Seattle is a city that thrives on juxtapositions. So when I found myself at a hardcore rock show late one night, comprising mostly Asian-led acts, inside a Vietnamese coffee shop, nothing really seemed out of place.
Just beyond the cafe’s windows, Little Saigon faced its own challenges. Yet inside those walls that night, there was a different kind of chaos brewing—loud, defiant, and undeniably joyful. At the center of it all stood Molly Nguyen and Mitchell Keo—a couple uniquely suited to take on Seattle’s many contradictions. Together, they’re leading a rebellion that’s as joyful as it is improbable, bridging communities that would never have otherwise met.
Unlikely Harmonies
I got to my first hardcore show a little late. I had been to Little Saigon Creative before, a space that is home to Hello Em Việt Coffee & Roastery as well as headquarters to Friends of Little Saigon. In a neighborhood that has languished over the decades due to factors outside the community’s control, this is a space that feels evolutionary.
Inside, lanterns hung from the ceiling, and the art gallery displayed pieces telling stories of Vietnamese immigrants in our community. Instead of folks working on laptops, the shop was now teeming with black-tee-donning mosh-pit veterans of all ages and ethnicities, each champing at the bit to let it loose.
I walked in ahead of the penultimate set, and like clockwork, Mitchell and Molly were first to greet me. They introduced me to friends in the crowd, then escorted me to a “safe haven” behind the bands where I watched the first act. I didn’t understand the purpose of a “safe haven” until the music started.
The act was MÄSSGRIEF, another Seattle band led by a Cambodian frontman who thrashed about, sending waves into the crowd, sometimes collapsing to his knees as he cut up a riff. Suddenly, otherwise introverted-looking dudes on the peripherals started throwing kicks and punches to no one in particular, sometimes catching a target. I got why I was graciously placed in the corner. And while I was a stranger to the scene, I wasn’t a stranger to the message. My head bopped in concert with the drums, my face was scrunched up in a thizz face fashion. At points, I could feel myself tearing up, not because I heard a sensitive line (I couldn’t really hear shit at that point), but because I could feel the emotions in the performance in a tangible way, like when you can taste every ingredient in a well-made dish. Each song left me out of breath but eager for more.
Then, in a sweaty blur of distortion and applause, their set was wrapped. The crowd shifted and reset. Outside, a man shouted into the void before disappearing down 12th Avenue. Inside, people wiped their brows, traded nods with strangers, and got a stretch in to stay limber for the big finale. The room took a collective and needed breath.
And then Molly stepped up to the mic.
When Contradictions Collide
Molly wasn’t supposed to front a hardcore band—at least not on paper. She was raised on Seattle’s Eastside, the daughter of Vietnamese engineers, flanked by siblings in nursing school. She wore Abercrombie, aced her classes, and ended up with a doctorate in physical therapy. She lifts, bakes, reads. The résumé screams stability, an Asian parent’s dream daughter. But somewhere in there, between the documentation and squats, Molly started dreaming about something louder, soundtracked by bands like Evanescence, Paramore, and My Chemical Romance.
Mitchell Keo, her boyfriend and musical coconspirator, has a story with a similar arc. A Math Olympiad kid from Houston, he skateboarded through his teens listening to Black Flag and early Green Day. These days, when he’s not keeping time on thrashy metal songs, he writes code for a living and also runs the Chinatown Book Club.
The pair met at This Is Hardcore Fest in Philadelphia in 2016. Too shy to court in person, Mitchell combed Twitter on the way home, searching through every hashtagged post until he found one from her. He shot his shot: polite, hopeful, slightly awkward. She replied: “Thanks, dude.” So deadly. But somehow, they kept talking, and eventually started dating.
Between then and now, there were years of long-distance: FaceTime calls, cross-country flights, and near-misses. At one point, Molly moved to Houston at the same time Mitchell moved to Tacoma. A relationship that, like their band, was built slowly and improbably, but with a clear and constant purpose.
The group didn’t come together in a garage like many Seattle acts, but in true tech-city fashion: a shared Google Doc. Molly and Mitchell filled the doc with references—bands like Arkangel, Excessive Force, and Grimlock—alongside ideas for riffs, lyrics, and names that pulled from scripture and subversion. They took to Instagram to find friends who knew how to scream, organize, and stay up late arguing over kick-drum tones. Not just bandmates, but kindred spirits: Derby Green on the bass, Carlos Aleman on lead guitar, and Pedro Licuime on rhythm guitar. Once it all came together, they called themselves Cherub Chains and played their first show on August 30, 2024, at a Mexican restaurant (shout out to Rojo’s).
Since then, they’ve played 21 shows (each of which Molly tracks in a spreadsheet). This includes an East Coast run with MÄSSGRIEF, culminating at the Asian American Unity Fest in NYC—a formative trip for Molly and crew. They’ve also put out an EP and a two-song summer promo, and contributed to a 20-band regional compilation called Where Do We Go? A Northwest Hardcore Compilation.
Their music will put your speakers and headphones to the ultimate test. Booming, cathartic, and maximally expressive, each Cherub Chains song shapeshifts: some parts heavy and slow, others frantic and melodic. Lyrically, they write with fervor about identity, trauma, and the world around them. For a new hardcore listener, the way the sound invites you in and hypnotizes you will surprise you. For veteran hardcore fans, Cherub Chains will feel like comfort food, the type that makes you feel at home but simultaneously ready to run through a brick wall.
Everything All at Once
She didn’t announce the band’s name. Didn’t need to. The room already knew—this is why they were here. Someone in the crowd let out a screech of approval as Mitchell settled behind the drums, calibrating his aura with the kit as his bandmates tuned their guitars. Then, without warning, it began.
The sound was raw, thunderous, a wall of riffs that collapsed into screaming urgency. Molly’s voice fought through it all: sharp, guttural, commanding. She sounded three times taller than she stood. She let out the kind of rallying cry that is hard to make out among the chaos, but the emotions are indelible. You feel it in your chest before your brain catches up.
People surged forward. A pit opened like a mouth. Some folks moshed about while others pushed back with a smile on their faces. Strangers linked arms in reverence and release. Asian folks watched someone who looks like them do something they never thought their kin could do. You could see what it meant to the crowd. And you could see what it meant to Molly.
In between songs, she took the mic to remind us why we were there. She talked about immigrants, ICE raids, and playing in a venue like this one—not for the optics, but because the message mattered as much as the moment. “Hardcore isn’t just for screaming and venting, it’s for building,” she told me later. “If we’re going to be given a platform, we better say something.”
At a recent show, a girl came up to Molly to say, “It’s so cool seeing an Asian woman on stage like that!” That moment stayed with her. Watching Cherub Chains perform, you get the sense the whole project was built in-kind to pass that moment forward.
For Mitchell, hardcore was the first place he felt seen. “I was an angry kid with no outlet,” he told me. “Hardcore gave me a place to just let it out without explanation.” When Mitchell pours himself into the drums, which he learned literally because Molly needed him to (a true “if he wanted to, he would” moment), it’s obvious that his art requires no translation. It’s passionate, it’s relatable. It’s understood.
Looking around, you got the sense that this crowd knew they were here for something rare and improbable. And for something so unique, everyone seemed to be so comfortable. It was part of the genius of this show. For the local Vietnamese community, Hello Em and Little Saigon are already home. And hardcore fans already love weird spaces—VFW halls, church basements, libraries, and now Vietnamese cafes. That duality between familiar and unorthodox made this show feel like a bridge between scenes that rarely meet. A place where iced coffees and busted knuckles can coexist beneath paper lanterns, one where no one had to explain why they were there.
And then, as fast as it started, the show ended.
Molly said goodnight. The lights came up. The crowd lingered. Someone apologized for landing a stray punch while moshing; daps ensued. Molly and Mitchell fielded hugs from friends and fans. The night dispersed, but the feelings remained.
Walking back to my car, I still couldn’t hear shit, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had just experienced.
Making Space That Matters
This was over a month ago now, and as I’m writing about it, I can still feel myself in the corner of the cafe, witnessing a show that I never thought was possible. I’m still thinking about how I felt watching Molly and Mitchell go nuts on stage, and watching the crowd reciprocate that energy right back to them. It’s giving me goosebumps again.
While some put on a show for social clout or a payday, Cherub Chains carve out room in the noise for others to feel something real. This band shows us that when you build a bridge between two unlikely worlds—like paper lanterns and power chords—you don’t just create a show. You create a home. Not just for the hardcore kids. Not just for Asian folks, too. But for anyone who’s never felt like they belonged anywhere, and needed just one night where they finally did.
Cherub Chains play the Vera Project Aug 15, 7 pm, all ages .
