Muna Set at Maxwell Frost’s Festival Disrupted By Palestine Activists

ORLANDO, Fla. — Rep. Maxwell Alejandro Frost’s (D-Fla.) MadSoul music festival was supposed to be a party for activists — a celebration of Central Florida’s progressive and queer community, in a hostile state. Frost wanted to show how far the community has come and its defiant rejection of Florida’s increasingly right-wing tilt, with a mix of music and community building featuring appearances from indie artists and progressive politicos, like Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

But the festival would take an unexpected turn near the end, highlighting the mounting tensions between progressive leaders and activists disturbed by the United States’ continued support for Israel and its deadly siege on Gaza. 

After a long day of speeches and local artists’ performances, the headliners are Muna, a Los Angeles indie pop group composed of unapologetically queer people that blew up in 2022 in part due to their anthem “Silk Chiffon.” Frontperson Katie Gavin had just introduced a song by saying “it’s about being gay and horny” — a description that applies to much of the Muna songbook, but which is not the sort of banter you get at most political events. One song later, after dedicating “Kind of Girl” to all the trans people in Orlando, Gavin stops the set to ask what’s going on.

Members of Central Florida Queers for Palestine are in the crowd, waving a Palestinian flag and yelling at the stage.

“What do you need,” asks guitarist Naomi McPherson. “Are you guys getting harassed?”

As the protesters continue to yell, McPherson — who earlier in the set declared, “Free Palestine” — notes it’s a bit hard to hear what they are saying, but urges the crowd and security to let them speak unharmed: “Do not put your fucking hands on protesters.”

It was difficult to make out what they were saying in the moment, but video shows the protesters were calling out Frost for, in their view, not doing more to stop Israel’s brutal assault on Gaza, and were upset with him for previously voting for a bill to give aid to Israel. The protesters say they were being targeted by security, while Frost’s team says that they merely asked them to put away their flag, as the event had a “no flags policy,” and deny taking any further action.

As the protesters continue to yell, the vibe in the audience grows notably tense. Earlier in the day Frost had called for a cease-fire, but the activists shouted that this was just “performative.” Some time earlier, an abortion activist had read a statement on behalf of Central Florida Queers for Palestine on stage. Now, though, organizers from the group were yelling at Muna to be let onstage to speak.

McPherson notes, several times, that they agreed with the protesters, adding: “A hundred percent, free Palestine, do not put your hands on these people, stand down.” Members of the crowd join in with a “free Palestine chant,” as a visibly shaken Gavin explains that there was no way they could let the protesters on the stage. They apologize, noting they were also getting instructions via their inner-ear monitors, and then decide to pause the set. When security arrives, much to the band’s distress (“we are 100% anti-cop,” says Gavin), the protesters opt to leave the festival, and the situation seems to deescalate. “This doesn’t feel good,” Gavin says shortly before walking offstage.

I speak with one of the protesters, Lamia Moukaddam — who’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “No Peace In Apartheid” — and ask what made the group decide to protest the event.

“We’re gonna have AOC here, we’re gonna have Maxwell Frost, we’re gonna have [Florida state Rep.] Anna Eskamani. These are three people who have consistently been very performative in their support for Palestine,” she says. “They refuse to put out a letterhead, stating support for Palestine.” 

“OK, they just recently decided to get on board for a cease-fire resolution,” she continues. “However, we have been working with them on issues around Palestine for years now. For them to take this long to sign on to a cease-fire resolution is ridiculous. They’ve also voted to send military aid to Israel. They’ve also voted to equate anti-Zionism to antisemitism. They voted to condemn Hamas, which are freedom fighters.”

While polls show that a solid majority of voters want a cease-fire and a deescalation of violence between Israel and Hamas, there’s a lot of disagreement about the particulars of that goal, and the right way to achieve peace for the people of Palestine. (And to say the least, the majority of people do not view Hamas as freedom fighters.) To an extent, it’s a matter of perspective, as it’s always an activist’s job to push leaders, even progressive ones, and in this instance, it’s their prerogative not to be overly concerned about the great deal of security logistics that would keep a band like Muna from letting activists onstage at a campaign event.

But from a different perspective, it’s worth noting that in November, Frost and Ocasio-Cortez both cosponsored a resolution in Congress calling for a cease-fire. Eskamani was one of only two state lawmakers in Florida who voted for a cease-fire resolution.

Electoral politics are, of course, always inherently slow-moving, messy, and frustrating. The protesters’ anger is easy to understand. But it’s also a shame that an event intended to be a night of joy for Florida’s embattled queer community was disrupted. I’m not going to say there’s any easy answers here, but I do have to admit I’m heartened by how many people in Orlando care about issues of equality and justice. I can assure you, it didn’t feel that way when I was growing up here. 

IF YOU ONLY KNOW one thing about Frost, 27, it’s probably that he’s the first member of Generation Z in Congress. But if you know two things about him, then you may have heard that Frost is a big music guy. He’s spoken of his love of Frank Ocean and The Cure in interviews, and when he won his race in 2022, he celebrated by attending a show by The 1975. Last year, he made headlines by joining Paramore onstage for “Misery Business,” in Washington, D.C., and capped off his performance by screaming “fuck Ron DeSantis.”

Before winning office, he got his start as an activist who attributed his political awakening to the 2012 Sandy Hook shooting and the death of Trayvon Martin, who was killed by George Zimmerman in nearby Sanford. Along with his high school friends Niyah Lowell and Chris Murie, he’s been throwing the MadSoul Music & Arts festival since 2015. But as his star has grown, so has his festival. He likely couldn’t have gotten Lin-Manuel Miranda to appear back when the MadSoul started, but this year he showed up, encouraged the crowd to vote, and introduced members of the University High choir, who sang a Hamilton medley.

Held at the Loch Haven Park, tickets were available on a sliding scale, with proceeds going to local abortion funds and LGBTQ+ youth programs such as Florida Access Network, Zebra Youth, Equal Ground, and SWAN of Orlando. The organizers estimate nearly 3,000 people showed up. In addition to local acts such as indie rockers Palomino Blond and the 70s-style R&B group Venture Motel (for whom Frost sat in on the drum kit for one song, acquitting himself nicely), the event was effectively the Avengers of young, progressive politicians and activists. Prominent speakers included gun control activist David Hogg, Tennessee state Rep. Justin Jones (D), Montana state Rep. Zooey Zephyr (D), and progressive Florida lawmaker Eskamani, as well as U.S. Rep. Greg Casar (D-Texas) and Captain America herself, Ocasio-Cortez, the progressive New York Democrat. (It was certainly an unusual political rally. I lost track of the amount of times DeSantis, the Florida governor and failed Republican presidential candidate, was told to fuck off.)

While the event demonstrates the ongoing disagreements, to put it lightly, about Israel and Palestine among progressives and liberals — as well as the eternal tensions between activists and progressive leaders — it’s also a sign of just how much the political culture of Central Florida has changed in recent years. As Frost says onstage, “Don’t give up on Florida.” 

Though former President Barack Obama won Florida in both 2008 and 2012, the Sunshine State has taken a hard right turn in recent years. Donald Trump won in 2016 and 2020, and DeSantis romped to victory in the 2022 governor’s race. DeSantis has made the state a testing ground for regressive laws, including a six-week abortion ban, the “Don’t Say Gay” law targeting teachers, and book bans that disproportionately target Black and queer authors and subjects.

I was born and raised in Orlando, and while I enjoy my share of “Florida Man” humor, I also bristle at times with the simplistic picture of my home state in the national imagination. I wouldn’t describe the Orlando I grew up in as conservative, but sleepy. Though there were pockets of art, culture, and activism, it was always hard to shake the idea that the town mostly existed for tourists and people who made their livelihood from tourism, and there’s a reason I left. But whenever I visit these days, I’m always shocked by how vibrant and full of energy the town seems, and that nearly every new restaurant or bar I visit has a LGBTQ pride flag or Orlando Strong sticker. (There’s also a thousand percent more vegan restaurants in town than when I was growing up.) 

It’s very clear that Orlando changed in the wake of the 2016 mass shooting at the gay nightclub, Pulse, that killed 49 people and injured 53, and the intense refusal from the community to let that incident define the city.

“Before Pulse happened, many of our county commissioners, even the county mayor, were not supportive of the LGBTQ+ community,” says Eskamani, the state representative. “And when Pulse happened, that tragedy shook so many people to their core. Political figures who again, historically have been either agnostic or even oppositional to equality, showed up in a way that we never expected. And the city did the same thing. And so I think that also sets a tone for everyone that we’re not going to put up with attacks on diversity, that we’re going to embrace. What makes us so special is our differences, and we really want to make an Orlando that serves all.”

Eskamani, 33, notes that Pulse was “the first gay club that I ever went to when I was, 18, 19.” The first Iranian-America to hold office in Florida, Eskamani was elected to office in 2018, as part of a nationwide wave of young politicians that rose in reaction to the election of Trump.

“I woke up in the morning to the sound of helicopters outside and, at the time, was already pretty involved in gun safety prevention work. My first reaction was checking on my friends,” she says, speaking at the local theater near the MadSoul stage that’s being used for press interviews. “I think that also really shaped my commitment to service, because at the time, our community was represented by a Republican in the legislature who was not championing the issues that I care about. I didn’t see them at memorials for Pulse victims or see him at political rallies supporting things like equality and gun safety. And we staged a sit-in at Senator Marco Rubio’s office for the 49. Ten people got arrested that day. So it really charged up a lot of our activism even before Trump got elected.”

Frost also views the tragedy as a turning point, for the city and for himself. “I think since Pulse, things have changed a lot. It’s interesting because you say something like that and you think for a negative reason,” he says. “But the way our community came together, it’s just around resiliency and love. So now in the place where Pulse happened, it’s in the middle of a state where there’s just far right neo-fascism really taking over, and Orlando is one of the top cities in the country for queer people to live.”

While Pulse is one of the most visible moments of anti-LGBTQ hatred in recent history, the past few years has seen a notable rise in anti-gay hate crimes and rhetoric. When I ask Frost for his reaction to the death of Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old trans student in Oklahoma who died after being bullied in school, his demeanor changes as notes of palpable anger begin seeping into his voice.

“It’s when you have right-wing leaders who continue to fuel the flames of hatred and bigotry, specifically on trans youth,” he replies. “Those people should not be surprised when trans youth are targeted by others. This is how this works. It starts with rhetoric. We call the rhetoric dangerous. But do we understand it’s more than just a culture war? This stuff can turn into a real war. And that’s what happened to Nex. So it’s incredibly heartbreaking. It’s horrible. And here’s the thing. Nex’s story, if we keep going down this path, will not be unique.”

When I ask what Congress can do to protect LGBTQ people, he says, “I’d like to see the [Justice Department] be a little bit more involved here on a lot of these cases, and making sure that we’re investigating in a big way. I know they’ve said they are on this case, but on other ones as well. We also need Congress to pass legislation across the country to protect people. I don’t care whatever state you’re in, ‘Don’t Say Gay’ laws should not be able to go into effect because there’s federal law that protects them. Yeah, we have this already with a lot of other communities, but we lack a lot of it with LGBTQ+ community and specifically trans people. And so it’s under this guise of parental rights, but it’s a load of BS. It’s not parental rights, it’s to oppress a specific group of people.”

In the afternoon, a different organization, called Free Palestine, protested the festival. Told this, Frost notes he was the first member of Congress to call for a cease-fire. “I get it, I’m with them,” he says. “We are seeing 30,000 people blown to bits, or shot and killed, or starving to death in Gaza. It’s horrible. All the members of Congress on this lineup have also called for a cease-fire, AOC — same thing with [state lawmakers] Justin Jones and Zooey Zephyr. So we’re with them on that. We need to save lives now.”

Recently, President Joe Biden has said he hopes Israel and Hamas will soon agree to a six-week cease-fire, which Frost is cautiously optimistic about. “We’ll see. I want to be very hopeful because every day there’s lives being lost, people dying. So I pray and hope to God that it happens as soon as possible,” he says. “I think what we’ve seen is there’s been a lot of deals that have almost gotten there, and then Israel rejects it or almost gets there. But I’ll say this, it’s going to be really important that we have a deal here where we see all hostages come back home. We really need this bombing to stop.”

The day after the festival, a representative for Frost sends the following statement from the congressman to Rolling Stone: “As someone who was out in the streets, got arrested, tear gassed, and maced during the Black Lives Matter uprising — I got elected to Congress as an organizer and protester at heart. Making your voice heard in any way possible is at the core of our democracy and I respect everyone’s right to fight for what they believe in. I’m currently the only member of Congress in the state of Florida calling for a cease-fire and thanked the cease-fire demonstrators that were outside the festival from the stage. I’m proud to have hosted an impactful event that centered the arts and advocacy as we fight right-wing neo-fascism in the South. MadSoul is about connecting music to the issues that impact our lives.”

EARLIER IN THE DAY, Muna was given a tour of the Pulse memorial by local activist Brandon Wolf, a survivor of the massacre who lost two close friends.

“It’s just a profoundly sad and intense experience that grounds you in your purpose. I just remember it so vividly,” says Naomi McPherson. “I just remember, rolling over my bed, looking at my phone and being like, ‘What the fuck?’ And just it’s one of those things that kind of pops the bubble that you live in a little bit. 

“You’re like, shit is real,” they continue. “It’s life or death. People want you fucking dead. That is just the truth.”

This will be Muna’s first ever show in Orlando, mostly due to touring logistics, as it can be difficult to tour the state and not lose money, but they’re excited to be here today. 

“We were aware of all the anti-trans, anti-LGBT legislation, and we knew that the festival was going to benefit organizations that aided that. So we just felt like it was the right time for us to come,” says Gavin. “We do like playing in places that we know are a little more hostile to queer people or maybe have less havens for queer people just because it tends to be more meaningful to those fans.”

When visiting the Pulse memorial, Gavin says that “what was so emotional was looking at the people on the wall; they look like my friends and the people that I love. And so you can’t help but feel like this could have happened to somebody very close to me,” they say with a tear in their eye and a fragile voice. “It’s really scary. It just makes you feel so protective and so sad that Nex wasn’t protected.”

One of the Muna’s signature songs is their 2016 single “I Know A Place,” which has become an anthem for queer acceptance in the wake of the Pulse shooting. “It’s happy-sounding, but it’s a song filled with a lot of grief,” says McPherson. “It’s a sad song. It’s acknowledging the fact that, for a lot of people and even for us, the world you wish existed might only exist in your head.”

McPherson notes that by living in Los Angeles, they don’t have to worry about their safety “every waking moment of my life. It’s just super intense, but also it’s, it’s grounding for us to be able to come here and play for the people of Orlando. I hope it will feel good when we’re on stage.”

“I DON’T KNOW if we’re doing the right thing,” says Gavin while wiping away tears. “I really don’t.”

They have returned to the stage after a nearly 20 minute break, and mention that they want to do a few more songs for the people who came to see them. They say they hope the audience has “Palestine in their heart,” and that the cease-fire movement pushes people into action “all across the world. We want a different world.”

They bring Wolf onstage and thank him for showing them the Pulse memorial, before playing “I Know A Place” to a mass and cathartic singalong. Muna’s set ends with a surprise appearance by Phoebe Bridgers on their hit “Silk Chiffon,” to rapturous approval.

The day after the festival, Muna’s publicist sends the following statement to Rolling Stone: “We as a band stand unequivocally for a free Palestine and we support all of those using their voices to advance the cause and call for a cease-fire and an end to the ongoing genocide.”

As I leave the festival, I walk by a gaggle of protesters continuing to call for a free Palestine, and a crying teenager who tells a friend “I can’t believe I get to tell my mom I saw Phoebe Bridgers and Muna.” I marvel at how much has changed — and how much more must be done.

ORLANDO, Fla. — Rep. Maxwell Alejandro Frost’s (D-Fla.) MadSoul music festival was supposed to be a party for activists — a celebration of Central Florida’s progressive and queer community, in a hostile state. Frost wanted to show how far the community has come and its defiant rejection of Florida’s increasingly right-wing tilt, with a mix of music and community building featuring appearances from indie artists and progressive politicos, like Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

But the festival would take an unexpected turn near the end, highlighting the mounting tensions between progressive leaders and activists disturbed by the United States’ continued support for Israel and its deadly siege on Gaza. 

After a long day of speeches and local artists’ performances, the headliners are Muna, a Los Angeles indie pop group composed of unapologetically queer people that blew up in 2022 in part due to their anthem “Silk Chiffon.” Frontperson Katie Gavin had just introduced a song by saying “it’s about being gay and horny” — a description that applies to much of the Muna songbook, but which is not the sort of banter you get at most political events. One song later, after dedicating “Kind of Girl” to all the trans people in Orlando, Gavin stops the set to ask what’s going on.

Members of Central Florida Queers for Palestine are in the crowd, waving a Palestinian flag and yelling at the stage.

“What do you need,” asks guitarist Naomi McPherson. “Are you guys getting harassed?”

As the protesters continue to yell, McPherson — who earlier in the set declared, “Free Palestine” — notes it’s a bit hard to hear what they are saying, but urges the crowd and security to let them speak unharmed: “Do not put your fucking hands on protesters.”

It was difficult to make out what they were saying in the moment, but video shows the protesters were calling out Frost for, in their view, not doing more to stop Israel’s brutal assault on Gaza, and were upset with him for previously voting for a bill to give aid to Israel. The protesters say they were being targeted by security, while Frost’s team says that they merely asked them to put away their flag, as the event had a “no flags policy,” and deny taking any further action.

As the protesters continue to yell, the vibe in the audience grows notably tense. Earlier in the day Frost had called for a cease-fire, but the activists shouted that this was just “performative.” Some time earlier, an abortion activist had read a statement on behalf of Central Florida Queers for Palestine on stage. Now, though, organizers from the group were yelling at Muna to be let onstage to speak.

McPherson notes, several times, that they agreed with the protesters, adding: “A hundred percent, free Palestine, do not put your hands on these people, stand down.” Members of the crowd join in with a “free Palestine chant,” as a visibly shaken Gavin explains that there was no way they could let the protesters on the stage. They apologize, noting they were also getting instructions via their inner-ear monitors, and then decide to pause the set. When security arrives, much to the band’s distress (“we are 100% anti-cop,” says Gavin), the protesters opt to leave the festival, and the situation seems to deescalate. “This doesn’t feel good,” Gavin says shortly before walking offstage.

I speak with one of the protesters, Lamia Moukaddam — who’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “No Peace In Apartheid” — and ask what made the group decide to protest the event.

“We’re gonna have AOC here, we’re gonna have Maxwell Frost, we’re gonna have [Florida state Rep.] Anna Eskamani. These are three people who have consistently been very performative in their support for Palestine,” she says. “They refuse to put out a letterhead, stating support for Palestine.” 

“OK, they just recently decided to get on board for a cease-fire resolution,” she continues. “However, we have been working with them on issues around Palestine for years now. For them to take this long to sign on to a cease-fire resolution is ridiculous. They’ve also voted to send military aid to Israel. They’ve also voted to equate anti-Zionism to antisemitism. They voted to condemn Hamas, which are freedom fighters.”

While polls show that a solid majority of voters want a cease-fire and a deescalation of violence between Israel and Hamas, there’s a lot of disagreement about the particulars of that goal, and the right way to achieve peace for the people of Palestine. (And to say the least, the majority of people do not view Hamas as freedom fighters.) To an extent, it’s a matter of perspective, as it’s always an activist’s job to push leaders, even progressive ones, and in this instance, it’s their prerogative not to be overly concerned about the great deal of security logistics that would keep a band like Muna from letting activists onstage at a campaign event.

But from a different perspective, it’s worth noting that in November, Frost and Ocasio-Cortez both cosponsored a resolution in Congress calling for a cease-fire. Eskamani was one of only two state lawmakers in Florida who voted for a cease-fire resolution.

Electoral politics are, of course, always inherently slow-moving, messy, and frustrating. The protesters’ anger is easy to understand. But it’s also a shame that an event intended to be a night of joy for Florida’s embattled queer community was disrupted. I’m not going to say there’s any easy answers here, but I do have to admit I’m heartened by how many people in Orlando care about issues of equality and justice. I can assure you, it didn’t feel that way when I was growing up here. 

IF YOU ONLY KNOW one thing about Frost, 27, it’s probably that he’s the first member of Generation Z in Congress. But if you know two things about him, then you may have heard that Frost is a big music guy. He’s spoken of his love of Frank Ocean and The Cure in interviews, and when he won his race in 2022, he celebrated by attending a show by The 1975. Last year, he made headlines by joining Paramore onstage for “Misery Business,” in Washington, D.C., and capped off his performance by screaming “fuck Ron DeSantis.”

Before winning office, he got his start as an activist who attributed his political awakening to the 2012 Sandy Hook shooting and the death of Trayvon Martin, who was killed by George Zimmerman in nearby Sanford. Along with his high school friends Niyah Lowell and Chris Murie, he’s been throwing the MadSoul Music & Arts festival since 2015. But as his star has grown, so has his festival. He likely couldn’t have gotten Lin-Manuel Miranda to appear back when the MadSoul started, but this year he showed up, encouraged the crowd to vote, and introduced members of the University High choir, who sang a Hamilton medley.

Held at the Loch Haven Park, tickets were available on a sliding scale, with proceeds going to local abortion funds and LGBTQ+ youth programs such as Florida Access Network, Zebra Youth, Equal Ground, and SWAN of Orlando. The organizers estimate nearly 3,000 people showed up. In addition to local acts such as indie rockers Palomino Blond and the 70s-style R&B group Venture Motel (for whom Frost sat in on the drum kit for one song, acquitting himself nicely), the event was effectively the Avengers of young, progressive politicians and activists. Prominent speakers included gun control activist David Hogg, Tennessee state Rep. Justin Jones (D), Montana state Rep. Zooey Zephyr (D), and progressive Florida lawmaker Eskamani, as well as U.S. Rep. Greg Casar (D-Texas) and Captain America herself, Ocasio-Cortez, the progressive New York Democrat. (It was certainly an unusual political rally. I lost track of the amount of times DeSantis, the Florida governor and failed Republican presidential candidate, was told to fuck off.)

While the event demonstrates the ongoing disagreements, to put it lightly, about Israel and Palestine among progressives and liberals — as well as the eternal tensions between activists and progressive leaders — it’s also a sign of just how much the political culture of Central Florida has changed in recent years. As Frost says onstage, “Don’t give up on Florida.” 

Though former President Barack Obama won Florida in both 2008 and 2012, the Sunshine State has taken a hard right turn in recent years. Donald Trump won in 2016 and 2020, and DeSantis romped to victory in the 2022 governor’s race. DeSantis has made the state a testing ground for regressive laws, including a six-week abortion ban, the “Don’t Say Gay” law targeting teachers, and book bans that disproportionately target Black and queer authors and subjects.

I was born and raised in Orlando, and while I enjoy my share of “Florida Man” humor, I also bristle at times with the simplistic picture of my home state in the national imagination. I wouldn’t describe the Orlando I grew up in as conservative, but sleepy. Though there were pockets of art, culture, and activism, it was always hard to shake the idea that the town mostly existed for tourists and people who made their livelihood from tourism, and there’s a reason I left. But whenever I visit these days, I’m always shocked by how vibrant and full of energy the town seems, and that nearly every new restaurant or bar I visit has a LGBTQ pride flag or Orlando Strong sticker. (There’s also a thousand percent more vegan restaurants in town than when I was growing up.) 

It’s very clear that Orlando changed in the wake of the 2016 mass shooting at the gay nightclub, Pulse, that killed 49 people and injured 53, and the intense refusal from the community to let that incident define the city.

“Before Pulse happened, many of our county commissioners, even the county mayor, were not supportive of the LGBTQ+ community,” says Eskamani, the state representative. “And when Pulse happened, that tragedy shook so many people to their core. Political figures who again, historically have been either agnostic or even oppositional to equality, showed up in a way that we never expected. And the city did the same thing. And so I think that also sets a tone for everyone that we’re not going to put up with attacks on diversity, that we’re going to embrace. What makes us so special is our differences, and we really want to make an Orlando that serves all.”

Eskamani, 33, notes that Pulse was “the first gay club that I ever went to when I was, 18, 19.” The first Iranian-America to hold office in Florida, Eskamani was elected to office in 2018, as part of a nationwide wave of young politicians that rose in reaction to the election of Trump.

“I woke up in the morning to the sound of helicopters outside and, at the time, was already pretty involved in gun safety prevention work. My first reaction was checking on my friends,” she says, speaking at the local theater near the MadSoul stage that’s being used for press interviews. “I think that also really shaped my commitment to service, because at the time, our community was represented by a Republican in the legislature who was not championing the issues that I care about. I didn’t see them at memorials for Pulse victims or see him at political rallies supporting things like equality and gun safety. And we staged a sit-in at Senator Marco Rubio’s office for the 49. Ten people got arrested that day. So it really charged up a lot of our activism even before Trump got elected.”

Frost also views the tragedy as a turning point, for the city and for himself. “I think since Pulse, things have changed a lot. It’s interesting because you say something like that and you think for a negative reason,” he says. “But the way our community came together, it’s just around resiliency and love. So now in the place where Pulse happened, it’s in the middle of a state where there’s just far right neo-fascism really taking over, and Orlando is one of the top cities in the country for queer people to live.”

While Pulse is one of the most visible moments of anti-LGBTQ hatred in recent history, the past few years has seen a notable rise in anti-gay hate crimes and rhetoric. When I ask Frost for his reaction to the death of Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old trans student in Oklahoma who died after being bullied in school, his demeanor changes as notes of palpable anger begin seeping into his voice.

“It’s when you have right-wing leaders who continue to fuel the flames of hatred and bigotry, specifically on trans youth,” he replies. “Those people should not be surprised when trans youth are targeted by others. This is how this works. It starts with rhetoric. We call the rhetoric dangerous. But do we understand it’s more than just a culture war? This stuff can turn into a real war. And that’s what happened to Nex. So it’s incredibly heartbreaking. It’s horrible. And here’s the thing. Nex’s story, if we keep going down this path, will not be unique.”

When I ask what Congress can do to protect LGBTQ people, he says, “I’d like to see the [Justice Department] be a little bit more involved here on a lot of these cases, and making sure that we’re investigating in a big way. I know they’ve said they are on this case, but on other ones as well. We also need Congress to pass legislation across the country to protect people. I don’t care whatever state you’re in, ‘Don’t Say Gay’ laws should not be able to go into effect because there’s federal law that protects them. Yeah, we have this already with a lot of other communities, but we lack a lot of it with LGBTQ+ community and specifically trans people. And so it’s under this guise of parental rights, but it’s a load of BS. It’s not parental rights, it’s to oppress a specific group of people.”

In the afternoon, a different organization, called Free Palestine, protested the festival. Told this, Frost notes he was the first member of Congress to call for a cease-fire. “I get it, I’m with them,” he says. “We are seeing 30,000 people blown to bits, or shot and killed, or starving to death in Gaza. It’s horrible. All the members of Congress on this lineup have also called for a cease-fire, AOC — same thing with [state lawmakers] Justin Jones and Zooey Zephyr. So we’re with them on that. We need to save lives now.”

Recently, President Joe Biden has said he hopes Israel and Hamas will soon agree to a six-week cease-fire, which Frost is cautiously optimistic about. “We’ll see. I want to be very hopeful because every day there’s lives being lost, people dying. So I pray and hope to God that it happens as soon as possible,” he says. “I think what we’ve seen is there’s been a lot of deals that have almost gotten there, and then Israel rejects it or almost gets there. But I’ll say this, it’s going to be really important that we have a deal here where we see all hostages come back home. We really need this bombing to stop.”

The day after the festival, a representative for Frost sends the following statement from the congressman to Rolling Stone: “As someone who was out in the streets, got arrested, tear gassed, and maced during the Black Lives Matter uprising — I got elected to Congress as an organizer and protester at heart. Making your voice heard in any way possible is at the core of our democracy and I respect everyone’s right to fight for what they believe in. I’m currently the only member of Congress in the state of Florida calling for a cease-fire and thanked the cease-fire demonstrators that were outside the festival from the stage. I’m proud to have hosted an impactful event that centered the arts and advocacy as we fight right-wing neo-fascism in the South. MadSoul is about connecting music to the issues that impact our lives.”

EARLIER IN THE DAY, Muna was given a tour of the Pulse memorial by local activist Brandon Wolf, a survivor of the massacre who lost two close friends.

“It’s just a profoundly sad and intense experience that grounds you in your purpose. I just remember it so vividly,” says Naomi McPherson. “I just remember, rolling over my bed, looking at my phone and being like, ‘What the fuck?’ And just it’s one of those things that kind of pops the bubble that you live in a little bit. 

“You’re like, shit is real,” they continue. “It’s life or death. People want you fucking dead. That is just the truth.”

This will be Muna’s first ever show in Orlando, mostly due to touring logistics, as it can be difficult to tour the state and not lose money, but they’re excited to be here today. 

“We were aware of all the anti-trans, anti-LGBT legislation, and we knew that the festival was going to benefit organizations that aided that. So we just felt like it was the right time for us to come,” says Gavin. “We do like playing in places that we know are a little more hostile to queer people or maybe have less havens for queer people just because it tends to be more meaningful to those fans.”

When visiting the Pulse memorial, Gavin says that “what was so emotional was looking at the people on the wall; they look like my friends and the people that I love. And so you can’t help but feel like this could have happened to somebody very close to me,” they say with a tear in their eye and a fragile voice. “It’s really scary. It just makes you feel so protective and so sad that Nex wasn’t protected.”

One of the Muna’s signature songs is their 2016 single “I Know A Place,” which has become an anthem for queer acceptance in the wake of the Pulse shooting. “It’s happy-sounding, but it’s a song filled with a lot of grief,” says McPherson. “It’s a sad song. It’s acknowledging the fact that, for a lot of people and even for us, the world you wish existed might only exist in your head.”

McPherson notes that by living in Los Angeles, they don’t have to worry about their safety “every waking moment of my life. It’s just super intense, but also it’s, it’s grounding for us to be able to come here and play for the people of Orlando. I hope it will feel good when we’re on stage.”

“I DON’T KNOW if we’re doing the right thing,” says Gavin while wiping away tears. “I really don’t.”

They have returned to the stage after a nearly 20 minute break, and mention that they want to do a few more songs for the people who came to see them. They say they hope the audience has “Palestine in their heart,” and that the cease-fire movement pushes people into action “all across the world. We want a different world.”

They bring Wolf onstage and thank him for showing them the Pulse memorial, before playing “I Know A Place” to a mass and cathartic singalong. Muna’s set ends with a surprise appearance by Phoebe Bridgers on their hit “Silk Chiffon,” to rapturous approval.

The day after the festival, Muna’s publicist sends the following statement to Rolling Stone: “We as a band stand unequivocally for a free Palestine and we support all of those using their voices to advance the cause and call for a cease-fire and an end to the ongoing genocide.”

As I leave the festival, I walk by a gaggle of protesters continuing to call for a free Palestine, and a crying teenager who tells a friend “I can’t believe I get to tell my mom I saw Phoebe Bridgers and Muna.” I marvel at how much has changed — and how much more must be done.