Three years ago, if you’d told me that a band whose breakthrough single featured the immortal lyric “Would you like to sit on my chaise longue?” would be headlining Montreal’s 2300-capacity MTelus, I’d have suggested you lay off the hallucinogens. Yet here we are, watching Wet Leg transform from internet darlings into something approaching legitimate rock stars, one bicep flex and power chord at a time.
The evening began with UK trio Mary in the Junkyard delivering an opener that felt like emotional archaeology. Clari Freeman-Taylor’s tender take on Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel #2” arrived with genuine reverence – she’d visited Cohen’s Montreal grave earlier that day, she told the crowd, and you could hear the pilgrimage in her voice. The gesture felt both respectful and slightly cheeky, much like what would follow.
Then came the main event, preceded by lights so blindingly intense they could’ve powered a small aircraft carrier. Rhian Teasdale struck her now-signature pose – that mock-heroic muscle flex that’s become as essential to Wet Leg’s iconography as Bowie’s lightning bolt – and launched into “Catch These Fists” with the kind of conviction that suggested she might actually throw a punch if provoked.
What struck me immediately was how the band has grown into their sound. Two years back at Osheaga, Wet Leg felt like talented upstarts riding a wave of clever timing and social media savvy. Tonight, they resembled a proper rock outfit, complete with the kind of stage chemistry that can’t be manufactured in a rehearsal room. Teasdale prowled the stage with predatory confidence while Hester Chambers maintained her position as the band’s stoic anchor, half-hidden in stage right shadows, letting her guitar do the talking.
The rhythm section of drummer Henry Holmes and bassist Ellis Durand provided more than adequate firepower, turning songs that could feel slight on record into genuine anthems. Holmes kept time like a metronome with anger management issues, while Durand’s basslines carried the kind of low-end menace that makes you feel it in your sternum. Multi-instrumentalist Josh Mobaraki floated between keys and guitar, adding layers without cluttering the mix – a skill rarer than you might think.
The setlist cleverly balanced Wet Leg’s established crowd-pleasers with deeper cuts from their new album Moisturizer, and the progression felt deliberate. Early numbers like “Wet Dream” and “Too Late Now” got the blood pumping, establishing the evening’s chaotic energy before diving into newer material that revealed the band’s expanding range. Songs like “Liquidize” and “Jennifer’s Body” showed a band wrestling with how to evolve beyond their original joke-rock formula without losing what made them compelling in the first place.
The mid-show cooling period – “Don’t Speak,” “Pillow Talk,” and “Pond Song” – demonstrated Wet Leg’s growing confidence in dynamics. These quieter moments could have killed the momentum, but instead they created space for the audience to catch their breath before the inevitable explosion. The gambit worked, turning what could have been dead air into genuine tension.
And explode they did. “Ur Mum” triggered a communal howl that probably registered on seismographs across Quebec, with the crowd stretching that infamous extended note until their lungs gave out. The strobing lights during “Angelica” bordered on the seizure-inducing, creating a sensory overload that felt both thrilling and slightly dangerous – exactly what rock shows should aspire to.
By the time “Chaise Longue” arrived near the set’s conclusion, the song that launched a thousand think pieces had shed its novelty status entirely. The crowd sang every word with the kind of devotion typically reserved for actual classics, and irony melted into pure, sweaty euphoria. Following it with “Mangetout” and “CPR” felt like victory laps, the band basking in hard-earned adoration.
What impressed me most was how Wet Leg has managed to retain their playful spirit while developing genuine musical muscle. Teasdale’s between-song banter maintained the band’s trademark wit, but her vocal performance showed remarkable range. She can sneer through a punk tirade one moment and deliver soaring melodies the next. Chambers, meanwhile, has evolved from competent sidekick to essential creative partner, her guitar work providing the perfect counterpoint to Teasdale’s showboating.
The production values impressed too. The sound mix was crisp enough to catch every lyrical barb while maintaining the raw edge that makes these songs work. The lighting design walked the line between spectacle and sensory assault, creating atmosphere without overwhelming the music itself.
Perhaps most importantly, Wet Leg has figured out how to be a proper rock band without losing their sense of humour. They’ve discovered that sincerity and silliness aren’t mutually exclusive – you can mean every word while still acknowledging the absurdity of the whole enterprise. The result is a live experience that feels both genuinely moving and genuinely fun, a combination that’s become increasingly rare in our overly serious musical landscape.
As the house lights came up and the crowd filed out into Montreal’s autumn evening, faces flushed and voices hoarse, it was clear that Wet Leg had accomplished something significant. They’ve successfully navigated the treacherous waters between viral novelty and lasting relevance, emerging as a band capable of headlining arenas without sacrificing the scrappy charm that made them special in the first place.
The Moistourizer tour finds Wet Leg at an interesting crossroads, no longer the surprise package they once were but not yet the established headliners they’re clearly becoming. Based on tonight’s evidence, they’re handling the transition beautifully, turning growing pains into growing confidence. The chaise longue may have gotten them in the door, but it’s their increasingly formidable live chops that will keep them there.
Photos – Maggie Rossy-Aulman
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