Greg Gonzalez of Cigarettes After Sex expresses something more intimate.

Within the cavernous space of PNC Arena in Raleigh, NC, the music of Cigarettes After Sex unfolded like a whispered confession, soft and drenched in a sensual haze. Their “2024 World Tour” stretched across borders, but here, in this moment, it felt as if the world had slowed to allow for the most intimate of revelations. Greg Gonzalez’s voice, tender and low, carried the weight of unspoken desires, while Randall Miller’s bass hummed like the undercurrent of a lover’s breath, and Jacob Tomsky’s drums pulsed like a steady heartbeat beneath it all. They come from El Paso, Texas, but on this night, geography dissolved, and we were suspended in their world—where time and place are secondary to the languid beauty of the now.

Their discography is not a collection of songs, but a series of love letters, each one more vulnerable than the last. The self-titled debut album, Cigarettes After Sex (2017), revealed their gift for unraveling emotion slowly, like silk slipping from the body, with songs such as “K.” and “Apocalypse” dripping with sensuality. Then came Cry (2019), an album that breathed deeper, where tracks like “Heavenly” and “Falling in Love” played like the embrace of lovers lost in the night. Their music lingers, just as memory lingers on the skin long after a touch. And their earlier EPs—I. and Affection—offered the first glimpses into their quiet world of introspection and desire. Full details of the tour and their work can be discovered on cigarettesaftersex.com, a doorway into the soundscape they have so delicately constructed.

As the night unfolded, the audience drifted toward the merchandise stand, where the band’s simplicity of form met the physical world. There were no garish displays, only black and white shirts, soft hoodies, and vinyl editions of Cigarettes After Sex and Cry—objects that, like the music, seemed to beckon with a subtle invitation. The fans, too, moved quietly, as if gathering these items was part of the ritual, a way to hold on to the ephemeral intimacy the band creates. And as they left, they did so with something more than just merchandise—they carried a piece of the night, the lingering tenderness that Cigarettes After Sex had left in their hearts.

Cigarettes After Sex