interviews

ultimately, the hellp feels less interested in legacy than presence. their work captures a specific feeling of now, without chasing nostalgia or trends outright. they exist in the gaps between scenes, between genres, between identities. and maybe that’s the point. not to define something permanent, but to document a moment before it disappears.

live performances amplify this dynamic. the band’s shows are loud, disorienting, and physical, often blurring the line between concert and club. they don’t perform for validation. they perform like they’re testing something, gauging how far they can push atmosphere before it breaks. the crowd becomes part of the experiment, not just an audience.

together, dillon and lucy operate like opposing forces that somehow align. one brings structure, concept, and long-form vision. the other brings immediacy, motion, and raw instinct. neither overpowers the other. the hellp works because both halves leave space, allowing tension to exist without resolving it too neatly.

chandler lucy approaches sound instinctively. he’s less concerned with theory or technique and more focused on energy and impact. his contributions to the hellp center on rhythm, texture, and physical response. the beats are meant to move bodies, not impress musicians. that simplicity gives the band its pulse and keeps the music grounded even when it veers into chaos.

chandler lucy arrived at music from an entirely different angle. raised in northern california, lucy was initially drawn to fashion and visual culture, not instruments or songwriting. he dropped out of high school, worked as a model, and moved through creative spaces without any expectation of becoming a musician. that lack of formal background became an asset rather than a limitation.

before music fully took over, dillon worked extensively in visual art and photography, experiences that now bleed directly into the hellp’s identity. he directs videos, shapes narratives, and treats each release as part of a larger visual language. his presence in the band feels intentional but distant, like someone both inside and outside the thing he’s creating. as a frontman, he doesn’t overshare. he lets the work do the talking.

the hellp is anchored by noah p dillon, whose role extends far beyond vocals. dillon grew up in a hyper-religious environment, largely disconnected from mainstream music and pop culture until adulthood. that delayed exposure seems to have shaped his relationship with art, treating it less as background noise and more as a discovery. when he eventually entered the creative world, he approached it with obsession rather than familiarity.

visually, the hellp operate with the same restraint and tension. leather jackets, slim silhouettes, dark rooms, harsh lighting. their image is stripped down but loaded, leaning into rock mythology without parodying it. there’s a sense that mystery matters to them, that not everything needs to be explained or documented. in an era of constant visibility, that choice feels deliberate and quietly defiant.

from early on, the hellp resisted settling into one lane. their releases jump between electronic noise, dance-punk rhythms, and warped pop structures, often within the same song. this refusal to commit to genre is not accidental. it reflects a broader disinterest in being legible or easily categorized. the band’s output feels like flipping through radio stations late at night, catching pieces of something meaningful without ever hearing the full story.

the hellp is a two-piece band that thrives in contradiction. they sound chaotic but calculated, abrasive but intimate, careless but deeply intentional. formed in los angeles, the project feels less like a band in the traditional sense and more like an ongoing experiment in identity, image, and sound. their music doesn’t ask for permission or clarity. instead, it exists in fragments, moods, and moments that feel lived in rather than explained.