Today we’d like to introduce you to Alec Beretz.
Hi Alec, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
In the back room of a Toronto coffee shop, our booker and bassist Chase Junnila came up with the idea to host semi-private, music-focused hangouts—a remedy to the “creepy drunk guy that won’t leave me alone” problem you’ll find at many bars, as well as a place for creatives to meet and collaborate. After Chase endured two brutal 8-hour tattoo sessions, we flew back to LA and got started.
I’d been grinding away at a solo music project for a few years, but COVID threw a wrench in everything—not to mention some undiagnosed mental health issues that caught up with me. I couldn’t keep the momentum I’d built. Despite over 5 million plays on my first album, a Twitch contract, and a feature with T.I. (“Pantone Blue”), I still hadn’t cracked the code of making my music a household name. The problem was, I was doing it alone.
Now somewhat jaded, and with Chase eager to get involved, the two of us—along with my high school non-blood brother Blake Armstrong—started the band Anime Titties. It was a joke name meant to stir up a reaction at the San Diego brewery cover gigs we were playing. Chase’s first gig was three hours long. She’d been initiated into the cult of DIY rock ‘n’ roll. But as we played more gigs, the name was too absurd and unforgettable to let go. I’d never had a band name that made jaws drop.
My solo music kept with the times—DJs, heavy beats, guitar samples, future-ized vocals with autotune—but I felt like another fish in a sea of Post Malone and Lil Peep clones that flooded Fairfax and Melrose before the pandemic. Chase and Blake started backing up my music with live drums and bass to make it feel more organic. When Alice in Chains covers became more fun than my own songs, we decided to start from scratch. No computers—back to the garage where it started, making music with your friends in real time. It felt whole. On top of that, this collaboration allowed us to keep each other accountable. I wasn’t just banging my head against my desk, desperately trying to figure out what cover song might get me 100 views or what trollbait guitar lesson might kick the hornet’s nest of Berklee freshmen telling me I wasn’t jazz enough.
Serendipitously, a room opened up in East LA. Chase was living in Pasadena at the time, volunteering for a non-profit called End Overdose. I was couch-surfing again and managed to hop on a friend’s lease last minute. We sank every cent we had into a PA system and got started. Traditional venues felt too isolating—too much “I’m gonna hang out in the shadows, not meet anyone, see the band I came for, and then leave.” We wanted community. The concert was always secondary to creating a space where friend groups could actually mingle. Peerspace looked like it might bleed us dry, but we eventually found a downtown warehouse that let us at least break even.
We started meeting local bands that wanted exactly what we were building. Chase, the social butterfly, booked neo-grunge-adelic acts from Silverlake hipster bars while I handled the tech. Slowly, we found collaborators and finally got to focus on the mission instead of just logistics.
That’s when we met Josh Hallman. He played one of our events and was now managing The Art Room, a gallery/restaurant/bar that had just opened downtown. A few open mics later, it became the new spot for “Shit Show”—Chase’s brainchild event, hatched over Toronto cortados.
As Shit Show grew, we started bringing in more vendors. First, it was End Overdose, but slowly people came to sell modded clothes, give tattoos, do tooth gems, and tell me via tarot reading that I needed to stop being so damn serious all the time.
I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
By April 2024, we started writing our own music and announced the transition from my solo project to Anime Titties. We promoted at weekly open mics—people didn’t know what to expect. Our name was clickbait, but the music was a journal for all the bipolar noise I could now look back on with a sober and therapy-altered mind, and it connected with far more people than I had guessed.
Without warning, The Art Room shut down, and we moved to Make-Out Music in Boyle Heights, run by a DIY crew that shared the same ethos as Shit Show. For the first time, I didn’t have to set up the PA, and I actually got to talk to the community we’d been pulling together. Shit Show became something people genuinely looked forward to—something that gave life some spark and consistency. We’d actually done what we set out to do in that $8 latte yoga room in Toronto.
Our band just released its first two singles and music videos. First was “Anyone Else”—an anthem of depression-fueled gaslighting. Then “Empty Promises”—the moment when someone promises to change their life but finds themselves back where they started.
Alright so before we go can you talk to us a bit about how people can work with you, collaborate with you or support you?
It’s been an honor to watch both Anime Titties and Shit Show grow. You can find us on Instagram @theshitshow.music and @animetittiesband. If you’re looking for a new friend, a new band, or even a new art piece for your wall, come through. It’s not about what you do; it’s about the people you do it with.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://instagram.com/theshitshow.music
- Instagram: https://instagram.com/animetittiesband
- Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@AnimeTitties
Image Credits
Riles Martinez
Ethan Beretz
