In 2018, Marc Rebillet showed up at The Camel in Richmond, a 200-cap room with sticky floors and a knack for producing nights that linger longer than they should. He wore robes then silky, gaudy, ceremonial things and improvised entire sets out of loops that seemed pulled out of nowhere. Reinhold, DJ, promoter, and respected member of this very magazine, was there with a recorder in hand. They talked about robes. They talked about chaos.
Rebillet was still climbing, still finding his stage persona, still figuring out whether the world had room for Loop Daddy.
Now, nearly seven years later, he’s coming back to Richmond. This time he’s headlining Browns Island, a stage planted in the middle of the James River where 6,000 people can gather under the bridge lights. And Reinhold isn’t just holding the recorder, he’s opening the show.
When the two caught up again ahead of the gig, the conversation slipped back into the same loose rhythm it had years ago.
ed. note: We are sponsor of this show and we have tickets to giveaway HERE. Also, buy your tickets HERE.
“Hello, hello, hello. Can everybody hear me?”
“Marc here. How’s it going? How you doing John?”
“I’m good dude, thanks for speaking with me. Let’s see, last time we were at The Camel.”
“Oh yeah, that was a while ago, wasn’t it?” Rebillet said. “Felt like a lifetime.”
“You’ve been moving around since then, that’s for sure,” John offered.
“Yes sir, yes sir.”
This time they weren’t just talking history, they were sharing a bill.
“You’re playing Browns,” John said. “And yeah, man, I’m playing with you. I’m on the bill. I’m opening.”
“No kidding?” Rebillet said, genuinely surprised. “Dude. That’s gonna be a blast.”
They slid right back to the conversation from 2018.
“Last time we talked, we discussed robes,” John said. “How are the robes doing?”
“The robes have been stowed away for a bit,” Rebillet admitted. “I wear them leisurely, in my relaxation time. But as part of the performance? Not much anymore. These days I just do the show in my underwear. Every once in a while someone brings me a robe, or throws one at me, and I’ll put it on like I’m slipping into an old suit. But mostly, straight to underwear.”
“You can’t really be weighted down by robes at this point,” John said. “What is the robe, oppressive?”
“Yeah,” Marc laughed. “It’s all too much. Has to be the right moment, the right feeling.”
From there, the conversation twisted toward his current tour. John pointed out the hook: “You say places you’re never going to play again. So you’re gonna play and then fuck it, never again.”
“Never, never again,” Marc said. “Well, it’s kind of a tongue-in-cheek bit. Fun to be mean-spirited in a fun way. And it puts pressure on people to come to the show.”
The jokes are part of the architecture. So are the loops.
“How many loops is too many loops?” John asked.
“Oh man, I don’t know. If there is such a number, I haven’t hit it yet. It’s like when the Beatles had a four-track and ended up with 32 tracks by bouncing it back and forth. If it distorts, if it gets weird, great. It’s an effect. Maybe the limit is when the looper starts emitting smoke. Until then? No limit.”
“Or when it just starts cussing at you,” John added. “‘Why do you abuse me every night, Marc?’”
Marc laughed. “And then it goes back in its case like a good boy.”
Improvisation isn’t a gimmick for him, it’s the whole game.
“Do you ever get in over your head?” John pressed. “You’re in the moment, everything’s flying, and in your mind there’s this little voice: how the fuck do I end this?”
“Oh yeah, dude, all the time,” Marc admitted. “Luckily the ends of shows are somewhat figured out, I’ll do a few songs people know from the videos. But the rest of the arc? Always up in the air. It depends on the energy in the room, how I’m feeling. It can be a real challenge to steer it somewhere interesting, to find an arc, a narrative, any kind of direction. Some nights are better than others, but that’s what you get when you make it up as you go.”
He remembered his NPR spot, where they asked him about playing without a plan. “It’s terrifying,” he said. “But in a good way. That terror is fuel. You have no choice but to figure it out. Otherwise you’re standing there saying, ‘Hey everybody, I don’t got anything, take care.’ Not an option. These people paid good money, they’re gonna get a show.”
Reinhold already knew the answer, but he wanted it on record: “How much of the crowd do you use?”
“Of course,” Rebillet said. “From the streams to the live shows, they’re integral. Most of the work comes from that relationship, me and the people I’m playing for. Without them, it’d be a much more traditional, less interesting show.”
Then Reinhold slipped into his other role: Richmond hype man. He explained Browns Island, the bridge across the James, the view of the city.
“You’re gonna be on an island, basically,” he said. “Right beside the James River. And I will give you the nickname of the city. We all call it RVA, you know, Richmond, Virginia.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Marc said. “Good to know. That’s good ammo. I just finished a four-month tour in Europe where you’re in some random city in Belgium, and there’s a whole local culture there. It helps to get a little bit—a chant, a phrase, something people like to say. You come onstage, rip it out, and you’ve immediately won people over.”
He lit up talking about the European crowds. “We played the biggest shows I’ve ever done—40,000 people in the Netherlands. It was crazy. European crowds are some of the best in the world. They really bring the energy.”
Looking ahead, he rattled off his next stops: New Year’s shows in Australia, a February cruise with the Workaholics cast, and then… who knows. “It’s back to the drawing board, figuring out how to do things in a way that’s interesting again, that gets me cooking. I’ve also been designing a board game, finally finished it, looking for a publisher. Kind of a side quest, but fulfilling. Musically, I’m not sure yet. Hopefully after the winter I’ll find that idea that grabs me.”
Reinhold asked if he still did the old outdoor live videos. Marc shook his head. “I did that pretty regularly for a year or two. It was great, but I wore myself out. It started turning into a fan club thing, people would find out where I was and show up. Not bad, but the idea was spontaneity: showing up in a neighborhood and playing for whoever was there. Instead I’d pull up, and thirty minutes later all my fans would be there. At that point I might as well sell tickets. That’s why I’m hitting the road. Still, it was special while it lasted. There was an alchemy to it, a New York community thing. Felt so good. You’re always chasing that feeling again.”
By the end, they’d covered robes, loops, terror, crowds, Richmond geography, and board games. It wasn’t a neat interview, it was looser, funnier, more honest. Two guys talking shop: one about to play in front of thousands, the other warming up the crowd for him.
“Well, you know, we’re certainly looking forward to the show here,” John said. “I just wanted to check in real quick. We’ll throw up some of your ‘Get Out of Bed, Bitch’ stuff so people know. If they don’t know, what the fuck are they doing?”
“I’m excited to come back,” Rebillet said before signing off. “Last time Richmond was a ton of fun. I’m sure it’ll be no different this time. Only now, we’re stranded on an island together.”
“See you onstage, man.”
And just like that, Richmond had its own loop: The Camel to Browns Island, 200 to 6,000, robes to underwear, interviewer to opener. Full circle, improvised all the way.
The show is this Saturday. Buy your tickets HERE.
Main photo by Shane McCormick
Interview by John Reinhold
Edits by R. Anthony Harris
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