this tour was the coolest experience of my life. these boys are the best most talented people on earth. please make me famous so I can do this all the time 🙏 thank you thank you thank you
the past week with these boys has been pure magic. come see what I mean tonight — last show of tour at @gallery5arts ! music starts/history will be made at 8pm sharp. trust me — you wanna be there.
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📸 @josepharder
TOMORROW! Local dream bill. 😍 Deau Eyes, June Baby, & Chloë Ester with Valentin Prince. @deau_eyes@junebaby_music@chloeester@chiseled_glutes
📍Charlottesville, VA | The Southern
🗓️ Friday, May 1
🚪Café 6PM | Venue 6:30PM | Show 7PM
🔗 Tickets in bio
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Deau Eyes is a storyteller at heart, finding deep connection through songwriting, music, and performance. A firm believer in collaboration, she surrounds herself with a rotating band of artists, always serving the song and elevating the moment.
June Baby blends catchy hooks, complex melodies, and vocal agility into indie pop that hits different. Honest songs with heart, shaped by a love for storytelling and sound. New EP coming soon—this is pop with depth, and June Baby is just getting started.
Charlottesville native singer-songwriter Chloë Ester pours herself entirely into each of her distinctively devastating songs informed by indie, emo, punk, electronica, and pop influences. She delivers crushingly vulnerable lyrics with a clear, magnetic voice and blistering directness, obsessing over fear, trauma, love, and its absence in the charmingly sarcastic and self-deprecating manner that has earned her the moniker ‘Melanchloë’ in the local music scene.
Push/Pull is OUT ‼️ ok so what are you doing?! go rock out to it right now like a good little fan!!
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Chloë Ester — composition, production, vocals, guitar
Joseph Harder — production, drums, pedal steel, guitar, bass, cover photo
Valentin Prince — engineering, guitar
Taylor Bess — mixing
Danny Gibney — mastering
Lately I’ve been dreaming about you almost every night. Some are inconsequential, some are violent, some are strange and amorphous, but in all of them I know you’re dead and that I’m powerless to change that. In this dream world you’ve slumped over suddenly, leaden in my arms; I’ve done CPR on you over and over, coughing up sobs and trying not to look at your bluing face; you’ve been mad at me, confused about where you are and why I’m there; we’ve made plans to get you well again, even though I’m inescapably aware that you’ll go back to being dead when I wake up. I’m not sleeping well, not taking to the spring like I usually do. I hate this year, hate that it now rotates around August 11, how every new day and experience freshly slaps your absence across my face like icy water. The crocuses pushing their way towards the sun, the stink bugs invading my kitchen, the breeze through the now-open windows ruffling the curtains we made together, the photos of budding trees I can’t send to you. They hurt. Everything hurts. I don’t find it cathartic, or beautiful, or poetic to be reminded of you and to not be able to tell you. To turn 29 and not have another gigantic pop-up birthday card from you. To have fallen in love with someone you barely knew. To have these dreams and wonder what meaning you would pull from them, what follow-up questions you would ask. I miss your voice, your laugh, your chair on the porch, your plants in the garden. How you called me “honey beetle” and expressed disproportionate concern about flash floods, convinced I’d be swept away on my 2 mile bike commute every time it rained. Your warm brown eyes and their crinkled edges. Your insistence on the difference a warm hat could make – but only if it were made from natural fibers, obviously. Your sapphire ring. You, holding us all together.
