It was Tuesday, September 23, 2025 at the legendary Roxy Theatre on Sunset Blvd in West Hollywood, and the night had that undeniable buzz that only happens when a crowd knows they’re about to witness something unhinged in the best possible way. The audience was young, charged, and balanced; a good mix of people, but it was the women who owned the pit. They slammed, laughed, picked each other up, and set the tone for the night; wild but communal. The lineup was a dream pairing for anyone who still believes live music should leave a bruise: KennyHoopla and Soft Play, two acts with nothing to prove but everything to burn.
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KennyHoopla took the stage like a live wire, feeding on the room’s pulse from the first note. He was restless and genuine, bounding from one end of the stage to the other, never still long enough to cool down. His set felt like sprinting through an emotional minefield: loud, tender, and kinetic. Some of the tracks in the mix included “how will i rest in peace if i’m buried by a highway?”, “ESTELLA”, “hollywood sucks”, and “monalisa, we miss you.” He even dove into the crowd halfway through, floating on a sea of hands, a grin plastered across his face. By the time his set ended, the room wasn’t just warmed up; it was on fire.
Then came Soft Play. The moment they hit the stage, the entire atmosphere shifted from excitement to frenzy. The pit expanded like a heartbeat, every shove and swing a pulse of collective release. I found myself right in the middle of it, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, when I stopped paying attention for a second. Out of nowhere, the singer locked eyes with me and shouted, “fuck off!” I can’t remember the last time I was told to fuck off by a band during their set, but it felt oddly grounding; a reminder that punk shows are participatory chaos. You’re not an observer, you’re in the storm with them.
Soft Play’s set was a masterclass in balancing past and present. They tore through older Slaves-era cuts and newer material without hesitation, the two worlds meshing together into one relentless assault. There was a weight behind their sound, still punk and still aggressive, but sharper and more self-aware. The singer wore a black “Make America Gay Again” hat with rainbow lettering, and on that Sunset Blvd stage, under the lights of West Hollywood, it wasn’t just a fashion statement; it was defiance, humor, and inclusivity all stitched together. It was perfect. The crowd roared their approval, a sea of raised hands and knowing smiles. In a neighborhood that’s seen every kind of rebellion, this one felt refreshingly sincere.
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The Roxy was the ideal setting for this kind of night. Small enough to feel intimate, loud enough to make your ribcage rattle. You can still sense the ghosts in the walls; acts that came before leaving their energy trapped in the air, mixing with the sweat and noise of every new generation. The sound wasn’t perfect, the low end swallowed the vocals in a few corners, but that imperfection only made it feel more real. The crowd didn’t seem to care anyway. They screamed every lyric like they were part of the band.
Seeing Soft Play now, I couldn’t help but think back to when I first caught them years ago, back when they were still called Slaves, playing Punk Rock Bowling in Las Vegas. I was coming off a three-day bender back then, running on fumes and bad decisions. That set was chaos incarnate: fuzzy memories, distorted noise, and an overwhelming sense of being alive. Fast forward to now, and they’ve evolved without losing that core energy. They’re still dirty, still feral, but there’s intention behind the madness. It’s punk that’s grown up but never sold out.
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I’ll let memory fill in the blanks, because details fade but sensations stick. What I remember is the sweat dripping down my neck, the bass shaking through my chest, the crowd screaming until voices cracked. I remember the moment I got told to fuck off, and how weirdly grateful I felt for it. That’s what punk does. It confronts you, humbles you, and reminds you you’re alive.
If you walked out of The Roxy that night untouched, you were standing too far back. This wasn’t a show to watch—it was one to survive. KennyHoopla cracked the night open; Soft Play finished the job. And somewhere in between, West Hollywood got a little louder, a little freer, and a whole lot gayer.
Words and Photos by Taylor Wong
