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The first time I saw Screaming Females, I was utterly destroyed. It was at Market Hotel in May for the Double Dagger album release party. I had a friend from out of town and the evening hadn’t been a bust musically, but there was nothing surprising as I was already pretty familiar with all the Baltimore bands.

When Screaming Females took the stage Marissa’s elegant guitar work and intense vocals, Mike’s funky “bass walk” style of playing and Jarrett’s drumming immediately caught our attention. Having just released their third album Power Move, they played a lot of those songs and nearly all noise in the venue stopped as everyone paid more attention to the stage instead of with whom they were conversing, a rare thing at Market Hotel shows. It was a marvelous introduction.

There’s a strong desire to mythologize the moment you first see an act and think “this is special, this is really, really special” and lapse into hyperbole, but in a night of no surprises, it was great to find that even the smallest thing can amaze you. After the set I immediately bought all of the albums they had on hand and the tour CDr and became and proselytizing convert.

Around the same time it seem everyone else became aware of them because they’ve opened for Dinosaur Jr, The Dead Weather, appeared on MTV and have turned into headliners in their own right in New York.

Well, what makes them special? Marissa is an excellent guitar player who does something which is nearly unthinkable, in that she plays these expansive solos. Solos in punk rock are stereotypically often a few measures long and really kind of limp affairs. Screaming Females is not afraid to open up their songs and allow her solos some room to breathe, building and descending while displaying a technical and adventurous nature as Marissa will throw herself to her pedal bank and use effects as the instrument. They also don’t hide Mike Rickenbacker’s bass, which isn’t content to hit two notes for and three minutes with slides to break up phrasing. Mike’s bass parts walk up and down the neck of his instrument, strutting along like the coolest motherfucker in the room. Informed by punk, post-punk and 90s “alternative”, the bass lines will take up the room increasing the sound floor but not overwhelming anything to the point of distraction.

Marissa’s voice is also very singular. Full throated with a timbre recalling the over modulated voices of modern female RnB singers yet with the ability to fly into a furious yell reminiscent of your favorite hardcore singer. With minimalist, often bleak lyrics that upon first listen may not make much sense; the singing complements the complex instrumentation perfectly turning each song into a powerful auditory affair.

As such, the chance to see them in the small Mercury Lounge was going to be a bit of a treat, perhaps more reminiscent of their innumerable basement shows rather than as I had see them in the past, on stage largely separated from the audience.

We arrived a bit later than anticipated to find the venue was running about a half hour late anyway. Shellshag were setting up, so we mingled. The crowd was a mixture of bike punks, indie darlings, and curious onlookers who dressed for a night out in Manhattan rather than to see a punk show.

Shellshag was a curious beast. Garage revivalism when typed out in a blog means denim and scarves and barely adequate playing. Sort of dressed up punk, as opposed to stripped down primal rock n roll. Shellshag is so stripped down that it’s two people, forgoing many traditional elements of punk or garage rock such as a bassist or say, a kick drum. Shell is the guitarist and Shag is the drummer. They set up facing each other rather than the audience, each performer singing into a mic stand that’s been Frankensteined together to form a “Y” with each of them singing into a different segment. Shag’s drum kit consisted of a low and high tom and a snare, while she was dressed with sleigh bells wrapped around her ankles and a coin belt I associate with belly dancers and stalls at the South Street Seaport. Her back pockets were filled with drumsticks. The overall effect was as though Rambo’s only chance to get back our MIA soldiers was to win a battle of the bands.

Their set was good stuff, reminiscent of folk punk while not falling victim of being overly folksy or overly punky and with a strong pop sensibility that doesn’t devolve into becoming overly twee. They’re able to straddle a number of traditions so comfortably that they’re able to cover When In Rome’s “The Promise,” a slice of post Depeche Mode synthpopia and Liz Phair’s “Fuck And Run” and close with a song whose lyrics are literally “One, Two, Three” over spastic playing. I was unfamiliar with the band, but there was a cadre of people to the right of the stage who knew every word and checking up on their history, it says they’ve been performing for fifteen years. I can see it.

There was a casual, fun attitude on the stage which carried over to the audience, and when someone made a request, Shellshag told her she’d have to come up on stage and sing it, and though nervous at first, Allison (sic?) was able to acquit herself marvelously. They essentially came across as a “Matt and Kim in a few years performance” and it was wonderful to see that type of energy and enthusiasm onstage. They’re opening for Shonen Knife here in the near future so I’m very interested in seeing them again. They only had a split 7” when I checked the merch table, so I walked away empty-handed. I’ve placed and order from their site and I’ll see if this energy translates.

Marissa came onstage wearing a black dress covered in white dots with lace collar and saddle shoes. It was a little disconcerting to realize that we were about to get our asses kicked by someone who looked like they escaped from a production of Our Town made their way to the LES and forced their way onstage. I don’t think I realized how small she was. Five feet, maybe? It added to the previous thought, that I was going to be savaged by a humming bird.

Without a word to the audience, they started.

In the venue at that distance I was able to take in a lot more of Marissa’s performance as the band’s sound washed over us. I had never seen the jerky struts she of her shoulder, neck and hips as she played, predicating changes in chords. I have never seen the damage she put herself through, tearing at strings to get perfect modulation, throwing herself to the floor to get effects right, her mop top hiding her eyes so that only her mouth from which issues that amazing voice is visible.

Mike used all of the space allotted to him, never still for more than a phrase, as his jerky bass translated to a strut so cool and relaxed that penguins were took up residence. Jared’s drumming didn’t seem to stop it’s measured sure syncopation until the set ended.

Tearing through a set list pulling from their range of material, many in the crowd sang along familiar with every note and the end of every song there was appreciative hollering and clapping. It was certainly worth the wait and I am eagerly looking forward to seeing them again.

Category : Show Review