The skies opened in a soaking downpour, while inside, the Thunderpussy storm was wet, wild, and pounding, leaving everyone deliciously drenched in their wake.
Thunderpussy didn’t just take the stage at the Teragram Ballroom — they claimed it, owned it, and left it smoldering like a velvet throne after a royal romp. Touring with Portland heavy-psych powerhouse Hippie Death Cult, the Seattle quartet delivered a night that felt less like a rock show and more like a ritual of gloriously unrestrained, high-voltage sensuality—electric, cheeky, and dripping with swagger. It capped off a wild, pleasure-seeking romp through Southern California that began in the tight little confines of San Diego’s Casbah, wound its way through the prickly, cactus-studded mystique of the high-desert haunt Pappy & Harriet’s, and finally slid into Los Angeles, where the Teragram Ballroom became their playground for one last, spectacular release.
Hippie Death Cult opened the evening with a set that carved out the room’s sonic boundaries, stretching them wide enough for everything that was about to follow. Their riffs rolled in thick and humid, like the first wafts of incense in a temple of heavy drop-tuned psych-riff worship. Guitarist and founder Eddie Brnabic’s guitar tone was volcanic—saturated, molten, and constantly on the verge of eruption—while vocalist/bassist Laura Phillips dropped heavy grooves on top of snarling and wailing vocals. Drummer Ryan Moore anchored the grooves with a primal, double-kick drum locomotive pulse. Their performance carried that familiar Portland doom-adjacent grit, but with a surprising warmth, like they were drawing the crowd in close before setting the fuse.
By the time Thunderpussy emerged, the audience was already loosened and buzzing, primed for whatever pleasures the headliners felt like delivering. The band didn’t waste a second. They launched straight into a barrage of riffs and theatrics that made it clear they weren’t just here to play—they were here to seduce. Every gesture, every hair flip, every smirk from vocalist Molly Sides, intertwining with the riffs and smoldering solos from guitarist Whitney Petty, felt like a dare to take another step into their world.
Sides remains one of rock’s most magnetic performers, a whirlwind of glam-punk charisma who treats the stage like a playground, a battlefield, and a boudoir all at once. She prowled the lip of the stage with feline confidence, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with vocals that oscillated from sultry purrs to ecstatic, full-bodied belts.
And yes—Thunderpussy’s very name was a playground for innuendo, one the band wielded with both humor and total command. Pussy, money, weed, Sides teased, letting the crowd know without a doubt what the priority was, before launching into another burner. Between the explosive drums, the snarling guitars, and Sides’ theatrical athleticism, the whole room felt caught in a delightful tug-of-war between rock catharsis and flirtatious chaos.
The band’s chemistry was impeccable—tight but never stuffy, polished yet never at the expense of spontaneity. Guitarist Whitney Petty’s playing was especially blistering, slicing through the haze with sharp, melodic phrasing and a dazzling command that felt equal parts virtuosity and seduction. Every solo landed like a spark on the audience’s collective fuse, igniting cheers, screams, and more than a few blushes. And in the warm, intimate confines of the Teragram, the whole night unfolded like a perfectly staged tryst between band and fans—sweaty, electric, and delightfully impossible to resist.
The Teragram audience was fully seduced by the final stretch of the set, chanting, rocking, and losing themselves in the band’s whirlwind of sound and spectacle. Thunderpussy closed the night with a finale that felt like both an exorcism and an embrace, leaving the crowd breathless, grinning, and a little weak in the knees.
In the end, Thunderpussy didn’t just play a concert—they delivered a full-bodied, full-throttle celebration of rock, pleasure, and unapologetic power. Judging by the many fans who lingered long after the final note to meet and connect with both bands, this was a night neither the audience nor the performers are likely to forget anytime soon.
Hippie Death Cult and Thunderpussy are collectively warm, engaging, and generous, and after spending three nights with them on their Southern California swing, it’s clear they are absolutely worth seeing live—and supporting.
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