The flyer for the show I saw on April 4, with Puking Pearls, Condenada, and Modus Ponens, had an address in a part of Wicker Park that was expensive even when the neighborhood was barely gentrified, with a “#2” at the end. I was pretty sure I was on my way to the sort of loft where I wouldn’t be able to afford the rent if I wanted to. So it was a pleasant surprise to arrive at a plain-looking brick two-flat with a couple of punk rockers hanging out in front, suffering through a chilly smoke break. Apartment punk shows are always a treat, and that’s even more true now that they’re getting so rare in the city.
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Modus Ponens opened with a passable set of dancey, bluesy rock that reminded me of the Gossip, but I spent most of it watching the place fill up—people were dressed in everything from stylized street-punk gear to vintage evening wear—and texting my friends to tell them that they might still be able to make it to what looked like it was gonna be an epic show. I looked up from my phone to see that the Latina wearing the best denim vest in the joint—tricked out with studs on the shoulders and a Poison Idea back patch—was the front woman of Condenada, who promptly tore into the first in what would be a series of pummeling, frenetic hardcore rippers.
I managed to take a few photos where you can actually make out what’s going on, but even in those there’s always at least one blurry figure caught in motion. By the end of the set the drummer had taken off her shirt, and the crowd demonstrated that she hadn’t violated any scene protocols by basically not reacting at all. The room had turned into a smelly sauna, and the windows were dripping with condensation. Puking Pearls got upstaged a little even before they went on—which is saying a lot, since they ended up inspiring the first all-female mosh pit I’d ever seen.
Bazan’s forthcoming Curse Your Branches (Barsuk) will be his first proper full-length as a solo act; it’s also the first where he sings mainly as himself, instead of as different characters. I haven’t heard it in album form yet, but judging from the songs he played at the show, it’s a wrenching breakup album in the tradition of Blood on the Tracks and Here, My Dear, a heartbreaking, bitter indictment of a relationship gone wrong. But he’s not dumping a lover—he’s dumping God.
