BLONDSHELL - BOSTON, 6.19.2025
Photos By Alex Cole
Blondshell Ignites Boston’s Royale with Raw Intensity and Intimate Rage
In a time where alt-rock is often polished beyond recognition, Blondshell brought something thrillingly unfiltered to her sold-out show at Boston’s Royale: honest noise, aching lyrics, and a voice that knows exactly how to crack without breaking.
Performing under moody blue stage lights, 28 year old New York native Sabrina Teitelbaum—the artist behind the Blondshell moniker—delivered a performance that blurred the line between concert and exorcism. It was loud, tender, and deeply personal. And if you were lucky enough to be there, you know it wasn’t just a gig. It was a release.
From Burnout to Breakthrough
Opening with the emotionally bruising “23’s A Baby,” Teitelbaum wasted no time diving into the murky depths of arrested development and identity. Her band was air-tight but never sterile, matching her energy beat-for-beat, distortion-for-distortion. “Toy” and “Docket” followed, guitars snarling under lyrics that felt pulled straight from a therapy journal—blunt, beautiful, and absolutely unafraid.
The first major eruption came with “Sepsis,” when the entire venue shouted “I think I believe in getting saved!” back at her like a mantra. And in that moment, everyone in the room did believe in something—even if it was just the healing power of singing along to your own pain.
New Songs, Same Depth
Mid-set, Blondshell offered up the unreleased “Berlin TV Tower”—a dark, spiraling track laced with voyeurism, emotional surveillance, and probably a broken iPhone screen. It was haunting, and a reminder that her next chapter might be even more lyrically potent than her last.
Closing in Flames, Not Whispers
She saved the emotional gut-punches for the end. “Olympus” was delivered with aching restraint, while “Arms” and “Kiss City” doubled down on brutal honesty. By the time she reached “Event of a Fire,” Teitelbaum was screaming through the noise with surgical clarity, her voice shredding in the best way possible.
The finale, “Salad,” slowed everything down yet sped everything up—a kick ass band behind her, the house lights low, and her voice nearly breaking. It wasn’t just a closer. It was a surrender.
Verdict: A Star on Her Own Terms
Blondshell didn’t just play Boston. She leveled it. Her voice is a blade, her lyrics a bruise, and her stage presence somewhere between riot grrrl and reformed romantic. In a generation drowning in curated cool, Blondshell is blisteringly, gloriously real.
And Royale? It’ll be humming with her echoes for weeks.
