LK Ultra is fighting for a more diverse, more inclusive Lawrence scene

LK Ultra calls itself an “indigenous-fronted queer indie rock band,” which is not untrue. That hefty description still leaves out a few things, though, namely that its members are quite young — high school-aged. And they’re tight — super tight, in a way people that high school-aged people sometimes are. 

“We’re kind of a hive mind,” says August Hyde, keyboard player and background vocalist for the Lawrence indie-pop act LK Ultra. “There’s no way for one person to shine through, because we’re all the same person. It’s like there’s only one person talking.”

It’s a gorgeously sunny and unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon in December, and the rest of the hive — drummer Aoife Conway, vocalist-guitarist Inez Robinson, and bassist and background vocalist Lily Pryor — and I are seated at La Prima Tazza, the Lawrence coffee shop. Conway buzzes in for a reiteration: “We’re best friends, so we spend way too much time together.”

LK Ultra is in high spirits, having just finished recording its new EP with Mitch Hewlett (Westerners) at The Coop, in north Lawrence. The songs — high-energy, catchy as hell, ramshackle indie-pop that bashes about beneath socially conscious lyrics — represent the first recorded output for LK Ultra that’s not a live YouTube video. 

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“We’re like a real band now — expected to record and release songs,” Hyde jokes. “It’s a lot to deal with.”

The EP’s three songs — “Dwop Out,” about Robinson’s struggles in school; “Two Spirit,” about being trans; and “Boys Club,” which features lyrics from each member about their experiences in the music scene — will soon be available on Bandcamp (definitely), Spotify (probably), and CD-R. The latter reflects the band’s DIY approach, which also includes homemade merch such as stenciled t-shirts, lyric zines, and Shrinky Dink buttons. 

“[Although] I don’t know if six hours making Shrinky-Dinks before a show is actually cheaper,” Hyde says.

“My poor parents,” says Pryor, whose father, Matt Pryor, is singer and guitarist for the Get Up Kids. “They were like, ‘This is good, but this is also a lot.’ We were there for a long time, and we didn’t move, and we were very loud.”

LK Ultra formed in the summer of 2017, the result of friendships formed at the annual Girls Rock Lawrence camp. Robinson had never picked up an instrument prior to attending. 

“I had always wanted to [play], but didn’t have any of the resources,” Robinson says. “I have seven siblings, so how do I get a guitar and lessons? I don’t.”

Girls Rock paved the way for LK Ultra by giving the members the time and resources to learn, as well as putting them in contact with encouraging mentors who helped teach them to play and supplied them with gear. It’s been huge, they all agree. 

“I’ve been in America for three years,” says Conway, who moved to the U.S. from Ireland because there were no doctors in that country able to help with their family’s chronic illnesses. “Before I did Girls Rock, I only had one friend here, and he doesn’t leave the house. I was just home, with my dog, all the time. My mom will pick me up from Lily’s and she’ll be like, ‘Girls Rock was the best thing to happen to you,’ and I’m like, ‘I know.’”

LK Ultra’s emergence is part of a youth explosion in a town that has struggled to support all-ages music in a scene dominated by college-age bands and performers. Most venues in Lawrence are 21 and up, or else charge extra for minors to cover liquor sales. 

“It makes us so angry,” says Conway. “The music should be about music, not about drinks.”

“When they’re focused on alcohol sales and ticket sales, there’s not much room for considering safety and considering fun,” Robinson adds. “We’re just trying to change that.”

The members have also been vocal about their displeasure with certain bathroom policies. 

“We’re not all cis people who can just instantly know what bathroom is going to be for us, and which bathroom is going to be safe,” Hyde says. 

At last year’s Farmer’s Ball Battle of the Bands, at the Bottleneck, Hyde says he was verbally abused by a doorman for requesting a gender-neutral option. The incident blew up on social media, which in turn meant that it’s often the first thing that springs to mind when LK Ultra is mentioned around Lawrence. 

“People are like, ‘Was is good? Did it help you? Was it nice to get that exposure?’” Pryor says, irritated. Robinson experienced the same thing at school: people suggesting that the publicity must’ve been good for the band.

“It attributes our success to this asshole that we don’t want anything to do with,” Hyde says. 

It’s for reasons like this that LK Ultra mourns the recent loss of the Jackpot Saloon, which had become a hub for young bands over the last year. “It was a good environment for safe music,” Hyde says. 

At least, though, there’s still the White Schoolhouse, a venue north of town that the band agrees is owned and run by folks who see the bands and crowds as people, rather than just another alcohol sale. 

“We played a show with Diet Cig and Spook School there back in February, and that really helped us along,” Conway says. 

“The White Schoolhouse is one of our best hopes,” Robinson says as we wrap up. “We need to protect it and keep it around. Hopefully, if more young musicians go there, there’s more of an influence, so there’s not just one LK Ultra that opens the Bottleneck’s eyes and everyone gets gender-neutral bathrooms because they’re scared of us. There will be more influential bands that are like us, and we can transform our whole scene.” 

♦

White Schoolhouse PA Benefit. Saturday, January 26, at the White Schoolhouse. 

With LK Ultra, Redroom, Chess Club, and Oxford Remedy.