Looking for Richmond’s punk scene? It’s in an art gallery

Nicholas Bonadies

Staff Writer

Band shirts, peeber, something you might have heard referred to as “jorts”–all this is familiar, but there’s a distinctly Richmond flavor to the proceedings at Gallery5 in Jackson Ward last Wednesday night that I couldn’t quite place.

It wasn’t the actual venue, though it could be argued that the re-purposing of very old buildings for very cool things is an honored Richmond pastime. A staff member told me Gallery5 is an old firehouse built during the Civil War, which explains the giant industrial-era fixtures jutting conspicuously from the older walls and ceilings (speaking of ceilings, there’s a giant spider with a red banjo strapped to its thorax hanging from this one, which made me unreasonably happy).

It wasn’t the countless gig posters hung in huge swaths from a number of timeworn brick walls, nor is it the selection of locally handmade clothing and crafts for sale upstairs (wares include, but are by no means limited to, rubber-stamped Moleskines that are slightly more expensive than regular Moleskines). There’s also a room devoted to paper auctions for the work of local artists.

No, the giddying Richmond vibe I was catching was completely unplaceable, or maybe just so pervasive that it was inconspicuous. Or it could just be the “jorts.” In any case, I was promised some fantastic bands at the April 7 show – three of them local – and by the end of the night I was not remotely disappointed.

It’s fashionable to disparage opening acts, but Gallery5 has brought us some quality local groups: Sundials’ rock-solid drummer carries the sometimes faltering vocal work, delivering a performance the audience considers headbob-worthy, to say the least. Femme-punk outfit Two Funerals are more memorable musically, especially in the last song of the set (“about being fed up with racist sexist sh**”), which goes dangerously gentle and reflective for a spell before it blows up in your eardrums.

The first we hear of Antlers is a pair of tea bells jingling against their only mic, slowly pulling back until it drowns in a stomach-churning din of bass. This instrumental set has an almost orchestral sound variety–alternately hypnotic and thundering, never giving in to the monotonous or over-worn. When vocals do occasionally appear – un-amplified – the effect is ethereal and haunting–calling as if from far away, voices carried on the wind.

Between sets, perusing a giant wall of 4×6’s taken at Gallery5 concerts, I spoke with Jen Old, who assured me I would find the musical stylings of Screaming Femalesrapidly gaining fame on their tour from New Jersey – most satisfactory.

“Get ready to have your face melted,” she said.

She later added, referring to Screaming Females frontwoman Marissa Paternoster: “I would be her baby momma forever.”

Paternoster is the only actual female of the three Screaming Females, it turns out. I saw her lurking kind of spookily in the shadows during setup, maybe five feet tall, wearing one of Wednesday Addams’ dresses, hiding her eyes under a solid black muss of hair (I had a moment straight from an Asian horror flick where I thought I was the only one who could see her).

She picked up her guitar and mumbled, “Hey, we’re … a band,” and in the next three seconds, I knew Jen’s face-melting spiel is no joke.

Paternoster is a rhapsodical, unrestrained guitarist whose voice might rival Diamanda Galas’ in sheer terrifying pyrotechnic range; sensuous, savage and unrelenting. Her solos came off sounding like two or more guitars and some instrument they haven’t invented yet, screeching and grinding in a swirling mass of white-hot wire.

Every so often, out of nowhere, Paternoster’s jaw stretched open just a bit too far to make physical sense and let loose a blood-curdling scream. It was, true to all accounts, nothing short of face-melting.

Seriously, my face melted off: As of now, I no longer have a face. I have Screaming Females, from whom we’ll undoubtedly be hearing a lot more in the future, to thank for that.

Paternoster has her own thanks to give long before her set has ended, over the enraptured cries of her audience. “I just wanna thank my stylist, Dominique,” she said, blankly, “who makes me look pretty.” Later she added, “Thank you guys.  This is, uh …” she paused as the crowd roared, “… really great.”

Drummer Jarrett Dougherty steped forward: “(Gallery5) should be proud–there ain’t a place like this in every city.” He handed the mic back to Paternoster.

“He’s better at talking than I am,” she muttered.

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