Pacifica: I’m Back in 2001

A Buenos Aires duo kicks up the same noise and nerve I remember from New York clubs in the early 2000s: when a camera got you on stage, and the band was still at the bar after the set.

I lived in New York from 2000 to 2016. I was there when The Strokes were still playing Mercury Lounge and didn’t own more than two shirts between them. Having a decent camera got you “press” access back then. You could climb up on stage, snap some photos, maybe end the night with drinks next to the band. There was a rawness to the whole thing. Bands like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Vines, The Hives, The Pierces, The Music—all of them moved with a kind of cocky urgency. They weren’t trying to be timeless; they were trying to be right now—and they nailed it.

I met Albert Hammond Jr. more than a few times during that stretch. My buddy and I were pitching a music video for his debut solo record, and we shot a bunch of videos for other bands during that time, as well. Back then, it felt like that whole scene could fold in on itself any second—and it almost did—but when it was on, it was electric.

So when I stumbled on Pacifica—a young band from Buenos Aires who clearly worship at the altar of that same era—I wasn’t expecting much. There are a lot of bands trying to bottle that early-2000s sound. Most of them miss the point. But Pacifica has something different. They’re not just chasing the aesthetic. They’re living inside it. And more than that: they’re building from it.

The band is a duo: Inés Adam on guitar, Martina Nintzel on bass and vocals. They met online during COVID because one of them ran a Strokes fan account and the other was posting covers on YouTube. It’s almost too perfect—like a Gen Z update on the Craigslist drummer ad. They jammed once, filmed some Strokes covers in a bedroom, and uploaded them for fun. Then it blew up.

At first, they didn’t even plan on becoming a band. But by the time they got invited to play a Strokes cover set at a local show, they’d already written a couple original songs. They weren’t going to be just “the Strokes girls.” That cover slot turned into their first live show. Then they flew to New York on a whim—crowdfunded the trip, crashed at a cousin’s place, only to find the Strokes’ New Year’s Eve gig canceled last minute. So what did they do? They booked a show of their own. The Bitter End. Then Arlene’s Grocery. No drummer. No label. Just two Argentinians with guitars and guts. Both shows sold out.

There’s a moment in every band’s origin story where they could’ve turned back. This wasn’t that moment. They got offered a deal from Tag Music in LA, signed it, and set a goal: write their debut album in six months. And they did.

The album’s called Freak Scene. Whether or not it’s a Dinosaur Jr. nod, the title fits. The record is loud, sharp-edged, a little messy in the right ways, and cut with just enough attitude to make you lean in. It’s not derivative. The DNA is familiar—yeah, you’ll hear The Strokes, a little HAIM, maybe some Wet Leg—but the energy is Pacifica’s own. They write songs like people who didn’t grow up hearing this music in a record store—they found it on their own, rewound it, played it to death, and now they’re tearing it apart and rebuilding it in real time.

Martina’s bass is front and center on a lot of tracks, not just holding the line but driving it. And her vocals don’t try to sound polished—they’re full of bite, edge, charm. Inés’ guitar is loose and melodic, not afraid to get a little scuzzy around the edges. Tracks like “Anita” and “Premature Rejection” have that kind of unbothered confidence I used to hear in those early NYC sets—like the songs were written in the five minutes before going onstage, in the best way.

They’re also not afraid to lean into the mess. One of their first US gigs was held together with duct tape and pure nerve. No real setlist. No drummer. Off-tempo at times. But no one cared. The energy was there. And that’s the thing with Pacifica—they’re not playing at being a band. They are a band. Even if they’re still figuring it out on the fly.

As of now, they’ve only played a handful of shows. A couple packed club dates in New York. A homecoming gig in Buenos Aires. A last-minute arena slot opening for Måneskin. And festival sets at Primavera Sound and Lollapalooza Argentina. That’s a wild resume for a band still fresh off their first full-length. And yet, watching footage from their sets, it somehow doesn’t feel like too much too soon. If anything, they look like they’re still warming up.

I don’t know where Pacifica’s headed next. Second records are hard. Staying loud is hard. Touring endlessly is hard. But they’ve already proven they’ll dive in headfirst and sort the rest out later. That’s what pulled me in. Not just the sound—though yeah, the sound rips—but the instinct. The refusal to wait until they’re “ready.” That’s the same instinct that made New York rock what it was in the early 2000s. Not polish. Not precision. Urgency. Heat. Heart.

Pacifica has all three.