It makes sense that Garland of Hours opened up for Evangelista last night at the Velvet Lounge. The last time Carla Bozulich came to town, that time in support of a record called Evangelista rather than fronting a band by that name, her opener at the Warehouse Next Door was Anni Rossi, a violist whose frenetic attack on the instrument gave the impression of a full band even though she was the only one on stage. Cellist Amy Domingues of Three Stars alums Garland of Hours was similarly alone up there—Garland is sometimes a band, sometimes just Domingues—yet had the illusion of more people via a multi track looper that filled in as rhythm section while Domingues held down the singing and the melodic lines. Despite some onstage disagreements between her and her electronic accompanist—the looper was acting a little loopy early in the set—her intimate chamber pop, which straddles the line between modern and medieval with its modal scales and madrigalesque storytelling, provided a fitting contrast between the noisy acts that bookended her.

Onstage before Garland of Hours was Vampire Hands, a percussion-heavy Minneapolis psych-pop outfit that played with a taut energy and a copious dose of reverb-drenched volume. The sound tested the mettle of the somewhat legendary Velvet sound system, which wasn't always up to the task, squawking with unintended feedback at times. We hope that it was a singular result of something in the Vampires' setup and not a warning of things to come at the Lounge now that longtime sound man extraordinaire Rob Curtis has departed the venue for the Rock & Roll Hotel. The band soldiered on through any difficulties, though, and has some kickass songs that improbably blend dance punk with hints of psychedelia.

But the main event was Evangelista, and if Vampire Hands' volume was a test of the sound system, the marquee band was a boot camp of pure unadulterated sonic assault. It's been fascinating to chart Carla Bozulich's artistic trajectory over the years. Where age seems to bring complacency and a certain mellowness to many musicians, she seems to embrace noise and chaos more and more as time goes on. A big part of that may be a direct result of her collaborations with avant-guitarist (and current member of the Wilco roster) Nels Cline—Bozulich and members of her band often employ many of the types of toys, e-bows, and gadgets that are a hallmark of Cline's playing. As brilliant as she's always been, her tastes have always been all over the place. From the dark industrial sounds of Ethyl Meatplow to the country punk fusion of the Geraldine Fibbers, to the experimentalism of Scarnella, her approach always had a kitchen sink sense of inclusion. It was really on her first proper solo record, Evangelista, that she finally settled into an area that seemed wholly her own; perhaps that's why her band now bears the name of that lovely and gothically brutal record.

Photos by brandonwu

Evangelista's show started with the crackles and pops of an old piece of vinyl, playing an old religious tune over the PA before the record scratched and skipped, and the band began filtering in with low rumbles, scrapes, and rustles. The opener, "Evangelista I", was like the sound of a terrifying nightmare, an epic blast of violin bows screeching across guitar strings, otherworldly taps and creaks emanating from all over the stage and swirling in the air. Bozulich's deep bellow managed to rise above all this, a howl that sends hairs standing on end and reaches deep inside your own throat until it twists the pit of the stomach into knots. The band rode wave after wave of cacophony before disintegrating into nothingness.

Bozulich knows well the value of tension and release, and they followed the nerve-jarring dissonance of their opener with perhaps the most straightforward song in their repertoire, a chilling cover of Low's "Pissing", and then the sweetly wrenching old spiritual, "Steal Away". The pattern continued for the rest of the set, as the band reached frenzied, ear-splitting peaks while Bozulich delivered guttural, primal shrieks that would have sent Diamanda Galas running for cover, only to pull back into restrained melodicism while the singer retreated to a tender croon or a half-whisper.

Part of what has always made Bozulich such an engaging performer is the reckless abandon with which she throws herself into each performance. She hops and shambles around the stage, uncontrollable and devilish grins spreading across her face, filled to overflowing with the combination of joy and painfully exposed nerves that infuse every note. The sound is difficult, but never confrontational for confrontation's sake. Bozulich means for every tear in the fabric of her heart to reach out and touch every face looking up at her, and it's no accident that the word "love" features prominently in her lyrics: love for the music, for her band, for her audience, and for the notion of love itself, with all the inherent pain and pleasure that goes with it.

Twice during the show she sojourned out into the audience, including during the haunting organ and vocal closer, "Baby, That's the Creeps". It's something she seems to do often in performances in recent years, wandering among the crowd as she sings or plays a drum, leaning into people in the audience for support lest she fall over. Erasing that glass wall at the front of the stage, connecting with the audience not just with her eyes, but in a tactile, physical sense, is just another part of the bond she consistently forges between herself and a room. She strips away performance conventions in the same way Evangelista refuse to be bound by songwriting conventions, and shows just how rewarding emotional and artistic risk-taking can be when you're willing to place your bloodied, beating heart on display for all to hear.