Clairo at Laneway

Clairo sings like she’s writing a note on the back of a receipt, something casual but crucial. Like, don’t forget oat milk. Like, don’t forget I love you. Like, I am unraveling but in a way that makes me look cool about it.

“Bags” is a slow-motion heartbreak in a thrift store dressing room. The guitar stumbles like someone unsure whether to stay or leave. Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time. Except there is never a right time to say, I think I love you, but I also think I might implode.

“Amoeba” sounds like what happens when you’re pretending you meant to get on the wrong train. The synths loop like a question you don’t want to answer. The lyrics whisper: You haven’t called your mom in weeks, what’s up with that? And you turn the volume up louder.

“Sofia” shimmers like lake water in the sun. She sings, I think we could do it if we tried, which is exactly what you tell yourself before making a terrible, wonderful decision.

At Laneway the sun is a giant hairdryer. Everyone is in shorts that may or may not be denim. Clairo walks on stage looking like an effortlessly cool beatnik from the 1960s. She waves like she’s just spotted a friend across a parking lot. Then she sings, and suddenly everyone is holding their breath, remembering every text they never sent.

She plays “Bags” and someone near me whispers, Oh no. They hold their friend’s shoulder like they just realised they are human and it is terrifying. She plays “Sofia” and a group of people to the left are dancing, but in a way that says, This is for my sixteen-year-old self. Then, “Flaming Hot Cheetos” as a closer, which feels like the exact right way to end. Like: Here, take this goofy, perfect memory with you. Try not to cry on the train home. Clairo is not just singing songs. She is opening little doorways into feelings you thought you’d locked up. At Laneway, she did this in broad daylight, in the heat, in the middle of a crowd, and somehow it still felt personal. Like she was singing just for you.