Nothing would have made the Violent Femmes a better band, because they were perfect. Gordon Gano sings like he’s a sick cat and has been drunk-crying all day; he has a kind of nasal whine, full of defeat, with a timbre as refined as cheap whiskey with generic Cherry Coke. I love his voice like I love cheap, shitty cocktails; it’s a love fueled by disillusionment and a longing for my more reckless and grimier youth when I didn’t care so much for creature comforts or sleep. The musical structure of their songs, like most punk pieces, is simple. But, like a lot of punk, their catchy songs about needing/wanting or frustration/disappointment are embittered perfection driven by a stripped, primitive skill and sound, and all of this sits squarely and perfectly with some of my perpetually adolescent tendencies.
Continue reading “Show Review: Violent Femmes at the Fillmore, 05/11/2016”
