini Charlotte fashion week, full of creative attendees and fashion forward influencer-types (I don't include myself in that, of course, I was wearing the same oversized jeans I'd stained with ranch and apple butter during my shift earlier and a bright yellow shirt that read “staff” in uncomplimentary red lettering that I'd thrifted and lightly cropped).
Not long after I'd made my way to my seat, Todd and his band took to the stage, signaling for the front rows to stand behind the pit to greet him and his candied apple red guitar. “What the fuck is up Charlotte!” he growled, tripping over his oversized jeans into a flanger-filled solo to close "Art House." Todd moved pretty quickly through his set, he was clearly on a crunch for time, leaving him hardly a few seconds to riff with the crowd in between songs. Panicked, or maybe just rushed, he ended up introducing himself repeatedly throughout his set. “I forget what to say up here, I go, ‘I’m Malcolm Todd,’ and then forget what to say," he said jokingly before "Mr. Incorrect." "My name is Jeffalo Bugs." Todd was delightful warm up, energizing the crowd effectively and efficiently with his quick witted ramblings and high tempo renditions of his catalogue. “You may be like ‘fuck this shit, I’m only here for Omar; what the fuck is this white boy doing?” he said after asking everyone to get moving for the last leg of his set. “We got two more songs left, can you guys give me a ton of energy for the last two songs?” Todd and his band flew through "Leave It All To Me" (yes, the iCarly theme song, it's become a staple at his shows) and "Roommates," before blowing a final kiss into the crowd, dropping their equipment and skipping away out of view.
Before the lights can dim or the fog can replenish, the roadies and stagehands swarmed Todd's gear with pink duct tape and travel foam wraps, all while Todd's bassist was meandering around stage, tempting fans with a fork he had somehow acquired and put in his mouth in the 20 seconds he’d been off stage (fans, or maybe just senseless groupies squealed from the pit over the prospect). The crowd once again lit up with scattered chatter as the last minute upgrades began rushing towards the nearest empty seats in droves. After some time, center stage was left barren and untread, as stage smog began feeding in once agin in a fruitless effort to blanket the stage against the less than compliant evening breeze blowing through Charlotte.
The lights go out, replaced by a thunderous rumbling as the band silently slinks to their respective corners of the stage. There was barely a second of true darkness across the amphitheater before the shadows were quickly drowned out by the barrage of lit phone screens; each held higher than the next competing to see who could get the best shaky video of Apollo's entrance. A pulsating, deep blue shone down from the overhead lights, washing over the wall of smoke now occupying the stage as the speakers began to hum and gyrate. The symphonic buzzing began to skip, halting to speedily cue in the melancholic guitar picking from "Be Careful With Me." As the murk dissipated slightly, Apollo stood, head cocked slightly, in his now seminal fur coat, reveling in the eagerness of the audience.
The crowd squealed and begged for requests from his eclectic catalogue as Apollo danced on, stalked by the slate-clad dance troupe miming and complimenting each step (it was also at this point that I realized I was probably wasn't going to hear "Kickback" or "Archetype" tonight). “Charlotte,” he cooed during a brief costume change, removing his enormous coat to reveal a matching, flowing white set underneath. “I remember when I was back here.” The dancers scuttled offstage one by one, the last stopping to present Apollo his banana taffy electric guitar.
He was alone once again on stage, strumming the first chords to "Useless," head bobbing and fingers flying, inviting the crowd to follow suit. The rest of the hesitant (or maybe just lame) crowd had finally stood following his instructions, unable to keep up their "too cool" facades under the weight of the bass. “If you know this shit, sing along,” Apollo demanded, engaging in a round of call and response during the pre-chorus as his dancers rejoined him on stage. “I know this shit feels good, baby!"
After a high-powered first leg of his set, Apollo began the second, slower segment of the show with "3 Boys," which, much to I think everyone over the age 22's surprise, was sung the loudest by the younger members of the crowd. Included in this secret section of altos and sopranos was the young girl sat in the row in front me with her mother and older sister. She shot out of her seat faster than the rest of us could process the three-count intro to the song, screaming (or maybe sobbing) in her visibly bewildered family's faces, "This is that song I kept playing, now you'll finally get it!" The vague malice in her voice aside, it was a perfect example of the Omar Apollo effect in effect. Apollo is a versed and talented showman, one that wastes no movement nor breath, and never passes up an opportunity to let the crowd know he's having just as much fun as they are; leading sing-alongs, projecting lyrics on stage, even crouching down to duet with fans at the barricade, “Charlotte, sing the fuck out of this shit!”
Apollo continued this mellow segment of the set with a selection of tracks from him last two records, following up "3 Boys" with an emotionally overpowering rendition of "Petrified," sung crouched down at the edge of the stage and including as many belted high notes as his vocal chords could seemingly handle. He was then draped in a blue silver hue, back by his dancers and various flowing set pieces for "While U Can," quickly pivoting to a rotating kaleidoscope of hues, blues, and every complimentary corner of the rainbow, joining his dancers for a dance house version of "Drifting." "How" queued up without a second to breathe, signaling his dancers to unroll a white, wisping cloth banner behind him. Apollo, with his back against the banner, outstretched his microphone to the mass of fans screaming back at him, "Prince like Diana!"
“Charlotte, let me hear you go fucking crazy,” Apollo roared, perfectly timed with a frenzy of pinks, greens and whites pulsing through the stage screen. His ragged, oversized shirt catching the cross breeze to give the illusion that he’s flying high above his adoring crowd, floating angelically and stagnantly at stage center. "Sing every motherfucking word to this one,” he growled, dragging the crowd back down to Earth from the previous songs' emotional high. The screen flickered calmly behind him with the lyrics to "Invincible," bathing the crowd in a soft pink and white.
“It’s a beautiful day, Charlotte,” he said, now donning his acoustic guitar for the Latin break in the set. “My money long, my dick is sucked...” He was joined on stage by his bass and fellow guitar player for "En El Olvido" and "Dos Uno Nuevo," both of whom were beckoned from their hiding spots stage right. Between the two tracks however, Apollo took a moment to address a few familiar faces in the crowd. “Hold on, I remember these little Mexicans,” he said, singling out two brothers piled in at the edge of the barricade. “These are the most lit ass little twins." The twins hollered back at him, reminding Apollo that he'd seen them at a past show at The Fillmore, the neighboring venue on the strip (and an iconic one at that, The Fillmore is housed in a historic textile mill and was modeled after the original Fillmore in San Francisco, CA). "Type shit," Apollo laughed and readied himself “Dos Uno Nuevo." "We’re gonna play another little Mexican joint for y'all."
“I’m about to get real sexy in this bitch,” Apollo announced, prefacing the fan-favorite next two songs, "Endlessly" and "Killing Me." He aggressively grabbed hold of his mic stand, shrouded overhead by Prince purple light, inviting his instrumentalists to take the lead on "Killing Me," and allowing the entire crowd to echo his lyrics back at him, “Fuck me like you fantasize!” But the fun didn't stop there, of course, as more fans were singled out for far stranger reasons than attending his last concert. “Did I read this sign correctly? ‘I crashed to this song today;’ you crashed to this song? On the way here?" Apollo worriedly read a fan's sign to the crowd. "I’m sorry, baby… uh… I love you, I’m sorry that happened today.”
Incidentally, that fan's misfortune proved to be the perfect segue into the third segment of the set; yet another barrage of tears, trials and tribulations, packing "Want U Around," "Pedro," and "Empty" one after the other in rapid succession. Apollo took the support role once again for "Want U Around," crooning high harmonies and jaw dropping vocal runs throughout the song, overcast by harsh blood orange lighting as he strummed along with the transition chords on his electric guitar. He then vanished into the shadows as Pedro Pascal's spoken word interlude rang through the stage speakers, reappearing atop a raised stage fixture. Now in a plated vest and parachute pants to match his dancers, he stood surrounded by dim columns of light and spun around in circles by his dancers, moaning the lyrics and staggering performatively through each each pillar of light.
The slowdown, to no one's surprise or misfortune, was exceptional but short lived, as Apollo jerked the steering wheel once again. “Charlotte, fuck that sad shit, we’re gonna turn the fuck up," he erupted as the bass trounced in behind, cueing the rest of the band in for “Kamikaze.” "Fuck that bitch, I hate his ass!" Apollo's expert showmanship commanded the audiences attention from that moment forward. He paced back and forth across the stage, dancing from end to end as the fans with enough leg room at the barricade swayed and leaned with him, mimicking a field of sunflowers in July. They matched every ounce of energy he spewed out at them, soaking alongside him in the neon red and blue lights of "Tamagotchi." He hit a final-- and I could not make this up if I tried-- he hit the stanky leg on the last beat of the song, before the lights dropped again.
“We’re bringing it back to that sad shit, baby," Apollo smugly and triumphantly announced as the intro for "Dispose of Me." "This is a show, fuck you mean?” And put on a show they did, Apollo's guitarist, Oscar Santander, took a minute long solo during "Dispose of Me," per Apollo's request (“Turn him the fuck up, he's gonna play the best he’s every played right now"), Apollo was drowned out by his own fans during "Evergreen," singing along so intently that it made him smile the hardest he'd smiled all show, forcing him to turn away quickly before the the camera crew caught him cheesing on the stage screen. “I’m feeling stupid as fuck, y'all,” he giggled. “We got one more song for you guys.” His dancers tiptoed in to join him for "Glow," the "last" song of the set, lining the far edge of the stage, just as they'd entered almost two hours earlier. The stagehands began flying shredding sections of Apollo's shirt from earlier in the show through the stage fans, falling gracefully over the barricaded members of the audience. As the final chords rang out, Apollo stood motionless at the edge of the stage as each dancer caressed his shoulder and retook their place behind him in the fog. The last dancer crept up to him him, handing him a torn section of fabric. Apollo raised it into the air timidly and carefully as the music swelled one final time, releasing it at the last second as the lights extinguished themselves.
The audience bopped and fist-pumped violently, left alone in the darkness and sweltering heat by Apollo and his band, demanding one more song in unison. “Sounds like y’all wanna go home, I don’t know,” Apollo joked over the intercom before reemerging from backstage. “Y’all fucking with me? Who's got their shades?” Apollo requests via Instagram story that his fans bring a pair sunglasses for the closing number, a request that has quickly become a sacred tradition at Omar Apollo shows. This show, there were multiple pairs to go around, evidenced by the slew of sunglasses fans brought as gifts. One pair in particular caught his eye, a chrome, goggly style set, bejeweled to high hell, which Apollo accepted all too eagerly, “I can’t see shit in these, you want me to fall off the stage?” Laughing and clearly still bursting with energy, he counted in the encore for evening, "Go Away," now blinded by his fashionably impractical new eyewear.
Apollo spent the majority of the first chorus experimenting with his new shades, lifting them up off his eyes repeatedly and giggling as he watched himself on the stage screen. He laughed hard to himself and returned to the mic stand to holler at the crowd, “It’s a celebration, bitch," then quickly bubbling up a chant across the crowd, “Nobody touching these bitches!” He chanted, and danced and chanted some more, before turning his back to the crowd again, letting out a sharp, perfect falsetto. He turned back to look out over the faces in the crowd, throwing 'thank you's in every direction, before hightailing it off stage with his band hot on his heels.
The lights dimmed as he strolled away, farewelled by the rhythmic, seismic applause emanating from every pair of hands in attendance. A moment or two passed as the applause dwindled, and the venue lights flipped back. Friends, family members and carpool buddies began chattering and collectively freaking out, comparing photos and exchanging videos. Each group began filtering out of the stands in every direction, their fresh white merch reflecting the harsh venue lighting overhead. As the runway ran out, we began piling up at the edge the sidewalk waiting for traffic to break together as one reflective mass, crossing our collective fingers and toes that no one else here would crash to Omar Apollo tonight.
Rob Lucchesi
Omar Apollo
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