The Marías: A Masterclass in Monetized Melancholy

The Marías, a band that has somehow managed to "find themselves" in the vast, soulless expanse of corporate music venues, are gracing Austin with not one, but two whole performances this week. First, they played at ACL Live—a venue so intimate it only costs $12 for a bottle of water—and now they’re headed to the Moody Center, where the acoustics are only slightly better than a parking garage. But hey, at least the tickets are "available on Ticketmaster," which means you’ll only have to sell a kidney to afford the "convenience" fees.

According to the breathless press, The Marías have "shed their insecurities" and are now "more confident than ever." This is, of course, code for "they’ve finally accepted that making music for NPR-core yuppies pays better than busking outside a taqueria." Frontwoman María Zardoya, described as a "figure of compelling mystery," apparently moved with "clarity" on stage, which is journalist-speak for "she didn’t trip over any cables." Her dark hair swung "with a rhythm that was both precise and languid," a sentence that sounds like it was written by someone who has never actually been to a punk show.

The setlist, we’re told, was a "testament to their journey," which included songs in Spanish—a "firm nod" to Zardoya’s Puerto Rican heritage. How bold. How revolutionary. Next thing you know, they’ll be drinking agua de jamaica on stage and really blowing minds. The crowd was treated to "Otro Atardecer," their collab with Bad Bunny, which presumably made all the white girls in the audience feel très cultured for knowing the words. And let’s not forget the "anguish of a breakup" anthems, because nothing says "healing" like performing songs about your ex in a room full of strangers who paid $150 to watch you cry.

Zardoya, in a moment of profound vulnerability, shared the origin story of "No One Noticed," a song born from a morning spent listening to birds. Groundbreaking. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here writing songs about our landlords and the existential dread of existing under late-stage capitalism, but sure, birds are cool too.

The real pièce de résistance? The ACL taping was a "cell phone-free" experience, which Zardoya gently urged the audience to embrace. Because nothing says "authentic connection" like a room full of people who would’ve otherwise been Instagramming their $18 artisanal cocktails. She descended from the stage to sing with fans, which is either a beautiful moment of unity or a desperate plea for relevance in an algorithm-driven hellscape. You decide.

So if you’re in Austin this weekend and want to witness a band that’s "more themselves than ever" (read: finally figured out how to monetize their trauma), head to the Moody Center. Just don’t forget to Venmo your landlord first—priorities, people.