At a June event commemorating ’s , rasped breathily over his own floor-rumbling tracks: a curious spectacle, considering that his “floor-rumbling tracks” are woozy bedroom ballads, less than . Take “ ,” the airy one-off single he dropped via ’s label three years ago. A languid longs for “Gloria, my Gloria” while DORIS dawdles through the mix, chirping about weed—listen closely and you can hear him choking on the smoke.
It’s beautiful in an unpolished way, like early or sending heartfelt prayers through hissing mics. Now picture him onstage, swaddled in feedback, speaker rattles, and the bitcrush of his own cranked-up backing track, no longer whispering but screaming through songs that lend themselves to silent weeping. Raw passion permeates even his breeziest, most distant dreamscapes.
“Real and straight up,” he said in : “That’s what I want to be, 100 percent of the time.” DORIS is , a Jersey-raised multi-hyphenate who first came to public attention as a visual artist whose uncanny portraits have adorned and limited-edition . His few press appearances portray him as a cerebral recluse, happier to speak from a SoundCloud account than a soapbox.
The statements he made from said were surreal—fleeting fever dreams that rode the same psychedelic highs as his eerie, amorphous Picsart prints. He chose the name DORIS partly as to : an artsy young introvert resonating with the mastermind behind . Dorrey is still somewhat shy, but he’s stepping out mo.