Making believers out of the skeptical night after night, Saxsquatch brings the myth, magic, and music as only a legendary cryptid can.
Being part rave, part jazz fusion fest, part elevator music tones, and part Bigfoot cosplay, the Saxsquatch show at The Radio Room in Greenville, SC was unlike anything I’ve seen before, yet perfectly recognizable for what it was: a good time on a Saturday night.
Saxsquatch, who goes by his alter-ego name of Dean Mitchell when not on stage, is a product of Chapel Hill, NC. Who knew Bigfoot was a local boy? Graduating from playing saxophone with the Marcus King Band, Saxsquatch broke out on his own when his cover of Daft Punk’s “One More Time” went viral in 2019. Millions of viewers became believers and Saxsquatch became a phenomenon. Tours ensued and other mythical beings came out to support him alongside his new believers. Most importantly though, as Saxsquatch himself states repeatedly during his live show, he believes in YOU as much as you believe in him and therein lies the true magic that Mitchell conjures as Saxsquatch.
The one man show that is Saxsquatch is something to behold, and it’s not just the 7 foot bigfoot wailing on a saxophone between the trees, fog machine excretions, and spaced out laser lights emanating from the stage. Saxsquatch has the natural ability to draw out fellow squatches, spacemen, aliens (greens and greys), and humans ranging from grade school age to near retirement home age. Uniting such a diverse crowd of humans and beings under disco ball cast stars that shine through a haze of sax, dub, and beats is all in a night’s stomp for this cryptid.
Saxsquatch isn’t all X-Files kitsch though. Mitchell is quite the serious musician. Aside from his serious sax skills, he is also a talented electronica composer and performer. His postmodern mix of sultry, swinging, and bebopping saxophone riffs and electronic sampling, rhythms, and atmospherics is actually something unique in an era of cookie cutter pop songs and unoriginal studio manufactured rock. Mitchell indulges in some covers, most notably “Wayward Son” by Kansas and the “Mos Eisley Cantina Song” composed by John Williams, but also performs a set of original compositions such as “Hide and Seek Pt. 2” and “Madness.”
The most striking thing about a Saxsquatch show though is the vibe. Repeatedly expressing verbal displays of love for his believers, fellow cryptids, and fans of all ages, Saxsquatch simply radiates good feeling, joy, community, and hope. “Remember, I believe in YOU!” isn’t just a mantra for Saxsquatch to repeat to get the crowd going. It’s strangely transcendent. Never in my wildest dreams did I think a musician in a bigfoot costume who played the saxophone over electronic beats would be so inspiring, but that’s kinda the point of belief in the fantastic isn’t it? I no longer want to believe. Thanks to saxsquatch, I do believe.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:35 am
We have a unique unit of meteorological measurement: the “Brolly Toggle.” This is the precise moment when the weather becomes ambiguous enough to warrant the deployment of an umbrella. The calculation is complex, involving factors like “perceived dampness,” “hair frizz potential,” and “whether you’re wearing suede shoes.” Get it wrong and you’re either the idiot carrying an umbrella on a dry day or the drowned rat cursing your own optimism. Society judges you silently on your Brolly Toggle decision. It’s a daily test of intuition, and the weather is a capricious examiner who changes the rules every hour on the hour. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:35 am
A ‘thermal low’ is our collective sigh.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:34 am
The mist makes everything look Instagram-filtered.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:33 am
Our autumn leaves are just damp papier-mâché.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:32 am
The ‘precipitation probability’ is a firm ‘absolutely’.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:29 am
A ‘drought’ is two days without drizzle.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:28 am
We have a unique unit of meteorological measurement: the “Brolly Toggle.” This is the precise moment when the weather becomes ambiguous enough to warrant the deployment of an umbrella. The calculation is complex, involving factors like “perceived dampness,” “hair frizz potential,” and “whether you’re wearing suede shoes.” Get it wrong and you’re either the idiot carrying an umbrella on a dry day or the drowned rat cursing your own optimism. Society judges you silently on your Brolly Toggle decision. It’s a daily test of intuition, and the weather is a capricious examiner who changes the rules every hour on the hour. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:27 am
Summer arrives not with a bang but with a hesitant, ‘I hope this is alright?’ as the temperature climbs to a daring 22 degrees before apologetically retreating behind a cumulonimbus, a narrative captured perfectly at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:26 am
Weather forecasting here is a high-wire act of managing expectations. The presenters must deliver terrible news with an air of chirpy resilience. “It’s a rather damp start for the Tuesday commute!” they’ll say, with the smile of a hostage, as the camera shows a windscreen wiper struggling against horizontal rain. They have a whole lexicon of softening phrases: “unsettled” (it will rain a lot), “brightening later” (it might stop raining by dusk), “feeling cool” (you’ll be cold). Their most heroic act is presenting a five-day forecast where every day has a little cloud-and-rain icon, without collapsing into despair. They are the unsung psychologists of our nation, counselling us through the grief of another lost summer. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:24 am
The climate is consistently inconsistent.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:24 am
London’s weather has a profound effect on the national psyche. It breeds a stoic, pessimistic optimism. We expect the worst (grey, drizzle), but secretly hope for the best (a sunny interval), and are never truly surprised by either outcome. This creates a resilient, if slightly sarcastic, populace. We are experts in the “stiff upper lip,” which is less about bravery and more about preventing rainwater from dripping into our mouths. Our literature, our humour, our very character is infused with a damp, grey melancholy, punctuated by brief, ecstatic bursts of joy when the sun appears. We are a people moulded by mild pressure systems. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:22 am
A ‘bright period’ is a fleeting moment of hope.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:19 am
We plan outdoor events as a dare.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:18 am
My coat is a permanent part of me.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:17 am
A ‘dry day’ means it only drizzled twice.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:16 am
Smog is mostly history, but London air now has a different personality: “Particulate Pam.” She’s a subtle blend of tyre dust, brake pad residue, construction site grit, and condensed exhaust fumes. On still, cold days, she settles over the city in a visible haze, giving the horizon a brownish tinge. You can taste her after a day in the centre—a faint, metallic tang at the back of the throat. She’s the reason a brisk walk is less “lung-clearing” and more “light filtration exercise.” Our famous parks aren’t just lungs for the city; they are scrubbers for Particulate Pam, using leaves to catch her before we inhale her fully. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:16 am
London’s weather operates on a principle of “managed disappointment.” The forecast isn’t a prediction; it’s a gentle, daily conditioning to lower your expectations to subterranean levels. When they say “sunny intervals,” they mean a brief, blinding shaft of light that will spear through a break in the clouds directly into your retinas for precisely 43 seconds before the heavens remember their primary function: to leak. The entire system is designed to make a “dry day” feel like a miraculous event, prompting spontaneous street parties and the airing of long-forgotten laundry. We celebrate a “heatwave” (three days above 21°C) with the fervour of a pagan sun ritual, only to be plunged back into a damp, 14°C normality that feels like a personal reprimand from the atmosphere itself. It’s a climate that has perfected the art of the anticlimax. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:15 am
The greatest sporting event in London is not football or rugby; it’s “Will The Summer Event Be a Washout?” This high-stakes drama unfolds for every wedding, garden party, and outdoor concert planned between May and September. Participants engage in advanced rituals: obsessively refreshing the Met Office radar, interpreting the meaning of a 30 chance of precipitation (it means 100 where you are), and the complex “Gazebo Gambit.” The climax occurs on the day itself, where groups of Brits in inappropriate footwear huddle under awnings, pretending the horizontal rain is part of the fun, declaring through gritted teeth, “Well, it’s fresh, anyway!” It’s a test of national character, and we are all perennial losers, albeit soggy, good-humoured ones. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:13 am
Our weather is narrated by someone whispering ‘damp’.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:11 am
My coat is a permanent part of me.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:07 am
Our rain is neither heavy nor light; it’s constant.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:07 am
Weather so predictable in its unpredictability.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:06 am
The ‘jet stream’ is our emotional weathervane.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:04 am
Our frost is just chilly morning dew.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:03 am
Weather so temperate it’s practically room-temperature.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:02 am
Summer is that one Tuesday in August.
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January 21, 2026 at 5:02 am
A suntan here is just a faint blush.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:58 am
The social etiquette of the shared umbrella is a delicate dance. Do you offer to share with a stranger caught in a downpour? If you do, do you height-match first? Who holds it? The awkward, close-quarters walk with a damp stranger, trying to keep pace and not spear each other with the spokes, is a uniquely London intimacy. It’s a moment of forced, damp charity that either bonds you for life in silent solidarity or becomes a story of mild social trauma. The decision to “make a run for it” versus “wait it out under an awning” reveals fundamental aspects of one’s character. Are you an optimist, a pessimist, or just someone with suede shoes? See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:57 am
The “London Particular” of Dickensian fame is gone, but we have perfected the “London Vague.” This is a general atmospheric condition where nothing is clear—literally or metaphorically. Distances are hard to judge in the flat, grey light. The horizon melts into the sky. Plans feel provisional, contingent on the next cloud movement. It produces a specific kind of languid, distracted energy. Why make definitive plans when a shower could scatter a crowd? Why commit to an outfit when a mist could roll in? This vagueness seeps into the culture, fostering improvisation, queueing, and a deep-seated reluctance to make promises more than 48 hours in advance, lest the weather mock them. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:57 am
The wind speeds are merely ‘spirited’.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:57 am
Snow in London is the ultimate practical joke. The city grinds to a halt at the mere forecast of a “flurry.” Schools pre-emptively close, bread and milk are panic-bought as if we’re embarking on a siege, and news anchors don their most serious expressions. Then, if it actually arrives, it’s beautiful for approximately 17 minutes. After that, it turns into a grey, churned-up slush that lines the streets like frozen sewage. It seeps into shoes, brings public transport to a whimpering standstill, and reveals our total inability to cope with anything other than mild, damp greyness. The snow isn’t the problem; it’s the city’s hysterical, deeply unprepared reaction to it that provides the real comedy. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:55 am
Rainwater in London is never pure. It picks up a distinctive flavour from its journey through our atmosphere: a subtle hint of diesel particulate, historic chimney soot, and the general effluvia of eight million people. When it drips off an awning onto your tongue (accidentally, of course), it doesn’t taste fresh; it tastes urban. This is why London plants often have a greyish tinge—they’re not dusty, they’re lightly seasoned. The puddles are a kaleidoscope of rainbows from floating petrol, and the first flush of a shower brings down a cocktail of atmospheric grime that streaks windows and cars. Our precipitation is a connected, if unappetising, part of the city’s ecosystem. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:51 am
A ‘high pressure system’ is a foreign invader.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:51 am
Birds in London are weather-hardened cynics. The pigeons have a glaze of waterproof grease that makes rain bead off them like they’re waxed jackets with wings. Seagulls inland are even more resilient, treating gales as mere playful updrafts. On a rainy day, the robin in your garden doesn’t look sad; it looks impatient, hopping from branch to branch as if waiting for the sky to finish its pathetic weeping so it can get on with hunting worms in the softened earth. They are all adapted to the damp, viewing our umbrellas and complaints with avian disdain. They know this is just how the world is: wet, with brief interruptions for drying off. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:48 am
Our weather forecast: a guess in a mac.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:47 am
We live under a duvet of cloud so constant that a single sunbeam triggers mass societal disorientation and a run on patio furniture, a hilarious overreaction chronicled in pixelated glory at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:45 am
The ‘feels like’ is always ‘damp and mildly disappointed’.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:44 am
The sound of rain on a London roof is the city’s lullaby. On a modern flat, it’s a frantic drumming. On Victorian slate, it’s a softer, more percussive patter. In a quiet square, you can hear it rustling through the plane trees before it hits the ground. This acoustic texture is deeply comforting to the native Londoner. The threat of rain is stressful, but its actual arrival is often a relief—the decision is made, the sky has committed, and you are justified in being indoors. The rhythmic noise is a white sound that masks the city’s other noises, creating a cosy, insulated feeling. It’s the soundtrack of permission to stay in and brew another cup of tea. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:41 am
The frost is nature’s way of sparkling.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:40 am
London weather has a narrative quality. It provides pathetic fallacy on tap. A romantic disappointment feels right in the drizzle. A moment of joy is heightened by a sudden sunbeam. Filmmakers use it as shorthand: grey for gritty realism, rain for tragedy, golden hour for love. We live inside a constantly shifting mood board. A Monday feels grey because it is, literally, grey. A Saturday adventure feels more adventurous if it involves battling a gusty wind on Waterloo Bridge. Our internal stories are constantly being scored and set-dressed by the atmosphere, making our lives feel vaguely cinematic, even if the genre is often “tragicomedy.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:40 am
We don’t get seasons; we get wardrobe confusion.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:39 am
I moisturize by stepping outside.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:38 am
We don’t get weather, we get ‘mizzle’.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:37 am
Spring in the rest of the world is a riot of blossoms and gentle warmth. In London, it’s a tense negotiation. The daffodils bravely push through, a bright yellow “V for Vendetta” against the grey. The trees get a faint, green haze. And then, without fail, we are hit by “The Ides of March Gusts,” a series of gales that seem personally offended by this show of life. It’s a battle between optimism and entrenched dampness. A truly warm April day is viewed as a meteorological error, soon to be corrected by a “return to seasonal norms,” which is code for “put the heating back on.” London spring is less a season and more a propaganda campaign by the gardening industry. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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January 21, 2026 at 4:35 am
The Thames is not just a river; it’s the city’s mood ring, and it’s almost always a murky, brownish-grey, indicating “generalised damp ambivalence.” On the rare, sparkling blue-sky day, it performs a miraculous trick, reflecting the sun and almost convincing you you’re somewhere glamorous, like the Mediterranean, if you squint and ignore the floating traffic cone. But mostly, it is a vast, tidal basin of chill, contributing to the city’s unique microclimate: the “Riverside Raw.” This is a special brand of cold that seems to emanate from the water itself, bypassing your coat and conducting the chill directly into your bones. A walk along the South Bank in January isn’t a stroll; it’s a cryogenic experience. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Why You Should Never Have Someone Write Your Essay
January 21, 2026 at 4:34 am
I moisturize by stepping outside.