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Back in 2005 when Seattle-based quartet These Arms Are Snakes unleashed Oxeneers or The Lion Sleeps When Its Antelope Go Home onto the unsuspecting college radio airwaves, the executive staff at our college radio station came up with a drunken continuum, with “tipsy” on one end and “These Arms Are Snakes” at the other. Reason being, their live show provided a rather impressive interpretation of their high-energy studio recordings, but singer Steve Snere’s antics (which included standing on the monitors and wrapping the microphone cord around his neck) were overshadowed with a sense of impending doom. The guy could barely stand up as it was. It was hard not to think, "This guy is going to die. He's going to die here, onstage, and I'm going to be here watching as he does."
These days, Snere still stands on equipment and crowdsurfs with regularity, but he appears to have better motor control -- leaving far fewer fans shocked and sickened, staring up from the pulsing pit. But even sober, Snere still registers a growl that's only barely intelligible through the vocoder. Nevertheless, everyone in the front seemed to be a dedicated TAAS fan, singing along to all the words as bodies slammed into one another. When The Coathangers' Julia Kugel tossed a beer can at the band (as a sign of affection, she told me), the crowd responded with boos: either a sign of fans dedication or the genteel nature of D.C.'s scene.
Beyond the crowd-feeding raging antics, the broader appeal of These Arms Are Snakes can be attributed to the band's considerable prowess. All three of the albums the band draws from for their set contribute to a patterned brilliance to their madness, so at no point is the music reduced to sheer noise. Ryan Frederiksen's guitar riffs won over both the punks hungry for aggression and the people standing safely to the side who marveled at their complexity. This was especially apparent during the cuts that they played from last year's Tail Swallower and Dove. These songs prove that it's possible to inspire a sweaty raucous mess while still placating the more technically minded people in the audience.
The band enjoyed a great build up to their unhinged performance. The locals in Caverns (***), despite having a less than sizable audience at 8 p.m., showed why they were the perfect local opener for this band. Their (incredibly loud) performance provides a tightrope balance between beauty and insanity. There's a certain hardcore aesthetic that's especially evident in Ross Hurt's drumming, with ridiculously speedy shredding from the guitar that somehow perfectly meshes with the almost jazz-like keyboard melodies of Patrick Taylor. "Turkish Bath House Armageddon," off the band's Sing Along EP, was one of the clear highlights of the whole evening, as Taylor stepped away from the keyboards during Kevin Hillard's Middle East–inspired guitar solo to engage the audience in an enthusiastic clap-along.
Atlanta's The Coathangers followed Caverns with a set that rocked rather hard, despite some Spinal Tap-esque moments. Tiny bassist Meredith Franco had to step offstage to borrow a grossly oversized bass from All the Saints; when the band attempted to finish off with an audience request for "Don't Touch My Shit," The Coathangers' amp broke, bring an abrupt end to the set. However, in between these moments, these ladies proved that they know how to rock just as hard as all of the guys on the bill. Their vocal stylings are abrasive at best, ranging from high-pitched squeal (exhibited by keyboardist Candice Jones) to alto growl (by drummer Stephanie Luke.) Since their self-titled release in 2007, they've grown from borderline novelty act (with song titles like "Buckhead Betty" that really don't have much resonance outside of their hometown) to a legitimate heir apparent to Sleater-Kinney.
The only brief hiccup in the night's momentum came when All the Saints took the stage. All the Saints have a very dark and loud approach to their fuzz-addled, shoegaze-tinged rock. They're not bad, and in fact just released an album on Chicago's beleaguered, legendary Touch & Go label. The problem is that there's a small band out of Brooklyn called A Place to Bury Strangers who take a similar stylistic approach and do it better. And when a band has carved out a niche so well as they have, it's hard to avoid comparisons. Despite the band's best efforts, All the Saints can't.
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Great review, Val. Way to show inside knowledge of the Coathangers, who you forgot to mention are super hot. I didn't get to stick around for All the Saints (Marnie Stern was calling at DC9), but I gotta say, ouch!