I was so in shock (in the best way) standing side-stage at The Masonic Lodge inside the Hollywood Forever Cemetery—tweaking my camera settings and then spotting Julien Baker walking past right in front of me, fast-footed, real as light. I had seen her live back in 2018 in Paris and this felt like full circle. Lucy Dacus was there too—and I remember her Paris show then, so this night already held layers before the first note even landed.

The space of the Masonic Lodge is itself a mood: gothic-meets-mid-century, theatrical with arches and atmosphere, but not a church—more like an old world hall that’s been reclaimed. On stage, jasmine.4.t appeared in a crocheted halter top, half red and half blue, matching her iconic half red and half blue dyed hair. From the first words she said, it was clear this was more than a show: "It means a lot to me that you’re here — especially with all the trans people shit happening right now."

Jasmine, the Manchester-based trans singer-songwriter signed to Saddest Factory Records and produced with the likes of Julien Baker, Lucy Dacus and Phoebe Bridgers, has built music that cracks open grief and folds it into survival.

Her set was slow, dragging in the most intentional way—like half-melted butter trying to escape the pan. The violin cut high notes into the air, harmonizing with her voice as she sang songs written during her transition, during times of PTSD, in her song "Highfield," where she just wanted to walk. It wasn't for pity, or drama, but for strength. 

And that violin—aching, ghostly—carried the same haunting timbre that runs through Phoebe Bridgers’ music, which makes perfect sense: Jasmine’s record was co-produced by Bridgers herself, and the influence feels like a shared frequency between pain and light.

There was a raw moment when she asked the crowd to sing with her: "Free, free… Palestine!" Then she spoke of her friend Julia, in prison, writing a song for her while they first met in Manchester. The crowd of queer folks and allies stirred, dancing, moving in rhythm, reclaiming power together. The guest on stage delivered a bleak-beautiful song about dissociating in a supermarket—yes, you heard that right.

Interlaced with serious weight were moments of levity: Jasmine sipped tea mid-set and joked, "What cheese is made backwards? Edam." A moment later she asked about camembert. The juxtaposition felt intentional—sadness and laughter holding hands.

Then came the moment: the Trans Chorus of Los Angeles emerged, voices filling the masonry hall like incense. One anthem turned rock-charged, drums exploding, guitars screaming—think indie-rock catharsis à la Arcade Fire—then cut to the choir singing a cappella. It was flawless.

The set closed with "Did U No," dedicated to Julia—now full-on rock. Jasmine stepped into the crowd, guitar in hand, belting solos, connecting body to body, voice to voice.

That night wasn’t just a show. It was sanctuary. It was protest. It was love. And it reminded everyone there: you matter. We matter. We’re here.

Thanks for the music!

— Lio