Trying to make sense of Geese can feel like a blur for many music fans.
Back in 2023, I was in the midst of a Greta Van Fleet bender — traveling to attend GVF shows right and left, racking up six in a little over a year.
When GVF announced a band called Geese as one of their openers for the Midwest leg of their tour (which I could not attend), my first thought was what kind of band name is Geese?
Then, I promptly forgot the group existed.
That is, until a song titled “Love Takes Miles” took over every corner of my personal internet in late 2025. I couldn’t escape this almost-out-of-tune, woozy man singing nonchalantly about how, often, the best things in life take time to come to fruition.
I could barely understand a word he was saying, but I was captivated for some reason.
Maybe it was his unique voice or the general strangeness of the music, but I dove headfirst into the album the song comes from — Heavy Metal by Cameron Winter — putting it on to try to understand why I dug it as much as I did.
Once the album concluded, a Geese tune began autoplaying on Spotify and suddenly I connected the dots. Cameron Winter, mumbling baritone singing man, was the frontman of Geese.
Now, months later, I still can’t tell you exactly why I like this strange man, his bandmates and his even stranger way of crooning the most beautifully heartwrenching lyrics I’ve ever heard, but I can tell you that I became enamored at just the right time because Geese was announced as a headliner for Treefort Music Fest 2026 just weeks after my Geese-ification began.
Listen, I know Geese isn’t for everyone, but the band is having quite a moment right now.
The group’s 2025 album Getting Killed was the most critically acclaimed release of the year, being named album of the year by the New Yorker and Stereogum and being ranked top 10 by Rolling Stone, Pitchfork and just about every other musical publication under the sun. Director Paul Thomas Anderson, whose One Battle After Another swept up Best Picture and five other Oscars this year, was spotted filming Winter’s solo show at Carnegie Hall in December. Geese recently put out a Tiny Desk Concert and was also the musical guest for an episode of Saturday Night Live in January.
All that while being arguably the most polarizing band going.
The music Geese creates is highly unapproachable. So much so that I really can’t pin down a genre and can only describe it as something between rock and roll, jazz, and punk music.
Some of their songs cater to more mainstream audiences (ex, “Cowboy Nudes” and “Taxes”), but most have lyrics that you have to spend hours deciphering and a sonic landscape akin to an untamed jungle — wild, disorienting but lush all at the same time.
The band’s performance on SNL was probably extremely jarring to anyone unfamiliar with them.
It began with a performance of “Au Pays du Cocaine” from Getting Killed. It’s not a particularly “weird” song by Geese standards. In fact, the lyrics are tender, and the instrumental wraps listeners in a warm embrace as Winter’s vocals reach a climax as he sings “you can change” over and over during the second verse.
The group’s performance of “Trinidad,” however, featured Geese’s affinity for shock factor and showcased the band’s punk-ier roots as Winter screams, “There’s a bomb in my car!” over and over while smiling. Guitarist Emily Green jumped around in her black dress, drummer Max Bassin absolutely smashed his drumheads and bassist Dominic DiGesu matched that energy as strobe lights flashed and a cacophony of sounds emitted from their respective instruments.
We go through the same thing every few years. Remember when Phoebe Bridgers smashed her guitar after her SNL performance in 2021 and every middle-aged man on the internet thought it blasphemous and disrespectful? It seems Geese’s performance of “Trinidad” had the same impact, but for its sonic qualities rather than lazy misogyny.
Geese’s performance was definitely someone’s worst nightmare, but it only made me more excited to see the band live in Boise.
Admittedly, I hadn’t been in a mosh pit in quite some time (those days are behind me as I edge closer and closer to being shivers 30…), but my goal for Treefort was to lose my mind in the Geese pit.
Last Thursday and Friday at Treefort flew by in a blur as I ran around to dozens of sets a day, seeing friends and new favorites perform on stages all across Boise’s downtown core.
When Saturday (read: Geese Day) rolled around and I had my metaphorical Geese Goggles strapped on tight and my only objective for the day was to secure a spot at the main stage and stay there until my watch told me it was Geese o’clock.
Geese soared high at Treefort Music Fest in Boise.
After sets by St. Paul and The Broken Bones and Mother Mother, I ended up about 10 rows from the front and remained there with my friends till the band’s 8:50 pm set.
Each time a flock of geese flew over the crowd in Julia Davis Park, the crowd went wild, screaming “GEESE!” which was an on-the-nose way to get hyped.
Once the stage lights came on and Cameron Winter strolled up to the microphone wearing an almost comically large hoodie that hid his entire face, the crowd’s energy became electric.
The first note of “Husbands” played, and it was off to the races for me and the other thousands of Geese fans packed into the park.
It had been a while since I felt like a part of something big while at a concert. Arena shows give me no sense of community, and local shows are so routine to me that this felt like a special moment.
It’s hard to describe why Geese feels different from other bands these days. They aren’t saving rock and roll, and they aren’t the next Beatles or anything, but they’re making music that’s fresh, unique and truly unlike anything else I’ve heard recently.
Seeing Geese live and in their element gave me clarity as to why I love this rather divisive band. Winter’s voice is a beacon amid Geese’s sonic chaos — a lighthouse guiding me to lyrical epiphanies where I find belonging through his words. The aforementioned chaos is reflective of how mine, and I’m sure plenty of others’, brains feel right now living in this modern hellscape.
Geese further proves that “genre” is bullshit and as long as you’re liking it, vibes are all that matter. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.
Music has long been about community, and whether you hate Geese or love them, you have to admire that there’s truly a community for everyone. Even if that community formed because some 20-something groaned some depressing lyrics into a microphone and slapped it on an album.
As Geese played “I See Myself,” the Treefort crowd yelled back “I see myself in you” while pointing up to the stage. “Cobra” elicited shouts of “Let me dance away forever.” And we did… at least until the set ended with “Trinidad,” when Winter once again screamed, “There’s a bomb in my car!” and my friends and I jumped around, not caring about anything other than having a good time.
Sure, I left the pit sweaty, hoarse, and with bruises on my arms and legs, but the joy of communal love for music was enough to propel me through the rest of Treefort’s Saturday night festivities.
So, no, I don’t feel the need to defend my love for Geese, and I certainly don’t feel the need to be able to explain it to angry pseudo-music critics on the internet.
I just know I like Geese and that I’m having a good time listening to their “blasphemous” music. That’s enough for me.
For more Treefort Music Festival recap coverage, head to Inlander.com/music.