The crashing cymbals that open this Philadelphia trio's signal the start of forty minutes of both chaos and meditated passion.

With a name like Mannequin Pussy, song titles like “Clit Eastwood,” and “Meatslave,” and lyrics like the repeating, orgasmic “uhn!” in “Sneaky,” the band never separates sex from their art. But that's only the surface. They aren't loyal to a particular sound. Some songs are something akin to upbeat shoegaze, while others sway more to hardcore punk. Of course, trivial aesthetic matters like this don't matter to Mannequin Pussy (in fact, they choose to characterize themselves as “shitpunk”) — what they do seem to care about is quality music, no matter what you call it.

And that music provided for a display of unadulterated emotion, coming from both romantic inspirations and simply having a pulse. Marisa spits lyrics that pull you by the hair with empathetic fervor, whether they're passive— like “Clue Juice”'s “Well, if that's the way you want it // Well, then that's the way it is,”— or aggressive— like when she cries out “I'M THE ONLY ONE PAYING ANY ATTENTION” on “Meatslave 1.” Mannequin Pussy get it: they possess that uncanny ability to not just regurgitate their feelings, but rather make the audience feel what they feel through unabashedly abrasive song.

By the near-end of their set, Marisa says “we're still Mannequin Pussy.” It may seem redundant but I didn't receive it as silly stage talk. I think we all needed a reminder of where we stood after being in Mannequin Pussy's world for nearly an hour.
-Keyian Vafai