Leave It at the Door

Written by ASLUT Staff Writer, Photography Jesse Rodriguez (@weseewaves)

“Don’t talk about it, do it.” That’s Quentin Arispe talking about legacy—but it could just as easily be a thesis statement for their life. The LA-via-Texas artist, known for their powerhouse voice and refusal to color inside any musical lines, sat down with us post-SXSW to talk duality, punk, and what it means to leave your baggage at the door.

If you’ve heard As Above, So Below, Arispe’s last body of work, you already know their voice isn’t just technically good—it’s weaponized. But even with vocal acrobatics and genre play, there’s a core thread.

“Honestly, my voice,” they say. “I feel like no matter what style it is that I'm doing, I'm always making sure the vocal is delivered. Even with SO BELOW and playing with my vocal with different effects, I want it to still have my essence. I will always be a storyteller first, singer second.”

They mean it. You can feel it.

Arispe has performed across the country—from Austin to New York to now LA—but they’re not one to romanticize a zip code. “Performing in the major cities has definitely pushed me to work harder on my live presence,” they say. “I’m constantly inspired by other cities; from other artists all the way down to someone on the subway or some song I’ve never heard in LA, the environment is constantly inspiring me 24/7.”

In other words: it’s all source material.

Right now, Arispe is in a shedding phase. The new work is louder. Messier. “I am so into the art of letting go right now,” they tell us. “I’m not very good at it—but I feel it’s almost our job as artists to be stuck in the past. The new project is about being raw and honest. No pretty metaphors, just a woman who’s pissed.”

Still, for someone channeling rage, they’re deeply generous—especially with what they carry.

“I’m learning that I hold a lot of emotion in my day to day,” they say. “Whether that’s good or bad, when I'm working on music or performing, that’s the time I let it all out. I don’t talk shit to people, I never scream or lose my temper, I just take it to the stage or the booth. I have nothing to say to those who have hurt me. They can’t have my time and energy anymore. If you wanna know how I feel, the album is $9.99 on iTunes.”

(Legendary behavior.)

Even the more existential questions—legacy, community, industry friction—Arispe meets head on. As a queer POC artist, they don’t mince words. “The only way in is in,” they say. “Don’t forget, being queer is being a mirror; it’s our birthright to reflect the times and heal people. Never dim your light.”

They’re quick to shut down any assumptions about what being queer in music should look like. “That you have to be in one lane,” they say. “The whole point to being queer is living outside boundaries.”

So what happens when you step into Quentin Arispe’s world? What should people expect?

Freedom.

“I want them to just reflect,” they say of their live shows. “Think about someone who hurt them and how they overcame it—or maybe give them an answer on how to move on. When you are at my shows, you are free. Leave it at the door, and pick it back up if you want—but don’t be surprised if you don’t need the baggage anymore.”

There’s a softness under the punk. A grace under the grief.

And even as they eye what’s next—dream collabs with Tyler the Creator or Gaga, more shows, more volume—Arispe is still burning toward something bigger. “I just don’t wanna stop,” they say. “I want to push every limit that I have. I want to shed all of my skin. I want to transform into the person I feel burning inside. I want to love hard and work even harder. I want to become art.”

It’s not a metaphor.

It’s a promise.