Bishop Briggs — the Newport Music Hall
In a city known for its indie grit and unpretentious musical appetite, Bishop Briggs turned Newport Music Hall into her cathedral on March 23. With a setlist that spanned from aching vulnerability to fierce resolve, she delivered a performance that felt both intimate and unrelenting—less a concert than a cathartic ceremony shared between artist and audience.
Opening with “My Serotonin,” Briggs immediately drew the crowd into her emotional topology, balancing stark self-awareness with pounding percussion and soaring vocals. It was a shrewd choice—less a warm-up than a full immersion. Her voice, textured like torn velvet, shifted between tremor and thunder, always with precision but never at the expense of rawness.
“I’m Not a Machine” and “Wild Horses” followed in quick succession, a one-two punch of mechanical angst and haunted longing. These early moments set the tone for the night: songs not just performed but exorcised. There’s a certain tension in Briggs’ live delivery, a refusal to let her pain settle into anything too digestible. Even when she softens—like on “Hurt Me Now” or the heart-wrung “Be Your Love”—she never indulges sentimentality. She confronts it.
Midway through the set, “Champion” and “Art of Survival” surged like battle cries, galvanizing the audience into a sea of raised arms and unfiltered roars. And yet, she didn’t allow the energy to plateau. “Dark Side” dipped into brooding introspection, and “Hallowed Ground” found her treating spiritual metaphor with the same visceral commitment as her declarations of heartbreak and defiance.
There’s something especially captivating about Briggs’ ability to pivot from deeply personal to universally resonant without losing coherence. Tracks like “Growing Pains” and “Isolated Love” were steeped in millennial malaise—fractured identity, quiet desperation—but never felt derivative. She performed them not like a spokesperson, but like someone still figuring it out alongside us.
The latter part of the show was nothing short of commanding. “Lightning” and “Undone” showcased her rhythmic dynamism, her body moving like punctuation to each drum hit and synth ripple. With “Mona Lisa on a Mattress,” she allowed some wryness to surface, a reminder that wit and depth are not mutually exclusive.
“Revolution” was the show’s turning point—a moment of communal ignition that felt earned, not choreographed. It bled seamlessly into “Woman Is King,” a thunderous anthem that brought down any lingering walls between performer and listener. And then came “River,” that indelible closer, still as primal and devastating as when it first appeared in her canon. Live, it felt less like a greatest hit than a final confession.
Briggs didn’t just sing at Newport—she summoned something. What emerged over the course of the evening wasn’t just a showcase of talent, but a portrait of survival, rendered in high contrast. In a time when authenticity often feels like performance, she reminded us what it means to mean every word.
BISHOP BRIGGS
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Harry Acosta is a professional photographer who started out shooting concerts. He is an avid concertgoer and loves to capture his favorite musicians and unseen moments we take for granted in everyday life.
