It’s been years since I last saw King Princess — 2019, a small Paris venue, back when “1950” had just reshaped her life overnight. That show felt intimate, almost fragile. Last night at The Wiltern, stepping into the photo pit instead of the crowd, I felt the weight of that distance: she’s grown, weathered, sharpened. And yet, the emotional core that first pulled people to her remains completely intact.
The night began with Spill Tab, whose rising fame is tied to her sly, understated charisma. She walked onstage with a calmness that made the room lean in, then detonated her set with tight, electro-driven arrangements and frenetic instrumental bursts. Her voice floated above the chaos, and the switch to French during one track felt like an inside door suddenly opening. There’s a composure to Spill Tab that is almost disarming; she barely needs to move to command a space. It’s sex appeal by way of stillness, restraint, and total confidence. TheWilterncrowd, still settling in, seemed caught between observing and surrendering to her set — but the ones who understood, really did.
King Princess — Mikaela Straus, Brooklyn-born, raised on queer rock mythology, and now touring behind her evolving body of work — entered like someone who knows exactly what room she’s in. The Wiltern crowd skewed heavily queer, heavily lesbian, heavily in love with her. Couples everywhere. Denim, eyeliner, mullets, glitter. It felt less like a concert and more like a family coming back together.
King Princess played into the crowd’s energy with a kind of irreverent precision. Early on, she teased her drummer — “Antoine [Fadavi] wants something from us” — prompting the room to shout “PUSSY!” on cue. She volleyed the joke right back: “He has pussy. But only if he wants to.” What started as a bit turned into a running chant, which she eventually weaponized for theater: the stage dropped into darkness, her voice echoed across the Wiltern — “And you know… pussy is coming for you” — and then the opening of “Pussy Is God” hit. It was one of the night’s sharpest comedic pivots, and a reminder of how agile she is at shaping audience chaos into performance.
Throughout the set, she kept gauging the room in the same wry, conspiratorial tone. “LA, scream if you like pussy,” she called out. “Any lesbians here tonight? Terminal-stage lesbians?” The response was immediate and overwhelming — less like cheering for a pop star and more like a community answering one of its own. King Princess wasn’t just interacting; she was calibrating the atmosphere, tuning the space to match the identity of the people in it.
There’s something effortless about the way she moves — playful, teasing, occasionally vampy, but never forced. She wore her own merch, a cropped white tank that somehow made the whole show feel more stripped down, more lived-in than stylized. At one point, she said, “The band had to learn three records, so to make it easier… we brought a huge dice.” And then threw a giant foam die to pick the next song — chaos as setlist curation.
But beneath the humor, the coolness, the sexual bravado, there was something heavier. A softness around the eyes. A sadness, or maybe a fatigue, that never dulled her performance but gave it an emotional grain. She spoke candidly about how touring steadies her: “When I’m not touring, I’m not really okay… You all keep me going.” LA was home for seven years; returning to it meant something.
It felt like she was letting us see the version of her that exists offstage too — the one shaped by early fame, by the weight of “1950,” by the wish that she could have navigated those years differently. That wisdom came through in her acoustic segment, where she dedicated songs to the lesbians in the crowd, played fully unplugged, and let the room hush itself. Her voice — rich, textured, increasingly nuanced since her debut — hit harder in stripped form.
Seeing her now, years after that Paris show when everything still felt new and combustible, was strangely grounding. She’s older, steadier, funnier, more honest. Less glittery pop-star mythology, more lived-in queer rock icon. And the crowd mirrored that evolution: not screaming teenagers, but partners, friends, exes, long-term fans who’ve grown alongside her.
King Princess didn’t just perform at The Wiltern. She made it laugh, scream, blush, reflect — and she let herself be witnessed too. A sexy, hilarious, emotionally sincere communion between an artist and the community that built her.
