Vitriol Erupts: Bandmates Dump Frontman in Midnight Gas Station Drama

Mia Reynolds, 11/26/2025A midnight gas station drama leads to the disbanding of Vitriol as frontman Kyle Rasmussen is left behind by his bandmates. Amid accusations of outbursts and tensions, the music community rallies to support Rasmussen in an unexpected turn of events.

What exactly unfolded? Reports surfaced quickly, with Stereogum amplifying guitarist Keith Merrow’s explanation: a fallout sparked by what he bluntly labeled “cowardly and weak outbursts of misplaced anger.” If only there was a neat way to tie this up with a PR-friendly bow. No such luck—Merrow, in a direct Instagram post, dropped all pretenses. “He f---ed around and found out,” he wrote. “Sorry Vitriol fans. We had to abandon him at a gas station in Vermont. Myself, Andy, Brett, and Matt will not take Kyle’s cowardly and weak outbursts.” This isn’t some vague, clickbait drama—someone’s actual duffel bags were left in the glow of a fluorescent truck-stop, alongside whatever trust the group once shared.

The immediate fallout set off a domino run: Vitriol cut the rest of their US tour; only Rasmussen remained from the original lineup. Posting a clipped, shaky two-part video on Instagram, he laid it out: after a blow-up with a bandmate, he was stranded far from home with his girlfriend, Maggie, and the ever-faithful Ghost (that’s their dog). They had next to nothing and no way to get back to Portland, Oregon. If the image of a rough-edged frontman reduced to asking for help jars with Vitriol’s public persona, the response may be even more surprising—a GoFundMe racked up more than $10,000 for the trio within days. There’s something almost startling about how the music community rallies around not just the thunder of the work but the hush of the fallout. In the streaming era, the line between what belongs backstage and what spills onto social timelines feels fainter by the day.

Maybe that’s why Merrow doubled down—no poetic flourish, just a sledgehammer: “Me, Brett and Andy left Vitriol because Kyle sucks. That’s it. It doesn’t require an absolutely psychotic 2 part video series to explain. He irrationally screamed at the whole crew at the top of his lungs on multiple occasions. We simply won’t tolerate it, just like all the other 19 people who left this failed band.” The number isn’t a typo. The implication is clear for anyone who’s picked up a tab after a particularly rough load-out: while creative brilliance can breed friction, lines do still exist. Not every band meltdown is simply the cost of making something great—sometimes it’s just garden-variety intolerance dressed up in black band tees.

Of course, not every onstage confrontation detonates into cross-country exiles. Sometimes crisis arrives under the spotlight, not in the wings. Take Wet Leg—a band more known for their droll lyrics and high-octane live shows than for viral squabbles. Midway through a packed Cardiff gig, everything ground to a halt—not from a wayward amp, but from something far uglier. The frontwoman, Rhian Teasdale, stopped the music to call out and eject an audience member accused of harassing women and non-men in the crowd. “You’re not welcome here,” she told him, her voice steely and maternal at once.

There’s something unvarnished about moments like this. Teasdale didn’t wait for management to handle it; she insisted, in the space between two crash cymbals, that safety—not just spectacle—matters. The crowd cheered, the band dove back in, only to pause again when the same man reappeared. This wasn’t a rehearsed bit or a carefully worded statement posted in hindsight—it was what accountability looked like, unplugged, in real time. Some fights you don’t finish behind the green room door.

Moments of raw togetherness like that seem especially precious in 2025, when public implosions and reconciliations play out on TikTok as quickly as they do IRL. Yet even with chaos breaking out on tour or in the pit, quieter tales of music-world endurance unfold far from the public gaze. Not all acts of devotion require a soundtrack of distortion pedals. Consider the death of Joan Templeman, longtime wife of Virgin Records’ Richard Branson. If ever there was a reminder that steadfast partnership forms the hidden scaffolding for so many iconic records, this is it. Branson, never shy about the highs and lows of celebrity business, described Templeman as “my best friend, my rock, my guiding light, my world.” Fifty years on, that sort of loyalty outlasts most trends—outlasts plenty of bands, too.

Branson’s tribute, all the more moving because it echoed with ordinary joys (being a wonderful mum, hanging around bric-a-brac shops, a family shaped by love’s quieter acts), feels out of step with splashy headlines, but perhaps that’s the lesson. Not every enduring legacy is wrapped up in electric showdowns or viral clips. Sometimes what lingers longest are the soft, almost invisible acts that hold up everything else.

Maybe bands will always fall apart in the least dignified places—gas stations, comment threads, the back of the night bus home. And maybe, just maybe, the heart of music isn’t only found in the songs that survive, but in the bumpy, complicated way people treat each other along the way. Sometimes, all it takes is a midnight drive, a crowd rallying behind a pause, or a simple act of steadfast care, to remind everyone why music sticks around so much longer than any one night’s drama.

There are moments in music culture when real life upstages even the most outlandish backstage rumor. This past week handed over a scene more fit for a midnight movie than a tour itinerary: three members of Vitriol, a band known for cranking the volume both on and off the stage, left their frontman—Kyle Rasmussen—stranded at a lonely gas station off a Vermont road. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Coen Brothers’ outtake, except, well, it actually happened. Sometimes, the stuff that signals the end of a band is less about bitter creative battles than about the kind of rupture you can’t patch up on a group message.What exactly unfolded? Reports surfaced quickly, with Stereogum amplifying guitarist Keith Merrow’s explanation: a fallout sparked by what he bluntly labeled “cowardly and weak outbursts of misplaced anger.” If only there was a neat way to tie this up with a PR-friendly bow. No such luck—Merrow, in a direct Instagram post, dropped all pretenses. “He f---ed around and found out,” he wrote. “Sorry Vitriol fans. We had to abandon him at a gas station in Vermont. Myself, Andy, Brett, and Matt will not take Kyle’s cowardly and weak outbursts.” This isn’t some vague, clickbait drama—someone’s actual duffel bags were left in the glow of a fluorescent truck-stop, alongside whatever trust the group once shared.The immediate fallout set off a domino run: Vitriol cut the rest of their US tour; only Rasmussen remained from the original lineup. Posting a clipped, shaky two-part video on Instagram, he laid it out: after a blow-up with a bandmate, he was stranded far from home with his girlfriend, Maggie, and the ever-faithful Ghost (that’s their dog). They had next to nothing and no way to get back to Portland, Oregon. If the image of a rough-edged frontman reduced to asking for help jars with Vitriol’s public persona, the response may be even more surprising—a GoFundMe racked up more than $10,000 for the trio within days. There’s something almost startling about how the music community rallies around not just the thunder of the work but the hush of the fallout. In the streaming era, the line between what belongs backstage and what spills onto social timelines feels fainter by the day.Maybe that’s why Merrow doubled down—no poetic flourish, just a sledgehammer: “Me, Brett and Andy left Vitriol because Kyle sucks. That’s it. It doesn’t require an absolutely psychotic 2 part video series to explain. He irrationally screamed at the whole crew at the top of his lungs on multiple occasions. We simply won’t tolerate it, just like all the other 19 people who left this failed band.” The number isn’t a typo. The implication is clear for anyone who’s picked up a tab after a particularly rough load-out: while creative brilliance can breed friction, lines do still exist. Not every band meltdown is simply the cost of making something great—sometimes it’s just garden-variety intolerance dressed up in black band tees.Of course, not every onstage confrontation detonates into cross-country exiles. Sometimes crisis arrives under the spotlight, not in the wings. Take Wet Leg—a band more known for their droll lyrics and high-octane live shows than for viral squabbles. Midway through a packed Cardiff gig, everything ground to a halt—not from a wayward amp, but from something far uglier. The frontwoman, Rhian Teasdale, stopped the music to call out and eject an audience member accused of harassing women and non-men in the crowd. “You’re not welcome here,” she told him, her voice steely and maternal at once.There’s something unvarnished about moments like this. Teasdale didn’t wait for management to handle it; she insisted, in the space between two crash cymbals, that safety—not just spectacle—matters. The crowd cheered, the band dove back in, only to pause again when the same man reappeared. This wasn’t a rehearsed bit or a carefully worded statement posted in hindsight—it was what accountability looked like, unplugged, in real time. Some fights you don’t finish behind the green room door.Moments of raw togetherness like that seem especially precious in 2025, when public implosions and reconciliations play out on TikTok as quickly as they do IRL. Yet even with chaos breaking out on tour or in the pit, quieter tales of music-world endurance unfold far from the public gaze. Not all acts of devotion require a soundtrack of distortion pedals. Consider the death of Joan Templeman, longtime wife of Virgin Records’ Richard Branson. If ever there was a reminder that steadfast partnership forms the hidden scaffolding for so many iconic records, this is it. Branson, never shy about the highs and lows of celebrity business, described Templeman as “my best friend, my rock, my guiding light, my world.” Fifty years on, that sort of loyalty outlasts most trends—outlasts plenty of bands, too.Branson’s tribute, all the more moving because it echoed with ordinary joys (being a wonderful mum, hanging around bric-a-brac shops, a family shaped by love’s quieter acts), feels out of step with splashy headlines, but perhaps that’s the lesson. Not every enduring legacy is wrapped up in electric showdowns or viral clips. Sometimes what lingers longest are the soft, almost invisible acts that hold up everything else.Maybe bands will always fall apart in the least dignified places—gas stations, comment threads, the back of the night bus home. And maybe, just maybe, the heart of music isn’t only found in the songs that survive, but in the bumpy, complicated way people treat each other along the way. Sometimes, all it takes is a midnight drive, a crowd rallying behind a pause, or a simple act of steadfast care, to remind everyone why music sticks around so much longer than any one night’s drama.