Design by Tyler Farmer.
In the face of AI, Chicago teens are making zines, cassettes, and throwing lawless shows.
May 20, 2026
BY Millan Verma
With this being the 21st century, it was quite bizarre to walk into a mildew-ridden room that looked like someone’s porn dungeon and find a gaggle of 20-somethings dressed like lounge lizards from the 1960s. After ascending the steep and creaky stairs of an unmarked building next to an African hair braiding salon, the first thing I noticed was two gentlemen in vintage suits and identical mustaches DJing garage rock on vinyl. Near them was a slender figure with a mop of jet black hair wearing a burgundy double breasted peacoat, flared trousers, and large round sunglasses covering his eyes. The venue was called NotNot, which was later described to me as a “fuck all” DIY space way out on Chicago’s west side. Well over one hundred bobbing heads had gathered for the first night of Fork Fest, a weekend-long benefit show for the organization Midwest Books for Prisoners.
Starcharm. Photo by Derrick Alexander.
Across from a heaping pile of coats, there were five or six tables loaded with zines, infographs, and art, then a cheap bar with a handwritten menu. The hazy, melancholic trio Starcharm was beginning their set, and what I assumed would be soft rock began to shake the flattened moving boxes that were for some reason taped all over the ceiling. Behind the stage, the words “LIBERATION FOR ALL” had been spraypainted in thick red lettering onto a hanging bedsheet. After each set, the perspiring crowd descended towards the street to smoke slim cigarettes. The band Artificial Go had come in from Cincinnati and sounded like the B-52s if The Count from Sesame Street was their lead singer. The main event was PARKiNG, a phenomenal Louisville trio that sounded like a mix of Public Image Ltd and Blur. Their front man was also the drummer, and performed with an intoxicating intensity. His neck veins popped out of his tight collar as he sang staccato verses and smacked his snare. There was an inescapable Wayne’s World feeling to the night, but the crowd seemed self-aware of that.
Following the guidance and reporting of longtime Chicago writer Leor Galil, I had biked out there in the freezing cold because it was where a young rock and roll scene—who were allegedly carrying the torch that bands like Wilco and Twin Peaks once held—would be congregating. In Galil’s November feature for the Chicago Reader, he broke down the anatomy and progression of what’s been dubbed the “Hallogallo” collective. The abridged version is that during COVID, local teenagers—by this I mean mostly 14, 15, and 16 year olds—formed fledgling rock bands that have since grown into internationally touring acts, and by proxy have made Hallogallo a sensation amongst the city’s young creative class. Similar to the Elephant 6 scene of Athens, GA in the ‘90s (of Montreal, Neutral Milk Hotel), musicians from all over the country have moved to Chicago to take part. The Mount Rushmore of Hallogallo, if you will, are Horsegirl, Lifeguard, Friko, and Post Office Winter. The three former have broken out in the indie rock world with signings to Matador (Horsegirl, Lifeguard) and ATO (Friko), and now, five years removed from when Hallogallo was a small network of friends playing wherever and whenever they could, these bands’ Chicago shows are viewed through the lens of a Homecoming rather than just another Saturday night. A second iteration of Hallgallo bands are beginning to break through, with acts like Sharp Pins, Free Range, and TV Buddha taking the mantle.
A rock scene forming in a city renowned for rock scenes is not particularly interesting. But what strikes me most about Hallogallo—even more than the music itself—is their collective effort to operate by way of analog technology, physical media, and an emphasis on grassroots organization. The creation of cassettes and zines may’ve been a given for any scene twenty years ago, but for a class of people practically raised with iPhones in their hands, the focused approach they’re taking to not be belayed by the whims of algorithms serves as a legitimate act of social revolt. It’s both a marvel and extremely telling that this scene has grown steadily over the past five years. To me, it signals an appetite for real things from a generation often thought of as too brainrotted to care, one that Hallgallo is sufficiently feeding.
Kai Slater and the Sharp Pins. Photo by Braeden Long.
The scene’s namesake comes from a series of zines started by Kai Slater, the nucleus of this whole movement, as he is in the bands Sharp Pins, Lifeguard, and Sex Gun. Launched in 2021, the Hallogallo zines feature short interviews with mostly local acts, some bizarre art and poetry submitted by friends, and a general pulse check of what’s going on amongst the “Chicago Youth Beat.” Much of it appears to be handdrawn, and the typewriter font is often smudged or crossed out. In an interview with Demo, Slater said that he doesn’t use any computers to make them because “it looks bad and it’s no fun,” preferring instead to produce them with his friend’s Risograph, a 200-pound digital screen printer that was popular when perms were. Come issue 9, Slater started a mail-order tape club that shipped out exclusive compilations and songs on cassette to those who joined.
Sharp Pins, who just finished opening for Snail Mail on their nation-wide tour, began as Slater’s solo project when his other band, Lifeguard, was beginning to take off. Compared to Lifeguard, who are pretty chaotic and gritty, as Sharp Pins, Slater writes songs that pull from late ‘60s British flower pop. The first thing I noticed when listening to their breakthrough record, Radio DDR, was the crackling undertow that gives each track a vintage sound that could trick many into thinking it was recorded during the Vietnam War. True to form, that’s because Slater recorded it all on a Tascam 688, an eight-track cassette recorder. A gut-instinct may be to label this revivalist rock, but many in the scene are quick to reject that claim.
Joe Glass, the bassist of Sharp Pins who released Snakewards, a more ‘80s-alternative inspired album under his own name this past January, told me over the phone that he doesn’t feel like there’s anything revive. Rock and roll never died, as he tells it. I argue that, until Mk.gee’s breakthrough in 2024, it felt like rap and country were the only things moving the needle, but Glass doesn’t agree. He cites black midi as a rock band important to the broader cultural zeitgeist during the early 2020s, and that right now, rock and roll is needed as much as ever. “The world’s gone through some pretty bleak times over the past five or ten years. It just feels like a really good time to be making energetic rock music without acting all withdrawn.”
A run of Snakewards cassettes were released via Slater’s Hallogallo cassette label, and sold out pretty quickly. Glass credits this to two things: Chicago being a generally “heady town” full of people who “genuinely care about music,” and because of how vapid algorithmic discovery can be. “The point we’re at in history, and the way we listen to music, is all pretty confusing. We have an endless algorithm, which makes it harder to connect to artists. You used to get vinyl, a big piece of art that represents the music, with liner notes and lyrics and pictures of the band. I feel like people crave a tactile connection with music. These physical pieces of music are a good way to connect to reality when we’re separated from it all the time.”
Listening to the Hallogallo bands, I find it hard to pinpoint a sonic through-line. Yes, it’s guitar music, and yes, it’s mostly rock, but the eras and styles they pull from widely vary. Horsegirl are a blend of shoegaze and bright post-punk—one part Mazzy Star, one part Veruca Salt; Free Range’s intimate folky ballads are closer to Kasey Musgraves than any guttural, moshpit-inducing act; and TV Buddha’s noisy experimentation is reminiscent of New York City’s art punk heyday. The best representation of what Hallogallo sounds like, and a sort-of sonic timeline of its progression, comes in RED XEROX: Chicago Youth Beat 2020-2025, a compilation record put together by Eli Schmitt complete with an accompanying 20-page biographic zine that details the bands, figures, and venues essential to Hallogallo’s history. Schmitt’s vision was to tell the story of a scene, using Side A as a representation of the founding bands, back when it was an insular network of upstarts (Horsegirl, Lifeguard, Friko, Post Office Winter, Dwaal Troupe), and Side B as its current iteration, after its explosion in popularity (Sharp Pins, Current Union™, TV Buddha, P. Noid, Amaya Peña, Free Range, Uniflora).
Eli Schmitt. Photo by Malcolm Ridoran.
Schmitt is a key drummer, designer, zine-maker, and organizer in the Hallgallo scene, having gotten involved in 2021 by playing Horsegirl on their student radio show for DePaul University. They began drumming for Post Office Winter, and now are in TV Buddha and Sex Gun. Schmitt also organized ForkFest, makes many of the fliers for local shows, and played a pivotal role in early design for the band Friko. Over coffee, I ask them why they’ve chosen to labor over extensive physical media projects and community building instead of scrolling on Instagram like the rest of us.
“The world of my phone is frustrating because it feels like we’re all trying to sell ourselves, our image, and our authenticity. And we’re mostly selling it to these tech companies for free. My friends and I talk all the time about how much we hate our phones. It’s a really intense hatred, but at the same time, we’re bound to it because social media is the most effective way to communicate as artists.”
But what about the need to grow an audience and pay rent? Isn’t the surefire way to do that by posting ten pieces of content a day?
“I’m not going to make TikToks and bastardize my work. I see that with some musicians who are trying really hard to sell themselves, and it makes me lose respect. I get it—you’ve got to make a living—but there are so many musicians with tons of monthly listeners who struggle to fill rooms. What really translates is human connection. That’s something you can’t fake…What matters most to me are people. Zines and vinyl are a physical way to show that I really care in a way that can’t be erased. We don’t own anything on the internet; we don’t own ourselves, we don’t own the things we make on there. They—the powers that be—can buy almost anything from us. The one sacred thing is the magic, or the soul, of the art we’re making. I see other people's zines, I see a packed concert, and I know that they could never touch that.”
They can try, though. I imagine a similar scene emerging in New York, and immediately think of the Topo Chico sponsorships, PR-blasts, and more rigid venue structure that would eventually muddle its purity. Perhaps Chicago itself—a central hub that maintains an old world feel—is to thank for allowing such a vibrant DIY scene to thrive in this age of ultra-commoditization. Henry Tartt, the frontman of the band Memorycard, moved to Chicago just over a year ago from a small town in Alabama. A lot of his creative friends he’d met online or by touring started to move there, and he credits this to four things: “What makes a good music scene? Cheap rent, good people, neurotoxins, and genuine freaks. Right now, I’d say Chicago has three of those. It does not have cheap rent.” I beg to differ, especially when compared to our country’s coastal options. Tartt later tells me his monthly bill, and reveals that he was recently able to pay it with Memorycard cassette sales. It is cheap indeed.
Photo by Braeden Long.
What about the Hallogallo acts that have gotten bigger than Chicago? Are they staying true to their anti-slop code now that streams are up, label money is in, and shows are packed? To answer this, I looked at Friko, who both the press and scene confidantes herald as Hallogallo’s commercial promise. Listening to their music, it’s clear why. They are a fantastic rock band. Their 2024 debut, Where we’ve been, Where we go from here is the type of visceral record that makes you long for memories you never had. Its follow up, Something Worth Waiting For, came out this past April. It’s more polished, with lavish arrangements that are a far cry from their DIY beginnings, but remains juiced with emotion all throughout. The easy comparison is to Bright Eyes, as front man Niko Kapteon has a penchant for Conor Oberst-isms when his pained voice sounds like he’s piss-drunk crawling up a marble staircase. But Friko’s music, I’d argue, is bigger; they’re an indie rock band with a cinematic sound that is more suited for stadiums than dingy clubs. They’re well on their way, as a 40-stop tour spanning from Asia, Europe, and the US will commence in late July. To promote their new record, though, they hit three small record stores in the midwest where they played free shows and signed vinyl. I drove up to Milwaukee to catch them at the final leg.
I got to Lilliput Records as they were finishing their soundcheck. We had about an hour before they were set to go on, so we headed to an empanada restaurant down the street. Friko is in an interesting place. As rising indie rockers, they’re currently sitting between local fame and being a bonafide success story. They have the resources to play free shows to promote their new record, but still scrutinize the menu prices of restaurants before deciding if they’ll eat there. Interviewing them in this short window, on their third night of traveling and playing back-to-back-to-back in different cities, felt like I was interrupting a factory worker’s lunch break more than interviewing famous musicians. They were perfectly nice, just tired and a bit delirious.
I wanted to wait until everyone had eaten before starting the interview because the energy was so low—Niko Kapeton said numerous times, “I feel so weird,” as he shirked into his seat—but Kapeton calculated the time we have and insisted we just get it out of the way, beginning by correctly stating that “this is a terrible place for an interview,” as music blasted and the clatter of plates panged all around. I mentioned how this is work, not just me interviewing them, but all of these duties and engagements they have as a band. “It is labor,” Kapeton said. “But,” guitarist Korgan Robb chimed in, “it is the best kind of labor.” He and Kapeton looked at each other and cheekily said in tandem: “A labor of love.”
I knew their backstory: Bailey Minzenberger, who drums, and Kapeton had started the band back in 2018, and they played early shows with Horsegirl, with Kapeton even recording and mixing their first songs. Being in their mid-to-late 20s, they’re the oldest of the Hallogallo scene, a half generation above their peers, and a half generation below their city’s previous indie vanguard led by the bands Whitney and Twin Peaks. All I really wanted to know was why they, as a rising musical act in 2026, are driving a van full of gear to independent record shops in Minneapolis, Madison, and Milwaukee instead of sitting at home and making Instagram Reels. Their bassist, David Fuller, who was by far the most chipper of the bunch, answered by tensing his neck, speaking firmly and slowly, and looking deep into my eyes as if this question would’ve made him mad if he didn’t think I was such an idiot.
“Well, we’re a band. The most important part of being a band is reminding people of that. I don’t think that any of us have the desire to exist as internet personalities. It’s important to do what the bands did before us. It worked for a reason—focusing on the music—and record stores are the epitome of that.”
Fuller isn’t alone in that belief. After chatting some more and expressing my anguish about the Atlanta Hawks’ ongoing 51-point-loss to the Knicks, we walked back to Lilliput Records. Around 80 people were crowding the thin stage, and a few minutes later Friko began a seven-ish song set. Any sign of fatigue left Niko Kapeton the minute he started singing. He closed his eyes and jerked his body around as if he were possessed. Robb let his guitar hang low and thrashed the strings. They’re used to playing venues with five to ten times the amount of people, and used to actually getting paid for these performances, but still, after expending themselves physically for a three-day mini-tour they did not need to do, they put on a good, impassioned show.
This may all seem perfectly normal—here we have a rock scene doing exactly what a rock scene should do. But the reality is that without Hallogallo’s conscientious effort to sidestep the allure of the algorithm and instead conduct themselves in a way that prioritizes people and the tangible documentation of their art, what was once thought of as the natural way to do things would be one step closer to becoming obsolete. I have to imagine that in the face of AI and the dozens of purposely addictive apps we’re faced with everyday, there are other cohorts taking a similarly defiant approach. If you want to find them, you’ll probably have to get off your phone.
Photo by Averi Little.