“If we can do one thing for you tonight, it’s this…” Missy Dabice, the lead singer of Mannequin Pussy purrs into the microphone. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the crowd is hanging on her every word. “It is to help you recognize that dark pit inside of you, where you’re holding all your pain and anger.” She clutches her fist to her stomach for emphasis. “We want you to let that shit out. I want you to make sounds you never thought you could make. In three…two…one…” the house lights go black, and the small Portland venue explodes with guttural screams and shrieks. Immediately, the band ricochets into the off-kilter, manic punk track “OK? OK! OK? OK!” charging and battering through the final half of their set.
It’s a far cry from the hushed drums and mournful melody of their set’s opener, “I Don’t Know You,” but that’s the dichotomy of Mannequin Pussy. It’s vulnerable but ferocious. It’s intoxicating but unsettling. It’s fucking genius.
When I caught their sold-out Portland show supporting their fourth studio album, I Got Heaven, they were only 100 tickets shy of selling out the entire tour. My guess is they’ve rightfully done so by now. Their shows are mouthy and messy. Their music is a whirlwind of raw energy and passion that’s as danceable as it is cathartic, and people are starting to catch wind. One moment you’ll be scream-singing phrases that are so emotionally potent they almost feel Swiftian: “I still love you, you stupid fuck.” But the next, you’ll be flailing around in a mosh pit while MP pushes you forward with supersonic adrenaline: “and yes, I suffer for the money; serve me on a platter and then cut me.”
Since their formation in 2010, Mannequin Pussy has created a sound that deftly navigates the realms of punk, rock, and pop. The band’s lineup, rounded out by Kaleen Reading on drums, Maxine Steen on synth, and Athanasios Paul on bass, delivers a tight and explosive performance. Their lyrics delve deep into themes of identity, personal struggles, and societal issues, seeking out modern conventions just to sneer at them. It’s a playful middle finger to the world that feels very of the moment.
Dabice commands the stage with a magnetism that’s impossible to ignore. She can be the hushed, doe-eyed songstress and then instantly flick over to a gruesome barking dog. Her performance is cathartic, blending brutality and warmth in a way that resonates on a visceral level.
Now comes the part where I’m supposed to convince you to go see the tour. But my guess is, unless you already have a ticket, you’re shit outta luck at this point. I hesitate to put too much meaning into a punk show, but this tour–this album–feels meaningful. It’s a reclamation of messy independence in a world that seems to make less sense by the day. As they continue to push boundaries, Mannequin Pussy remains a vital force in modern music, proving that raw emotion and unapologetic passion are as potent as ever.
