“Fuck the 4th of July”

Launchpad July 4, 2025: Weedrat, Oroku Saki, ESPER, Wavelengths

By August Edwards

I arrived downtown around 7:30. I could see the city blocked off traffic on Central like usual—Friday, plus the 4^th of July—but I never bothered to park or even drive on Central anyway. From Lead I turned onto 5^th then turned onto Gold where I hoped to get that good street parking behind the Launchpad.

Record label Chapter House, documenting the Southwest Native music scene since 2014, was presenting a stacked lineup at the Launchpad: Weedrat, Oroku Saki, ESPER, and Wavelengths. The fliers asked, “What are you celebrating this 4th of July?”  Yeah, simply put, I, along with many people in my community, have no reason to celebrate the independence of the US while so many of our neighbors aren’t granted independence. The whole thing is depressing; everything depresses me right now. It’s easiest to stay home and do nothing. Not much makes me feel better. Going to shows makes me feel better. Once I’m at the show.

From 7^th to 8^th, Gold was desolate. The emptiness made me question if I had any of the correct information. Tonight? This time? Am I sure downtown wasn’t shut down completely? Nobody can enter, everyone go home, nobody wants you here, August!!!

Still, a few cars were tucked in the lot behind Launchpad, probably the bands. The weather was unreal. Warm, golden, the sun hanging on high. I strolled—literally!—through a couple quiet blocks just because I could. I was early and it was that kind of night.

Inside Launchpad I took in the empty seats and empty floors. Nobody stood behind the bar, but nobody stood in front of the bar. I was kind of disappointed by the barrenness, because the lineup was so good. PUNK. However, the emptiness didn’t come as a complete surprise to me. Some people plan far in advance for the 4^th, like my friend Lizzi who annually books her camping site in like January. I texted my friend Brenda to see if she was working—she works in the service industry downtown—and she said they let her leave early because it was so dead.

In honesty, I thought the show’d start at 8PM, but as I sat in a booth waiting for the music to start, 8 came and went. I remembered how post-COVID, local show times seemed to shift later, 9, sometimes 9:30. But maybe that was always the case. Maybe I’m just aging out of the timeline. Either way, I was the loser lone non-musician in a booth, waiting.

Tom Overholt from ESPER came over to talk to lonesome me. His other band Itami was on pause, but ESPER was gaining momentum—already pretty fresh off a tour, even though they’d only formed earlier this year. Things were going well, he said, but the world was still dark. I agreed.

A handful of people accumulated—happy-looking, smiling people, everyone among friends. Three minutes to 9, musicians got on stage, assuming the sacred positions. The unmistakable denotation of music starting.

First up was pop punk band Wavelengths from Phoenix. But their first songs hit heavier than “pop punk” suggests (to me). For a second, the adrenaline erased the genre entirely. I think that live music is a genre in and of itself. Live music busts down arbitrary barriers and really puts into perspective that what you know isn’t what really matters—good music is good music. Anyway, Wavelengths’s energy was clean and completely unpretentious. They made it clear how stoked they were to be at Launchpad, and that gratitude carried their set. They were the kind of opener that makes you excited for everything that follows.

Next was ESPER. In a different way than Wavelengths, they blurred genre boundaries—hardcore with punk speed, hip-hop cadence, totally undefinable, just like drummer Tom warned me. With a pulse that rattled my throat, their beats were weaponized and urgent. The vocalist didn’t sugarcoat things: “Fuck the 4th of July.” The crowd agreed. Their set was tight, fast, and gone too soon. I wanted more.

I stepped outside after ESPER to pass time. A few people smoked on the patio, laughing gently at girls taking photos curled around a lamppost across the street. Central felt like a movie set, everything a prop. But it was a little more intimate than that. Downtown felt like a bedroom.

Being outside was like intruding on still water. Everything was hazy, I realized; then, I heard them, the fireworks. Sputtering, intermittent popping, reaching low in the sky. Nothing I had to crane my neck for, but we watched in a sort of solemnity. Two cops farted around in front of the venue, their uniforms connoting clownish costumes as they policed nobody. I’m telling you the street was absurdly empty.

The third band, Oroku Saki, was my favorite because they played to all my soft spots: riffs you could get lost in, and each song lasting hardly over a minute long the way a song should be. The audience loved them, too, bursting into beautiful short spurts of dancing—like fireworks. Sometimes all together, sometimes a few at a time. Sporadic and from the heart. “Fuck Donald Trump!” Oroku Saki said. Fuck Donald Trump! we echoed.

These guys were a three-piece, but at different points during their set, members of the audience got up and sang, basically just the length of a verse or two. At one point, two people went up at a time to share the mic. I couldn’t tell if they were longtime fans or just caught in the moment, but Oroku Saki made the space feel like home. Shortest songs in the universe, but nothing felt rushed.

Finally came Weedrat, a band who recently raised a lot of money to go to the fire devastations of the Navajo Nation. That act alone tells you what kind of artists they are, seeing through the justice that resounds in their music.

Weedrat have been around for a long time, making some of the best punk I’ve ever heard. Their performance was earnest and that kind of beautiful that makes you thankful for this life but also kills you inside because there’s so much fucking bad shit in this world and it hurts to know everything exists at once.

For me, going to a show feels like a revolutionary act in and of itself. But that feeling is nothing but self-serving poison if all you do is let it sit around inside you. You have to carry those feelings outside of the venue and let them speak.

When Weedrat finished, the audience couldn’t let go. We begged for just one more. We’re fresh out, they sheepishly reply. Play one again! We didn’t care if it was a repeat. We just wanted more.

I drove home with the windows down, fireworks still going on even though it was close to midnight. I think I caught some of the last of the night.

July 4, 2025