As anyone will most likely testify, traditional Victorian nursery rhymes can shove it, because Monday’s child is never fair of face. All day I feel like I’ve recently been hit by an Anvil (the band or the object, they’re both heavy as fuck) and I cannot imagine resurrecting myself enough in time to visit the local concert hall come nightfall. It can take a certain amount of promoter cojones and a special band to successfully lure out the populace into pulling a Monday nighter, but it certainly dulls the pain when the venue is pretty much as cosy and familiar as your own dimly lit living room anyway.
The Brudenell has Monday evening solace in spades and, coupled with locals Double Muscle as the sole support tonight, the only thing that could make you feel more at home would be if the bar served cheese on toast and a mug of tea (they probably would if you asked). However, Muscle Muscle’s spasmodic indie rock is far from soothing whale noises luring the audience sofa-bound. Songs such as ‘Jail’ jerk along with a instantly dance-inducing clatter of high-hats complemented by nagging guitar riffs and the deadpan narrative of "two men with short hair head off to jail". New single ‘Tommy’ is the highlight of the set, with self-exposing lyrics and uncomplicated but brain-snagging guitar melodies, the three members’ individual efforts are balanced perfectly to create a short and crackling scuzzy pop song that should hopefully get them noticed.
A somewhat hazy gap follows the Muscle warm-up and, before most of the slightly swelled audience have clocked on, Screaming Females face the spotlights rather unassumingly. Tonight we’re treated to a smattering of songs from all over their four albums and EP (all newer than 2006, it seems too new to call a "back catalogue"), Marissa Paternoster’s mastery of guitar pedals upholding a swirling ambience around the band. Despite his title, King Mike doesn’t even get a microphone to make any kind of public address, and Paternoster’s spine seems irreparably bent at a right-angle - constantly folded in half, she seems unaware that she is serenading anything but her own tiny shoes.
The band sound far tighter than on record, and instead of being able to distinguish individual instruments to the point of disjointedness (like on most of Castle Talk), what is produced is a thickly blended musical smoothie with a full fat sound that swirls its way around the skulls of everyone watching. The skipping, trebly basslines that His Royal Highness pummels out on his beautiful black Rickenbacker toss and turn like those under any of the best Smiths songs, but using a similar technique to Brooklyn-based neighbours Double Dagger also incorporates bass power chords to fill out the three-piece perfectly.
The whole band’s technical capability really is outstanding, and they see fit to add screaming hot blues jams to the end of songs such as ‘Boss’, only making them more enjoyable and proving that Patternoster can sink more than a few gin and pentatonics. The Females’ sole female is not only capable of mesmerising with her guitar, as she whirls about the stage in a black dress that makes her look like an escapee from an abbey she shrugs back up to the microphone occasionally to chuck out her glass-cuttingly shrill voice at the audience like throwing stars. Her stage persona is entirely schizophrenic; between songs she is quiet and retiring, not to be mistaken for aloofness, and in contrast when given the chance to inflict friction burns on her fret-board she is a whirling mess of hair and smoke. The encore finally erupts with the windy phased intro of ‘I Don’t Mind It’ and a sing-a-long ensues that, although lacking for the rest of their set, was never missed. The Singles EP probably comes closest to capturing the complete qualities the band only seem to have live, but with relentless improvisation and a brooding on stage charisma, Screaming Females are decidedly more fun to listen to in the flesh.