Then, Screaming Females. Their set started fast, with little introduction, and only got faster. A decade of playing together has trimmed anything resembling fat off the trio’s set: the band were all sinew and bone. Even their moments of relative calm had a potency that could put a death metal band mid-riff to shame, and the hushed first half of ‘Hopeless’ was so shocking that some members of the crowd let out loud, involuntarily peals of nervous laughter.
It was artful disassembly, and guitarist and vocalist Marissa Paternoster picked apart songs and riffs with a singular skill and precision. Nobody plays guitar like Paternoster. I’m not even convinced she actually plays it – the word ‘play’ implies a talent that can be learnt, but I don’t think even hours of practice could have someone doing what Paternoster does to an instrument, or to a crowd.
The set didn’t finish as much as it snapped clean off. By the time it was all done, Paternoster was lying on the ground, screaming into the mic. A normal crowd would have pulled back – they were very close to Paternoster, standing over her, breaking the boundaries of the stage. But by that point they weren’t a normal crowd. They didn’t pull back. Instead they quietly moved forward and huddled around Paternoster, hands cupping around a flame, as one final, hoarse scream rang out.
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