Baptists Pack
a Punk Sex Punch

Music is at least 60% sex appeal. If not more. Personally, I’d like to say 90%, but I’ll play fair. Just this once. And if what I say is true, then Baptists issue a satisfying sex punch.

I saw Suicidal Tendencies at the Vogue on Dec. 4. It was about what you expect from any aging rockers. They scream about what it’s like to be a wounded, Pepsi-addled youth, and cry, “ANTI-ESTABLISHMENT” – while their shit is sponsored by Monster.

Can I please unsee that show? NOT sexy. Your jersey is NOT sexy. Neither are your bursts of inspirational wisdom. I don’t want to ever hear that I can achieve my potential if I reach for the stars. I just want to suicide myself and have FUN. The music was good, but the lack of sex definitely lost them a few points they can’t regain. My boner was officially KILLED.

Baptists are a little band from Vancouver. But they delivered so much abrasive sexual energy at the Rickshaw Theatre on Dec. 6 that I almost died. This is a great reaction. Probably the best there is. Led by the violent vocals and zombie war march of frontman Andrew Drury, Baptists deliver a lesson in sophisticated punk drumming and coarse hardcore riffing. This is a band that makes a primitive, graceful descent into Hell – and takes everyone with them.

Aggression is sexy. Grace is sexy. Performance is key. You have to be a band worth watching. Entertain me, dammet. Otherwise I’ll steal your music and write a bad review. Worse: I won’t write a word.

Performance is all about consistency. I don’t care about your job or your wife or your dog. I don’t care if you are seven years clean and sober. I don’t care what TV shows you like or what you do at home. When you’re onstage drilling the audience with caustically designed noise, when you’re hung up like a Satanic Jesus bleeding under naked white lights, you have to make me believe you. And then when it’s all over and you’ve left my bed, go ahead and laugh behind my back. Go back to your TV. But give me a moment I can roll around in my brain for days, weeks, months, YEARS. My whole fucking life. A moment that captures me and stops time, where nothing else exists…

Except for that blonde slice of cake standing next to me. (“Hi…”)

After the set, I hunted the singer and made him pose for a photo. He seemed like he hated it and me. I love that. I’m at a metal show. I want you to spit on me and tell me to fuck off. Not shake my hand and blush. I also want to tell YOU to fuck off, and you’ll take it like a man.

When I was done exchanging insults, I packed up my bag of tricks and trekked home. Ended up at a Tim Horton’s, half-asleep mid-sandwich because I couldn’t get a cab. This guy sat at my table and he was either a prophet or a junkie. I imagine that he was lacerating me with Biblical poetry because I was wearing a black rosary over my white lingerie top. But he was probably just buying a date.

Photos by Harris Kidd

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