Sexfaces Live in D.C.
by Rax King
From the sticky floor of Washington D.C.’s Dew Drop Inn, Sexfaces’ drummer/vocalist Jacky Cougar paused between songs to pay a touching tribute to Pere Ubu’s recently departed frontman David Thomas. “I hear he was kind of a prick,” Cougar said affably. “But people say that about Sal, too. And Sal is actually great.” That earned him an eye roll from guitarist/vocalist Sal Go, just before the band launched into a sprawling, chaotic take on Patti Smith’s “Gloria,” complete with a screeching wail that the song never knew it needed, courtesy of violist Hana Racecar. The band had been scheduled to play somewhere else, or maybe sometime else—the show on that warm April night was, in some alluded-to but never fully explicated way, unplanned, and the crowd barely broke double digits despite Sexfaces’ local popularity. But, crucially, there wasn’t a body in the room that wasn’t dancing. We were few, we were electrified, we were along for the ride. I couldn’t remember the last show that had given me that adrenalized, loopy feeling.
I will always be grateful that D.C.’s punk scene raised me—whatever I am, I am by the grace of God and the Black Cat. But at 33, I’ve been suffering the early symptoms of the pathological boredom that often overtakes punks of a certain age. I’ve begun to suspect that my most formative shows are behind me. I’ve long stopped checking off boxes: baby’s first mosh pit injury, baby’s first crowd surf, baby’s first romance with a bassist who flew baby to Texas for a week-long love affair that left baby hungover and brokenhearted, and so on. At the Dew Drop Inn that night, I didn’t feel I was checking some brand new box, and I was glad for it. These were old school maneuvers, executed with style and verve. Come to Sexfaces for a steak-and-two, not for molecular gastronomy.
Keep us breathing fire!
For $3/month you can read this whole post and get our weekdaily newsletter too!