I went to see Clavicular live (so you didn’t have to). It was weird.
Get the latest Syracuse news delivered right to your inbox.
Subscribe to our newsletter here.
About five hours before the Clavicular show began on Friday, I got a message from the ticket service about a last-minute venue change.
Rather than the intended venue — the Westcott Theater near Syracuse University’s campus — Clavicular would be appearing for the Welcome Week event at Jammer’s Sports Bar & Restaurant, 10 miles away on I-690 west.
At this point, I’m assuming people know the basics about Clavicular, whose real name is Braden Peters. He’s a “looksmaxxer” Kick streamer who advocates pseudoscientific strategies to make men more attractive, like flexing your jaw (“mewing”).
And he links all your value as a man solely to your appearance and wealth.
He arose during the COVID-19 years and appeals to the sort of audience that consumes Andrew Tate content. He’s part of the manosphere trend — a collection of internet content promoting misogyny, hypermasculinity and opposition to feminism. Now, he’s going on a college tour.
Interviewing people at the show was difficult. Most sources requested anonymity because they didn’t want to be linked to Clavicular’s controversial brand of internet personality.
Some of them who were planning on rushing fraternities and sororities were concerned about being blacklisted. Others didn’t want to be associated with Clavicular’s racism, sexism and antisemitism.
But despite the venue change and Clavicular’s history, an (admittedly smaller) crowd still showed up on Friday. The entire thing was streamed on Kick, almost defeating the point of buying a ticket.
Because he’s not a performing artist, it was unclear what Clavicular’s onstage presence would bring.
It ended up being more surreal than any of us could expect.
Jestermaxxing
Roey Leshem, an SU student and working DJ, opened while everyone was waiting for Clavicular to show up. The crowd was clearly looking forward to the headliner, and the wait felt interminable.
WHAT YOU SHOULD READ NEXT
Syracuse’s student DJs experiment at campus parties, bar dance floors
Syracuse University is saturated with student DJs; Greek houses, local bars and house parties make it easy for aspiring DJs to get their start.
A Kick cameraman heralded Clavicular’s arrival around 11:30 p.m. (an hour after doors opened). Leshem stepped aside. Everyone’s phones came up, including mine. It was almost instinctual.
People in the audience said there was no point in him being there if they weren’t filming it, saying they were trying to get a selfie. And Clavicular films everything because otherwise, it doesn’t develop his brand.
Internet personality Clavicular snaps a selfie with the crowd at his Syracuse event. Clavicular, whose content emerged during the COVID-19 pandemic, aligns with the manosphere trend. Madison Cox | Staff Photographer
Clavicular spent the next 45 minutes dancing — “with no rhythm,” as an older spectator pointed out to me — and asking his DJ to play music pulled off the “Project X” soundtrack. I like Rihanna, but the set with Clavicular’s requests felt like listening to her greatest hits album (with the occasional late-2010s trap song mixed in) — super basic.
Ironically, as Clavicular’s following rises, he alienates himself from people who are true believers in “looksmaxxing”. I spoke with an SU sophomore and self-proclaimed “looksmaxxer” (who requested anonymity) who’s been following Clavicular for about 2 years, watches his streams religiously and buys into some of the stuff Clavicular pushes.
“I wanted to talk to him about looksmaxxing, but he just came to party,” the student said. “It’s disappointing.”
In front of us, the 20-year-old streamer flexed his muscles and smiled while “Mo Bamba” blared over the speakers. Everyone on stage took a selfie with him and moved on.
Image is everything
In case you stopped reading about Clavicular after his profile in The New York Times or GQ interviews that were published in February, here’s some more context.
Clavicular was hospitalized earlier this year after a suspected overdose. He was on stream in late 2025 using racial slurs and singing Kanye West’s “Heil Hitler” with the white nationalist Nick Fuentes and the Tate brothers. And he faced misdemeanor charges for inciting, filming and posting a fight between two women, one of whom was his girlfriend.
He visited Israel in July, where he had an impromptu meeting at a club with an adviser to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and was photographed with Israeli Defense Forces soldiers (who were later punished for appearing with the streamer).
The first thing you see in Clavicular’s Instagram bio is an email. Figuring it’d be a good place to start for an interview, I shot him an email, but immediately received an error message — “The address you’re trying to reach does not exist.”
For a streamer obsessed with image, it’s almost poetic that I didn’t get to talk to Clavicular. His career has been centered around “ascending” to a point where his image is revered, even worshipped. The only thing that matters to him is appearance, but ironically, his bio contains a lie.
Venue mogged
Speaking with Leshem, he said the Westcott Theater had been closed the night prior, showing me a video of police escorting patrons out of the theater on Thursday night, related to permitting issues.
Leshem was booked to perform before Clavicular was announced. Leshem had worked Welcome Week events before, and to him, it was just another job.
“If I play an event, I don’t condone him or any of his messaging,” Leshem said. “It’s about me and my music.”
Leshem estimated that around 900 were sold, but the venue change obviously impacted attendance. In the end, probably about 150 people were there. The venue floor was practically empty and there were nearly as many people on stage as there were watching the performance.
Probably about 30% of the people there were older patrons who were already at the sports bar for a concert earlier and decided to stick around. They stood in the back, dumbfounded and searching for a reason why anyone would come to the show.
One guy told me, “I’m 49. I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”
At 21-years-old, I was equally confused. Somehow, my entire Friday night had been swindled away by a pseudo-model and peptide endorser.
Ethan Romano, who graduated from SU last spring, said he was just there for a good time; he would’ve gone out with his friends on Friday night anyway, and Clavicular was an unexpected bonus.
Early on during the show, I asked him if it was worth the 2-hour wait.
“No way,” he laughed. “This is stupid.”
