Uncut Collective Media
Through Fuzz and Feeling, Momma Illuminate Welcome to My Blue Sky at Crescent Ballroom
May 9, 2025 • by Phyoe Thaung
There’s something about Momma’s songs that makes you feel like you’re catching a conversation mid-thought—sentences you already know the end of, guitar lines that circle the room like a breeze you can’t quite place. On Tuesday night at Crescent Ballroom, the Brooklyn-based band brought that energy into full focus. Their live set didn’t just recreate Welcome to My Blue Sky. It made the album feel like something pulled from muscle memory—instinctive, familiar, and quietly magnetic.​
They opened with “Sincerely,” a quiet ignition that pulled the room into focus. From there, “I Want You (Fever)” surged forward, all low-end tension and breathless allure. “Medicine” followed like a comedown wrapped in fuzz, Weingarten and Friedman’s guitars folding into each other in ways that feel less like coordination and more like instinct.
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“Ohio All the Time” hit like it was written for desert air—slow-burning, bittersweet, and stretched out like late afternoon. “Stay All Summer” didn’t reach for nostalgia. It became it. No need to spell out the sentiment when the chords already sound like memory.
The middle of the set moved with a soft current. “New Friend” was razor-sharp in its restraint, while “Bottle Blonde” made space for something brighter without ever losing its edge. “Bang Bang” and “Tall Home” built on that—casual in posture, tightly wound underneath.
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By “How to Breathe” and “Last Kiss,” the room had shifted into full attention. Neither song exploded, but both landed with impact. Friedman’s vocals sat just under the surface, half-sung, half-confessed.
The final stretch moved with purpose. “Motorbike” and “Welcome to My Blue Sky” felt like long exhales, tracks that shimmered with a kind of private confidence. “Rodeo” offered their grittiest moment, all distortion and bite, before “My Old Street” folded the main set closed in a single, aching exhale.
They returned with a cover of Narrow Head’s “Sunday,” leaning into its weight and atmosphere like it had always belonged in their set. “Speeding 72” closed the night, one last rush of light through windows rolled down, loose and steady as a heartbeat.
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Momma don’t perform like they’re proving something. They play like they’re remembering it out loud—with warmth, precision, and just enough distance to make the ache last.
