I didn’t know what to expect going into Girl Band’s second night at their old stomping grounds of Vicar Street. Performing at the venue seems like an annual ritual for the frenzied post-punk quartet – and a celebratory one at that.
Following their sophomore release The Talkies, the band proved that they were far from inert after a half-decade long hiatus. The album proved to be less of a linear auditory experience and rather a bone-shakingly stellar display of sheer industrial panic. Complete with the reverberations of scrap metal, dissonant yet hypnotic fuzzy grooves, and frontman Dara Kiely’s signature agonising caterwauls – an unhinged duality of noise and tension battered my eardrums. Despite the cacophony, it was comforting to know that one of the most abrasive no-wave tinged noise bands of the decade hailed from the capital, however while the album sonically communicated pure visceral terror, I was left wondering if the real thing would.
The calm before the storm came in the form of PowPig, the effortlessly cool four-piece hailing from Limerick City. Fusing dreamy jangle-pop and delicious harmonies with the essence of angsty riot grrrl rock has never sounded so good. The band kept their set fresh with a mix of slow cuts and songs that are very good to slam dance to (as well as a cheeky ode to one of the most enigmatic figures of the western world – The Room director / writer / actor Tommy Wiseau). With a charm that recalls the likes of The Raincoats, they’ve divined the starry-eyed power of alt rock, and it’s fair to say that I’m ecstatic for any material in the works.
The tension and tonal shift as Kiely (with his nervous bravado) and the band readied themselves on stage was impalpable. As they launched into the self-loathing tragicomedy that is ‘Pears for Lunch’ off 2015’s Holding Hands with Jamie I knew it was going to be one of those crowds. Christened with other peoples’ sweat and Jameson – I think I was reborn. Sandwiched between shirtless aging hipsters and 6’5” Workman’s boys I lost my phone, ticket, shoe, and sanity in the seemingly never-ending pit.
Regardless, hearing Kiely’s struggles with social isolation and body dysmorphia amid the throbbing percussion and lurching bass was a cathartic experience – a sobering reminder of the insidious nature of anxiety and how this relentlessly overwhelming soundscape isn’t a quirky stylistic choice. Leading into the pulsating seven-minute odyssey of ‘Fucking Butter’ and the noisy impermeating atonal groove of ‘Lawman’, it remained an incredibly personal experience: a distinct sense of intimacy paired with local pride.
Despite using the show as an opportunity to promote their latest efforts, their set consisted of a perfect melange of both records – littered with short circle pit catalysts (‘The Last Riddler’ and ‘The Cha Cha Cha’ come to mind) but ultimately maintained the gut-rumbling face-melting experience I was promised. The mere mention of a possible gig next year after the brutal post-punk closer that was ‘Paul’ has me excited. Hopefully I’ll be contorting myself for years to come.
