![]() I am not surprised we found ourselves here because if you take away cell phone reception, Instagram, the self-created need to look cool for your friends or an audience of strangers, and you're forced to contend with nature. Somehow, we wound up on the subjects of love and war, given our current political outlook. It felt written down, committed to memory, and freestyled all at once.īack at Bikini Bottom, Justin and I found ourselves embroiled in a heated discussion with Lenci Lavish, his DJ, whose name we discovered was Tony, and Nosh, the fiery bookkeeper we met earlier. She sang about loving herself, sexual pleasure, abusive men, through a lens of poetry and metaphor. Had we met the Björk of Jersey City, while hiding out in the southern part of the state's largest forest? She sang about a client at a high-end gentlemen's club who once called her a Bridge and Tunnel Rat. The combination of her songs, which were rhythmically disjointed and deeply personal, with the distorted music and vocal, was a very powerful one. Justin and I squawked and watched a spellbound crowd just stand there. Minty sang through a filter that made her voice sound like an operatic chipmunk, beginning with a cover of "A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes" from Cinderella. The crowd was eerily silent, as if watching their cult leader address the crowd. The First Lady of Mad Lib stepped to the mic and, with Moldy handling percussion, she opened her mouth. Minty eventually came out to the main stage and there were more people present at her show than we'd seen all weekend, which only heightened mine and Justin's anticipation of hearing her sing. She ended her performance by saying, almost flatly: "That's all I have for today. Priyya, an independent artist, said she was nervous on-stage, but had a poised, slightly nonchalant air that belied whatever struggles she was having. We met and talked to her and her friend Marilyn about Jersey and making music. She sang poignantly about American dreams and Gucci in a nostalgic way not unlike Lana Del Rey, but without the stain of white privilege. Priyya could really, really sing, and seemed very chill about it. The production was super high-end and recalled Madonna's dark, sexy Bedtime Stories era, when she flirted with R&B. Sunglasses on, swaying side to side and holding a mic, she sang gorgeous trills of melody to her self-produced beats for what seemed like six minutes per song. Clad in sportswear- crop top, sweats, and slicked-back hair - was Priyya, a Nepalese singer-songwriter in her mid-twenties from New Jersey. We heard a woman's voice singing over heavy electronic beats coming from the main stage, and walked over. ![]()
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