In today’s hyperactive rock landscape, where bands proliferate like wildflowers only to wilt just as quickly, where new acts are far too often either hailed as messiahs or dismissed as industry plants, Brooklyn’s Geese are a curious anomaly.
They are neither saviours nor charlatans; they are simply very good, and getting better with astonishing rapidity.
Their latest album, Getting Killed, has critics in raptures. An 89 on Metacritic is nothing to scoff at. The album is being called everything from “an instant classic” to “one of the most creative indie rock records of the 2020s”. These are dangerous accolades for a band whose members are barely into their 20s. This could either propel them into the stratosphere or crush them under the weight of impossible expectation.
But let us pause here for a necessary clarification: We are discussing Geese, the Brooklyn art-rock quartet, not Goose, the Connecticut-based jam band currently setting the improvisational circuit ablaze. The confusion is understandable — both are named after waterfowl, both traffic in a certain musical adventurousness. But where Goose deal in sprawling, Phish-indebted explorations that can easily stretch past 20 minutes each, Geese operate in tighter, more volatile bursts. They are less interested in the meditative qualities of the jam and more concerned with controlled chaos, with songs that feel like they might fall apart at any moment but never do.
Cameron Winter, the band’s 23-year-old frontman, is undeniably the gravitational centre of the operation. His voice, which has been compared to that of Radiohead’s Thom Yorke, The Fall’s Mark E Smith and Joy Division’s Ian Curtis, among others, is divisive. Some find it grating and affected. But this misses the point entirely. Winter’s vocal contortions aren’t affectations; they’re conscious choices. Each yelp, falsetto leap and stentorian growl serves to build up the song’s internal logic.
His solo album, Heavy Metal (2024) only heightened his profile. It was folksier, less noisy, more introspective, and a showcase for his songwriting, stripped of the band’s controlled pandemonium. Critics loved it. Nick Cave loved it. It prepared the ground for Getting Killed, which feels like Winter returning to Geese with renewed confidence and a willingness to push even harder against the boundaries of what the band can be.
The trajectory is familiar if you know your rock history. High-school friends form a group. (Cameron was 14 when Geese came together in 2012). They record in a basement; self-release their first album; then, after being signed by an independent label, release albums of growing ambition.
Comparisons with other, storied New York bands such as The Velvet Underground, Television and The Strokes are inevitable, given Geese’s Brooklyn pedigree. But this group have already evolved beyond mere homage.
Their label debut, Projector (2021) was promising but uneven — the work of talented teenagers still finding their feet. 3D Country (2023) saw them embrace Americana and psychedelia with surprising maturity. Now, Getting Killed synthesises everything they’ve learned into something quite distinctive; some would say unique even.
The album opens with Trinidad, a nightmarish declaration featuring the memorable refrain “There’s a bomb in my car”, a line that became a meme after Winter leaked the track on Instagram. The album is a visceral, immediate statement that (precociously perhaps) announces high ambition. The chaos never quite resolves; instead, it builds and mutates across 11 tracks that feature post-punk, jazz-rock, no wave and even Beach Boys-style melodies. Producer Kenny Beats, known primarily for his work on hip-hop albums, helped emphasise the rhythm section, giving the album a relentless, propulsive energy.
But here’s the uncomfortable question: Can they sustain this? The music industry is littered with bands who peaked early. Geese have already lost a founding member (guitarist Foster Hudson left in 2023 to pursue academics). The quartet that remains seem unfazed, but can they keep from imploding?
Their live shows are reportedly extraordinary: manic, loose and unpredictable. Videos from their recent shows at the Brooklyn Paramount in New York and their pop-up performance after Getting Killed’s release have circulated widely. Their hardcore young fans can be seen crowd-surfing even when the band is playing one of their slower ballads. That says something.
Some critics have called them harbingers of guitar-rock’s comeback. Others have compared them to Nirvana or, at least, a version of that legendary band for today’s Gen Z. That could be both thrilling and terrifying. Nirvana changed everything, yes, but at what cost? The burden of being a generation’s voice is not one to be borne lightly.
Where does this leave us? Geese are undeniably talented. They are prolific (four studio albums in seven years, plus Winter’s solo work). They are critically acclaimed and have quickly built a fervent cult following. Their shows sell out quickly. They seem to be doing everything right.
But rock music in 2025 is not the cultural force it was in 1991, or even 2001. The pathways to mainstream success are murkier and more fragmented. This could very well be the defining rock band of its generation, and still never achieve the kind of ubiquity their predecessors took for granted.
Perhaps that’s fine. Perhaps Geese don’t need to “save rock and roll”. Perhaps they simply need to keep making interesting music, pushing against their own boundaries, and surprising us.
Just don’t confuse them with Goose. That would be embarrassing for everyone involved.
(Reach out with feedback to sanjoy.narayan@gmail.com.The views expressed are personal)
