On September 9th, 2025, Phoenix’s Valley Bar became a vessel for connection as mehro took the stage the very day their newest album weirdthrob was released. They opened low and slow with dead internet and sepia tones, songs that swelled with a deliberate patience, drawing the audience into their orbit with a quiet gravity before opening the evening into something that touched the hearts of everyone in attendance.
Before mehro stepped on stage, Evie Irie lit up the Valley Bar with a spark that felt bigger than the basement room could hold. She’s been friends with mehro since 2019, and you could feel that same bond running through her set as she barreled into mercedes benz and i’m not sorry, her voice like a siren ushering the crowd pulling the crowd closer with each line. When she shifted gears into alter ego and twenty, her tone transcended from playful bite to something more vulnerable. The crowd roared through rebel, but the most intimate moment came when she introduced laila, written for her best friend who was standing just a few feet away in the audience. As Evie sang, Laila beamed through tears, overwhelmed with joy at hearing her song played back to her in such a raw and public way. By the time Evie closed with art of letting go, the whole room felt that same catharsis, carried on the shoulders of friendship and loyalty. Evie’s the same artist who gave us the “feel the rush rush” refrain in feel something, and that urgency ran through everything she sang that night. She wasn’t just filling time before the headliner; she was urging the whole room forward, setting the stage so seamlessly that when mehro finally appeared, it felt like the continuation of one long narrative.
Early in their set, mehro paused to remind us, “No moment is guaranteed. Take time to meet someone new.” As the house lights came up, people turned toward one another in a moment reminiscent of congregations of youth, shaking hands and exchanging compliments. When mehro themselves walked over, shook my hand, and said they liked my eyes and that I had a firm handshake, it was a reminder that they weren’t just performing from the stage, they were performing with us. Moments later, with a smile, they laughed into the mic: “For so many people who probably suffer from social anxiety, now y’all can’t stop talking to one another.” Goldie launched into a sharp staccato beat, and Callen followed as the band carried us into pirate song.
That genuine concern for people became a recurring theme. When mehro noticed a fan in the front row looking faint, they stopped, asked if anyone needed water, and had their crew pass water bottles from the green room. Later, when performing whore (a song about healing and taking phrases meant to be derogatory and flipping the script into something affirming) they carried the same energy, watching the crowd, caring for them, and reminding us we were more than just listeners in a room. The Paul Simon tones weaving through their phrasing that night matched the sincerity of their delivery.
Even as they leaned into impression work (their Jennifer Coolidge imitation had the crowd laughing), they balanced humor with weight. Between songs they spoke of perseverance, telling a story of Evie Irie’s father saying, “It’ll do what it’ll do,” and mehro’s own retort, “Cock a doodle do.” It was a reminder that life does not always have neat answers but demands we move forward anyway. They slid into perfume with that in mind, one of their earliest songs and a reminder of where they began. Its scent of memory lingered as both a song of heartbreak and healing, and the crowd leaned in as if inhaling the past itself.
When they stepped off stage, Callen’s bass filled the room, a tether pulling us back for what turned into a triumvirate of catharsis. sex fiend, exploding, and lady parts & mannequins ripped open the space, shaking us loose from safe emotions and pushing us into something raw, communal, and consuming. The room rolled like a tide of release, the band urging us to let go. That storm broke into lifesaver, mehro thanking everyone working the venue from security to the bar backs to the other employees before beginning. It was a song both tender and commanding, that encouraged us to be vulnerable and take risks while reminding us that we have a safe home if we ever need it.
The encore slowed things down. chance with you, reimagined with a dreamy ache, carried nostalgia and longing through the crowd before their final dedication of you’re so pretty. In a world of noise and division, the intimacy of those closing notes felt like an embrace.
After the show, the floor cleared but VIPs returned for a more personal meet-and-greet. Both Evie and mehro signed merch, posed for photos, and spoke earnestly with fans. mehro’s line was long not because of demand alone but because they lingered with each person, listening, connecting, seeing them.
With weirdthrob arriving on the day of this show, it is clear that mehro is only beginning to stretch into the career ahead of them. Their music speaks to those who feel unheard, unseen, and unloved. What makes them unique is not only that they hear them, but that they seem to love them too. In that packed underground room, we were not just an audience. We were a community, drawn together by one voice that made us all feel like we belonged.
Evie Irie:
mercedes benz
i’m not sorry
alter ego
twenty
laila
rebel
art of letting go
mehro:
dead internet
sepia tones
plastic tires
like you’re god
ketamine
not alone
pirate song
whore
dying in a dream
sewers
who are you
perfume
shouldn’t i give up
sex fiend
exploding
lady parts & mannequins
lifesaver
chance with you
you’re so pretty
