I once saw Jose Gonzalez perform, and the audience sat in cross-legged silence as the troubadour covered The Knife, Kylie Minogue, and Joy Division. This Fucked Up show was the opposite of that Jose Gonzalez show. Singer Father Damien began the set wearing a gold baseball hat, jeans, and some kind of shirt. About three songs in, the imposing front man had stripped to his underwear, coiling his head with the microphone cord and exposing a field of back hair for a throbbing sea of adoring moshers and crowd surfers. He hopped a short wall bordering the stage and partied with those of us near the bar; a pair of girls pleaded for me to shield them, and I think he kissed a guy on the mouth.
Between political ramblings on whether or not the band is fascist (I have no idea what he was talking about) and vivid commentary on the Canadian bus decapitator, Fucked Up assaulted the intimate venue with some of the most aggressive playing I've witnessed in a long time. As fans of the Canadian punks will recognize, the band is fantastic at blending ferocious hardcore with melodic undercurrents in a way that recalls classic Hüsker Dü. The band’s brutal live musicianship and Damien’s guttural vocals tended to stress these hardcore roots at the expense of the melody, but there were moments of softness to pull it all together, making it possible for everyday hipsters to enjoy the tunes alongside Zoloft-popping James Dean look-alikes and menacing grindcore toughs.
