The acoustics of the Central Presbyterian Church made Paez’s melancholic pieces sound buttery and lush. “Like the sun shines again like the moon hides away and your smile, I miss it,” she sang on an unreleased song. “Staring back at me, I’m not free,” she whispered quickly at the song’s end. Towards the end of her set, I spied several people with heads cradled in their hands, mesmerized by her handwoven storytelling. “I can’t see you, but it would be so nice to see you,” she offered. The lights let up. “Ahhh, soo nice,” she beamed. 

Morgenstern built on Paez’s cinematic momentum, helming synths and the piano with a cello and French horn accompaniment. Most of Morgenstern’s songs began with her rippling vocals that expanded in the church with a halo-like effect. Her words, emphasized by the elongated brush of the cello and a softly bruised horn, morphed between exclamations that felt both primal and angelic. During Morgenstern’s performance, it feels as though we were shifting realms. String and horn accompaniments swelled and then fizzled into bleating synths. She closed with the world-shattering single “Spacesuit,” filling the church cataclysmic cries and slithering beats. It was funny witnessing the audience shift in their seats while the futuristic oeuvre possessed the church. One repeated lyric, “But no one’s out here to impress,” felt like an ironic sentiment with which to leave us. At her set’s end, the audience stood, clapping and emphasizing its awe.