Strawberry Fuzz unleashed charismatic chaos at Teragram Ballroom with support from Slaughterhouse and Frankie and the Studs
Strawberry Fuzz unleashed charismatic chaos at Teragram Ballroom with support from Slaughterhouse and Frankie and the Studs
Photos by Timothy Sinchok
Capping off a run of dates with a blistering homecoming show at Teragram Ballroom, SoCal surf punks Strawberry Fuzz headlined a stacked roster featuring thrashy tourmates Slaughterhouse and Sunset Strip superstars Frankie and the Studs that celebrated the depth and breadth at the harder end of LA’s modern rock spectrum.
Launching out of the gate with an explosive rush of pure unfiltered adrenaline, Frankie and the Studs quickly established the tone of the evening with an opening salvo of rapid fire rippers that tacked hard into the kind of lean but flashy rock n roll ethos that defines the Sunset Strip scene. Impressively coiffed and possessed of a natural animal magnetism, Frankie Herself rolled and writhed with whiplike dynamism, dangerous and alluring as each stinging movement underscored the confident cacophony crackling from the PA. The Studs proved of exemplary stock, providing a muscular sonic foundation for their fearless leader to pounce upon her unsuspecting prey. The back half of the band’s set eased off the gas every so slightly in favor of more groove oriented songs and almost-ballads that demonstrated the breadth of the band’s skill, but even the slower numbers were delivered with such panache that audience was powerless to resist the gutter glam flirtations of Frankie and the Studs.
Slaughterhouse is a band that defies categorization, an amalgamation of styles and influences coalesced into a howling homunculus bristling with a barely contained fury that both terrifies and thrills in equal measure. The band’s jagged, metallic edge is wielded with maniacal ferocity as buzzsaw riffs barrel headlong into a punishing bottom end and colossal percussion, thrashing and confrontational but irrefutably glamorous like glittering blood-splatted shards of glass exploding from the twisted steel carcass of a muscle car wreck rendered in cinematic slow motion. Slaughterhouse’s no-holds-barred brutality was wild and beguiling, inspiring a near-instantaneous eruption of moshing bodies at the foot of the stage, a seething mass of humanity raging in unison before this altar to unbridled aggression.
In addition to a solid setlist of originals including “TV Age” and “Posion,” Slaughterhouse transformed Blondie’s lusty New Wave come-on “Call Me” into a back alley ultimatum menacingly delivered from behind a glistening switchblade, and was joined by Mimi Doe of Niis for a riotous cover of that band’s scathing anthem championing feminine independence, “Fuck You Boy.” The tidal wave set receded as quickly as it began, retreating from the stage with the tempestuous intensity of Poseidon himself to brood in the deep, slumbering silently until the elemental savagery of Slaughterhouse could be unleashed once more.
The crowd was good and ready for the final act by the time hometown anti-heroes Strawberry Fuzz took to the spotlight like reigning conquistadores drunk with power on this final night of their latest blitzkrieg tour along the coast. Hailing from Venice Beach, the band embodies the hardcore, locals-only mentality that inspires a fervently devoted fanbase as committed to the the preservation of the neighborhood’s rough and tumble culture of hard knocks as they are to celebrating the gang-like cohesiveness of a community perched precariously on the absolute edge of western civilization. Strawberry Fuzz is a product of their environment - unpredictable, unhinged, and unflinching in their commitment to their roots.
Like Pennywise’s testosterone drenched classic “Bro Hymn” come to fully animated life, Strawberry Fuzz embodies shirtless machismo with perilous amounts of confrontational charisma, operating with nearly inhuman levels of confidence augmented by frothy torrents of cheap beer, bottomless bottles of Jameson, and unchecked libido cranked louder than their stacks of amplifiers. Surf rock, skate punk, and stoner-y melodic elements stand as pillars of Strawberry Fuzz’s monument to excess, setting them up as the unique kind of band that unites the punks and the jocks for an evening of hedonistic revelry if only to afford them all a chance to take swings at each other in the pit without fear of repercussions. Rarely in this day and age does a band so completely embody an utter disregard for conventions, instead willfully choosing to embrace the terrifying chaos that once made rock music the harbinger of societal apocalypse for so many pearl-clutching parriarchs, and in doing so reinforces the notion that sex, drugs, and solidarity will always be a threat to the status quo.
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