Brace yourselves, cultural consciousness—because Wet Leg is back, slicker, stranger, and steamier than ever. The indie darlings of the Isle of Wight are lathering up the continent in their delightfully unhinged brand of absurd pop seduction with the tour wickedly and unapologetically named: Moistourizer. Yes, you read that correctly. Call your therapist and cancel your dry cleaning—because you’re about to get emotionally soaked.
Now, before the Puritans clutch their pearls and the algorithm censors slather on their digital shame, let’s get one thing straight: Wet Leg isn’t here to follow the formula—they’re here to drown it. With 19 stops across North America this fall, their Moistourizer tour is set to disrupt every expectation stale-indie rock pedigree has ever taught you. Siri, define “auditory exfoliation.”
This isn’t just a tour—it’s a cultural baptism, and the second coming (literally) of Wet Leg’s wonderfully warped universe. Their sophomore album—title still under wraps but guaranteed to be more twisted than a French arthouse flick on acid—promises to expand their trademark sonic surrealism into something transcendently tactile. Think: lo-fi hedonism bathed in surrealist angst, served with a side of deadpan feminism and fermented TikTok nihilism. It’s punk for the post-ironic soul—abrasive, beguiling, and, dare I say, moist.
Let’s not forget: Wet Leg is the band that conquered the world with a lawn chair, a dead-eyed stare, and the most hypnotic sing-song British sarcasm since Lady Di told the royal family to get bent—politely, of course. “Chaise Longue” was not just a debut single, it was a siren call for every post-lockdown misfit who realized the revolution would be danced to in Doc Martens and smirked sarcasm. Now they rise again, soaked in the serum of sophomore audacity with a tour name so camp it could pitch a tent at Glasto.
The 19-stop journey starts in September—a month already cursed with seasonal depression but now blessed by absurdist salvation. Expect DIY visuals dipped in dystopian glitter, lyrics that walk the line between therapy sessions and meme culture, and stage fashion that makes you question if you should quit your job and start a queer hair salon in Berlin. This isn’t just a show—it’s divine derangement set to sixteenth notes.
Do not enter Moistourizer expecting the Wet Leg of yesterday. This isn’t just the next era—it’s a Big Bang in mini skirts. Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers have matured, mutated even. The girlish giggles remain, but now they echo over deeper grooves, sharper satire, and lyrics that bite like a Sofia Coppola rewrite of Clockwork Orange. It’s weird. It’s wonderful. It’s Wet Leg. And it’s wet AF.
So, North America—get ready to get lathered. Moistourizer isn’t just a tour, it’s a state of mind. Shed your seriousness, exfoliate your exes, and surrender your soul to the beautifully bizarre gospel of Wet Leg. Because if culture must collapse—and darling, it must—let it be under a tidal wave of weirdness wearing fishnets and shrieking through a distortion pedal.
Let the Moistourizing begin.
– Mr. KanHey
