Now I get why kids these days call them "shows" rather than "concerts."

In the spirit of Christopher Columbus and new world exploration, I ventured out of my two mile radius on Tuesday to check out some music at Club Spaceland in Silverlake. Spaceland is roughly the size of a small closet with a stage fit for your neighbor's garage band. The place is decorated head to toe with what I can only describe as 80's prom garb. A ticket to see a band there will cost you less than your lunch, and the bartenders have clearly been doing their own stash, which means means seriously stiff drinks for those of you who show up thirsty.

I was there to see Vato Negro, which is a bass-centric jam band side project of sorts fueled by Juan Alderete of the Mars Volta. Vato Negro's current lineup features Mars Volta guitarist/mastermind Omar Rodriguez-Lopez, and I was practically peeing in my pants in excitement to see someone whom I regard to be the most interesting musician of our time play in such a small venue.

Shortly after Vato Negro left the stage (ps: they were fantastic), I noticed that I was suspiciously encircled with angry moshing lesbians who apparently thought we were all gladiators in the Colloseum. I immediately ran for it, trying to escape the belligerance while throwing elbows and questioning my stance on Prop 8. Excuse me for being a bore, but I can enjoy music sans morphing into a human torpedo with short hair and strap-on.

Onward to my surprise: the main act of the night, Mexican punk band Le Butcherettes, who will soon release an album produced by Lord Omar Rodriguez-Lopez himself. Le Butcherettes are a 2 or 3 piece band fronted by a possessed woman (possessed by the devil? possessed by schizophrenia? who knows, check the above image of her if you're confused) with a passionate voice who calls herself Teri Gender Bender. She looked and sounded like a time capsule from 1990's Riot Grrrl (a feminist punk movement and sisterly spawn of Washington's grunge scene in the 1990s, for you music civilians).

This Teri Gender Bender lady waltzed on stage in her signature thrift store dress doused in fake blood and began flitting around with a feather duster instead of a guitar, tidying up the equipment like a regular old housewife. In a predictable plot twist, she ditched the feather duster, marched over to her instruments, and began to bombast us with her music. The show was a complete hurricane. The male bassist and drummer of the band were covered in masks, because, you know, men are dispensable nameless creatures who serve only to support us women in our quest for greatness and/or the spotlight.

Teri Gender Bender really, really wanted you to notice her presence (which was not an easy task as I was focused on dodging the moshing lesbians). She flailed around the stage like a fish out of water. She threw things into the audience (ex: her shoe at my head), she dove into the crowd with a zombie expression in her eyes, and she was lost in it all for much of the show before resurfacing. I was a little worried that she might pop up and strangle a patron with the microphone, but luckily, this crazy lady in cherry lipstick draws the line at homocide. She marched around like a puppet controlled by a demon. If you had a mute button for your mind, she would have just ended up looking like a misguided provocateur, a child throwing a temper tantrum to command some attention.

Flagrant attempts at feminist imagery aside, Le Butcherettes have got the punk sound down, a glorious sound that has been missing since Carrie Brownstein left her post as Sleater-Kinney guitarist and gravitated to a more refined, adult position as a clever NPR blogger. Le Butcherettes are catchy and captivating, with a raw vibe that I welcome as a nice change from namby-pamby pop. This is, after all, a world where women seem to think the only roles available in music are either as scantily clad dance acts or as sinfully young figureheads singing cute country songs.

Someone should inform Teri Gender Bender that talent speaks for itself, and she has it. The thing about talent is, it doesn't have to come along with animal carcasses and blood, violence, or masks. Black Sabbath and Kiss already happened. This is music we're talking about here, let us listen to it. Or maybe I'm just to old to get into the spirit of it all. In any case, I recommend the single "Henry Don't Got Love." Listen for free here if you're curious enough to dabble into Le Butcherettes (songs are perfect English, if you're Spanish impaired like me), but proceed with caution for the live show.