Photo by Millan Verma
Inside EsDeeKid’s first U.S. show.
February 5, 2026
BY Millan Verma
The algorithm, TikTok warlocks and all, anointed EsDeeKid. On Tuesday night, America welcomed him.
Down a deep alley around the corner of Avondale Music Hall, a black SUV sat stationary with its lights on. The car was full, the windows were tinted, and a security team created space between it and 35 or so fans who were lingering after the show. Eventually, a man came out to the crowd, grabbed as many shirts, phones, and photos as he could hold, carried them back to the car to be autographed, then dispersed the items to their rightful owners. He made three trips. It was an efficient and gracious process with one non-negotiable rule: the masked rapper signing these will not be making an appearance.
A “moment” in life, in culture, is a cyclical, yet erratic thing. There are two others of this ilk that I’ve experienced: Juice WRLD’s first tour at the Masquerade in Atlanta, and Yeat’s 2023 show at Terminal 5 in New York. Both said, in no uncertain terms, “Things have changed, and now this is the way things are.” This sentiment knocked me over the head at EsDeeKid’s Chicago show, where a new generation was in full bloom.
EsDeeKid is young; presumably 19 or 20 based on Reddit rumors and the chatter I heard in the audience. He is the comet of an astute crop of UK artists like fakemink, Fimiguerro, Jim Legxacy, Rico Ace, SINN6R, kwes e, dexterinthenewsagent, Len, Feng, and probably a dozen others who’ve been boosted by the tailwinds of what has become the most enthralling strain of music over the past two years. But to primarily characterize EsDee among this faction of London-based rappers is to misunderstand the core of his sound. He is from Liverpool, a working class port city 200 miles north of England’s capital with a legitimate history of rap. Locals of Liverpool tend to identify as “Scousers,” a moniker derived from a poor man’s stew often eaten by sailors, over “British.” They have a distinct local dialect and a frothing accent that is barely decipherable to the American ear. As such, EsDee’s music should be looked at through the lens of regional rap going global, rather than UK rap going transatlantic. This context is best viewed through other Liverpool rappers like Kasst8, Mazza L20, Young LS, and a pillar of the prior generation, Aystar.
These local peers lean more towards a traditional grime sound than the sharp and blistering post-rage, xaviersobased-indebted production favored by EsDee and in London. After an initial spark from the underground success of “LV Sandals” featuring fakemink and Rico Ace, his sole tape, Rebel, came out in June 2025. Tracks like “Phantom” and “4 Raws” grew gradually and then dramatically, with the former becoming inescapable on TikTok through sports edits and the latter reaching its apex in December when Timothee Chalamet–who tabloids suggested was EsDeeKid–remixed it as the cherry on top of his Marty Supreme press tour.
EsDee’s curated image of a scallawag donning all black and covering his face with a balaclava sets off alarm bells for a lot of rap fans. Here is another white guy trying to sidestep the importance of place and background. I immediately think of Yeat, whose manicured attempt at mystery early in his career (also by wearing a balaclava) ultimately rang hollow, as if leaving vital questions unanswered would overpower the need for grounding. There is something more pointed about EsDee’s approach, though. Where Yeat is a creative stylist whose innovations to the genre’s form negated the need for gimmick, it seems to me that EsDeeKid is a genuinely bad ass kid who leaves no doubt about who he is or where he’s from in his music. And being strapped to this rocket ship at such a young age, it’s probably a wise move to stay away from the noise for the time being.
In a six-month span, EsDeeKid signed an alleged ten-figure deal, and is currently sitting at over 22 million monthly listeners on Spotify. The algorithm, TikTok warlocks and all, anointed EsDeeKid. On Tuesday night, America welcomed him.
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Jordan Esparza
In a move that strips the music writer of their sole societal benefit—being able to skip lines and look down upon the sweat-drenched seaboards of a venue—there were no press tickets available for this show. From the ivory tower of “the guest listed,” it served foremost as a major inconvenience, yet ended up being a welcomed reality check. Armchair industry analysts may view this move as an attempt to “build mystique around the young rapper’s brooding image,” but I choose to believe that this is a mandate from EsDeeKid himself in the name of egalitarianism. His home city has a storied history of economic neglect from the central government—most notably involving Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s—where free market reforms and budget cuts left Liverpool’s blue collar industries to wither. It only makes sense that EsDeeKid would approach music industry politics in favor of the common man. I will say that, after knocking on every insider’s door I could and being told no, the buying experience of the average ticker holder is in dire need of reform.
I paid 194 real US dollars to attend the EsDeeKid show in Chicago. The original price was $33.50, so the seller took home 300% profit, and StubHub ate the rest out of my bone dry hand. No press tickets also meant no photo passes, so I showed up 50 minutes before doors opened in hopes of getting a usable iPhone shot for this article. At 6:10 p.m., there were 100 people lined up on the sidewalk ahead of me. It was an 18-degree Tuesday evening and everything was grey, even the snow. We were all shivering, jumping in place to stay warm, and wearing layers that were just cool enough so we wouldn’t faint inside, and just warm enough to avoid frostbite while waiting. A pair of girls behind me had driven two hours from Notre Dame’s campus in Indiana, where they had class the next morning. A wired man with unruly auburn hair patrolled the line with a camera and microphone, looking for pre-show interviews. His name is Garrett, and he covers the local Chicago scene on his page MIHGBO, making a two-hour drive from the ‘burbs at least once a week. I asked him why he decided to make the trip tonight. “This is historic,” he told me, “It’s his first time coming to the United States. There’s no way I wouldn’t have been here.” Garrett, like every other person I talked to, found EsDeeKid on TikTok.
As we entered the venue, the line stretched further back than I could see. Inside, the crowd was a mix of goths, hypebeasts, and people dressed as EsDee himself. The median age range was 17-20 years old. Like the sun’s crest lowering beneath the rearview mirror, the twilight of my youth has faded. I was assured of this by a punk kid who bullied me for being 26. I heard him dig into Charlie, a music head I’d just met who is 27, so I was prepared for combat. The little shit told me I looked 42 and asked if I was “running a two-man” with the other old guy, and I said what is a two-man. The conversation ended with me lecturing him about the dangers of drinking while on Xanax. As a consolation, it did give me the motivation to light the spliff in my pocket and share it only with Charlie. The bully was amazed that I had been able to “sneak” this item in, and I retorted by explaining that he should wrap his spliffs in plastic so the crumbs don’t dirty his pockets.
Banter like this went on for two hours while we waited. A highschooler next to me, Q, had come solo, and it was his first legit concert. He was one of many who scrolled on TikTok and Reels while we waited for the DJ. The dark room was lit up with videos of cats and babies and Luka Doncic highlights, making for a very disorienting leg-locked experience, as the hum of Monaleo’s “Putting Ya Dine” and the beginnings of extreme perspiration were accented by inescapable brainrot. Around 8:50 p.m., a DJ, who I believe is also EsDee’s manager and the gentleman who later carried merch to the car, turned the music up and played “Toxic” by Playboi Carti and Skepta. Immediately I felt a bonecrushing constriction as the crowd began to surge. The hook rang true; the moshpit was indeed toxic. I could not get images of the Astroworld Tragedy out of my head, so I swam away from the stage until I was dumped into the actual moshpit. There was plenty of room in there! The next song, which I don’t remember ever moshing to in 2016, was “Black Beatles” by Rae Sremmurd featuring Gucci Mane. The crowd knew most words but died out during Gucci’s verse. It was funny to see that this one’s been passed down. EsDee’s remix must’ve played a role.
Finally, EsDeeKid came out to “Phantom” with black and white pirate iconography projected behind him. The crowd was intense and elated, but not aggressive. Jumping, screaming, involuntary changes of direction, a barrage of bodies conjoined as the Scouser belted his song’s surprisingly level-headed chorus: “I’m all about me passion / Music, money, and fashion / Drugs and girls come later / In the end it’s all a distraction.”
The actual performance is what you would expect from a firebrand upstart: a few verses word for word, loud on the hooks, then dying out towards the end of each track. The eerie, pulsating production helmed by Wraith9 translated extremely well live. EsDee seldom spoke to the crowd, but his boyish excitement shined through when he announced that it was his first ever U.S.A. show. “4 Raws” elicited a huge response, and “Prague,” where he invokes early morning church bells to suggest how hard he is partying and—in a barbaric colloquialism for doing cocaine—says that he is “sniffing shards,” kept the energy rising.
EsDee only has one project and a handful of loosies in his discography (though I imagine a wealth of tracks were scrubbed from the internet when he began to blow up), so at times the set did feel redundant. The line between cohesion and repetition is thin–the beats for “LV Sandals” and “Mist” (both by Wraith9) are nearly identical, and they’re both good songs, but in a live setting one can take power away from the other. Nobody seemed to care about this other than me, the old man.
In another breathtaking act of egalitarianism, EsDeeKid had Rico Ace, who was billed as the opener, go on in the middle of his set while the crowd was piping hot. Rico did a few solo tracks, with “Gettin’ It In” as the highlight, and when EsDee came back out for “Cali Man,” the atmosphere reached a new high. The two swapped verses on what I foresee becoming a canonical song between a duo with chemistry in a similar vein as Carti and Uzi or Peep and Tracy.
He performed just about every song available on streaming. “Palaces,” an early, more technical cut with Rico Ace; “Apathy,” a meek homage to Yung Lean; “Rotweiller,” an earth-shaking minute thirty that puts the power of his inordinate accent on full display; and “Panic,” a ballistically tense breakdown featuring a quatrain on the back end that makes me think he could be an enduringly significant artist.
The show ended and the crowd, sweaty and smiling, dispersed. People were riding a high; the music did that thing where it conjures a dream. Garrett was posted outside with his microphone and camera ready to go. Some took the mic and screamed praises of EsDee and the city of Chicago, others looked down and twiddled their thumbs. Garrett kept the train rolling, pushing peace and positivity all the way through. I shadowed him for a bit, told him it’s very heartwarming to see good-natured journalism continue in this new form, and asked if he was inspired by Andrew Callaghan of Channel 5 and All Gas No Brakes fame, who pioneered and popularized the on-the-street technique of interviewing Garrett had been doing dedicatedly for over a year. “Nah, I haven’t actually ever watched him, but a few people have told me to check him out.” He later cited Hyperpop Daily as an influence.
Q was alone, leaning on the brick wall with stars in his eyes. I asked what he thought of the show. “Bro, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe that just happened.” He was gushing, as if already planning on how he’d calcify disbelief within his friends in class tomorrow. “I knew I couldn’t miss this,” he continued, “I would’ve walked here if I had to.” I introduced him to Garrett, who gave Q the mic. Q pointed to the camera and preached the gospel of Rebel. The two dapped up over their shared love of these bizarre sounds.
It’s clear that this world is not mine anymore, but it certainly looks familiar.
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Millan Verma
Photo by Millan Verma