The inaugural Baba Obscura festival took over a hot zone in Pioneer Square November 5–8, and if you had the energy and alertness, you could’ve crammed a month’s worth of compelling music into four nights. With Freakout Fest on hiatus, Baba Obscura had big shoes to fill, and it did so admirably. There were some minor hitches and late start times, and the sets at Baba Yaga seemed to draw far larger crowds than those at AXIS and Central Saloon, but overall things seemed to run smoothly. Here are some highlights that I experienced. Your mileage will surely vary.
Thursday 11/5
FROND
Seattle quartet Frond were in progress when I entered Baba Yaga, and their Cocteau Twins-lite shoegaze songs were spectral and woozy, with vocalist Jewel Loree—who also plays in the Grizzled Mighty and Golden Idols and hosts KEXP’s Astral Plane show—finessing some nice dubby bass lines. Then a switch seemingly flicked and they launched into high-energy psych-rock, followed by a Wooden Shjips-style motorik jam. What a pleasant surprise. Frond currently have no music online, but you should keep tabs on them.
WEEP WAVE
Seattle trio Weep Wave present as blue-collar hard-rockers, but, thankfully, they are so much more than that. Sure, they have their share of melodic anthems that would please fans of Protomartyr or the Hold Steady. But beyond the meaty and torqued guitar and bass riffing in their existential songs about space and death, there be weird electronic elements and club-friendly beats that emanate from a synth off to the side of the stage. Boozy, air-punching rock can merge with EDM (plus some sine waves reminiscent of Kraftwerk ca. Radio-Activity) and get the ladies—and fellas—moving. And I heard some deceptive funkiness à la Led Zeppelin and Blurt in a couple of songs, while another possessed the fierce vibes of Killing Joke’s “Wardance.” Interesting rock is not a plentiful commodity in 2026, but Weep Wave deliver a potent metallic KO onstage. Look out for them.
Friday 11/6
JJUUJJUU
Led by Desert Daze boss Phil Pirrone , JJUUJJUU unabashedly reveled in free-flowing psychedelia from the get-go. The pick-up band included cowboy-hatted Night Beats guitarist Danny “Lee Blackwell” Rajan, who served as the wild card, generating wild guitar eruptions amid the three long improvisations. Combining grandiloquent stoner-rock with instrumental sprawl à la the Doors’ “The End” and Perrone’s occasional old-school, longhair-rock howl, JJUUJJUU revived the spirit of the on-hiatus Freakout Fest. They also had a very cool motorik cruiser, which would become the motif among the groups I saw at BO.
SPOON BENDERS
Portland trio Spoon Benders’ churning frenzy of garage-rock, psych-rock, and punk triggered a mosh pit that became increasingly large and violent throughout their Baba Yaga set. It felt like the floor was buckling—maybe because one of the moshers was a mountainous dude who could’ve been a Seahawks offensive tackle. Bassist Kate Black sang with the angsty gravitas of Thalia Zedek and Jennifer Herrema while drummer Mike Amster flexed rapid-fire fills à la Keith Moon. Guitarist Leo Pastor kept things swerving and bruising—just like the human bumper cars in the pit.
MDOU MOCTAR
What a whiplash transition this was. Sans band, Nigerian guitarist Mdou Moctar sat down with his electric guitars and unspooled raw desert-blues virtuosity, peppering that with soulful plaints in his native Tamasheq and shouts of “Go!” The loving crowd clapped along nearly continuously to his sinuous riffs that could’ve spiraled on to infinity with no complaints. He also told a long, charming anecdote about how one can learn more from travel than from reading books. ‘Twas a privilege to witness.
PACKAGING
Arriving a bit late to Packaging’s AXIS performance, I encountered them in sluggish ballad/slack shoegaze mode. Eventually, though, they bestowed a krautrock banger upon us that displayed them at their aerodynamic best. Damn near everyone’s gotta have a motorik jam these days, which is as it should be. For the last song, Packaging broke out the cowbell and flute, which more rock groups ought to be doing. This abstract intro led into a ferocious krautrock steamroller that aspired to the zenith of Can’s “Mother Sky.” You gotta aim high, y’all.
ROSE CITY BAND
Dag, after packing out Tractor Tavern last December, Portland’s Rose City Band played to maybe 40 patrons at AXIS. A travesty for a Friday midnight slot, but that didn’t deter guitarist/singer Ripley Johnson’s bearded, nonchalantly brilliant bros from turning this mother out with an economy of movement that would’ve impressed J.J. Cale. Easygoing, cosmic country rock is RCB’s default setting, and they are the greatest modern practitioners of that art. All of the musicians are masterly, but Barry Walker Jr. on pedal steel really launches RCB to the most exalted plane of the genre. And as their set wore on, I became convinced that Johnson’s guitar tone resides on the godly level of the aforementioned Cale’s, Jerry Garcia’s, and Agitation Free’s Lutz “Lüül” Graf-Ulbrich’s. Did RCB have a motorik joint, too? Of course, silly, and it ruled. At one point, though, RCB shockingly detoured into a shimmering disco/yacht-rock number, replete with the beat from Hall & Oates’ “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do).” Reader, it worked! Wish you were there.
Saturday 11/7
NATHAN NOTHING
Nathan Nothing (aka Nate Quiroga) ain’t your typical synth-wielding electronic musician. No static, furrowed-brow stage demeanor for him. The former Mad Rad MC/producer and Iska Dhaaf leader instead jumps around, dances, and bounds into the crowd to rap and sing in an FX’d chipmunk voice about poverty, punching Nazis, and feeding the poor and eating the rich. With ex-Crypts member Bryce Brown on drums and Night Fortress’s Blair Field on downtuned guitar, Nathan Nothing creates clubby goth music that leaves disco balls in shards. There’s dilapidated house music, brutish, song-based electronic music in the Meat Beat Manifesto vein, and even the odd post-punkish ballad. But mostly, these are dance-in-the-ashes dystopia soundtracks. For makers of such dark music, they emit good, positive energy.
THE SPYRALS
I only caught about 15 minutes of LA trio the Spyrals’ set, but their stripped-down, ’60s-rooted garage-psych displayed crafty songwriting and excellent dynamics. A pity I had to exit early to see the Gories, who went on 13 minutes after their designated start time.
THE GORIES
“I forgot to tune my guitar, so you’re in for it,” announced Mick Collins before the legendary Detroit garage-rock group’s incendiary performance in Baba Yaga’s absolutely packed basement. (Yes, Collins has moved to Brooklyn, but he’ll always be a Detroiter to the core.) No matter, as Collins and Dan Kroha’s dual, barbed-wire guitar attack cut through bullshit rock excesses with their usual primitive cunning. Along with drummer Peggy O’Neill, the Gories pare rock, soul, and blues (the latter two repped by ace covers of Eddie Holland’s “Leavin’ Here” and John Lee Hooker’s “Boogie Chillen”) to their most vital essences. O’Neill’s kit includes snare, tom, tambourine, and no cymbals. She makes Mo Tucker sound like Neil Peart. It’s not easy to do this without sounding like bloodless museum curators, but the Gories are ultimate real ones in the underground, and have been for four decades. They still got it, and then some.
THE INTELLIGENCE
Former Stranger Music Genius Lars Finberg left Seattle for California many years ago, and a lot has changed with his music since then. I’d somehow missed his last few albums, in which he ditches his wry garage-rock subversions for a bizarre electronic-music direction, but with interludes of odd-cadenced crooning and guitarlele (?!) strumming. “What are you laughing at, man? It’s the only guitar I can afford,” Finberg quipped to scattered chuckles. Bedecked in an oversized ballcap and green Converse All Stars at a sparsely attended Central Saloon, Finberg sat behind a Crumar Mojo keyboard and began with some spacey jazz-fusion that explains why he titled his latest album Witches Woo. His was a set of baffling tangents, which one hardly ever sees/hears anymore. A downer, Nilsson-ian ballad segued into a killer bleepy techno cut. A Señor Coconut-esque cha-cha preceded a funky, µ-Ziq-like chiller. During one excellent banger, Finberg shouted, “That sounds like Ten Inch Nails [sic]. Give it up for Chris the sound guy!” The Intelligence’s crowd may have been unjustly minuscule, but everyone there went home with a unique memory. Do you know how rare that is?
ZOOKRAUGHT
My first Zookraught show—a benefit for orgs helping Palestinians—happened last year under a bridge in an unlovable part of SODO. The DIY/off-the-grid nature of that gig seemed like the Seattle threesome’s ideal habitat. So it was a bit strange to witness them in a conventional club, but they thrived there, too. Zookraught make careening post-punk with serious fuck-or-fight energy. They sweat revolutionary queer youth power. Primal-scream catharsis is their default mode, and they’re artful with it, despite (because?) of all the chaos sparking around them. Zookraught draw you in with their colorful, unusual appearance and keep you riveted—and riotously moshing—with exceptional command of their instruments. They seem destined for much bigger things.
THE BLACK TONES
Talented twins Eva and Cedric Walker have added a guitarist, bassist, and keyboardist to the Black Tones, the better to manifest their more expansive new album, Diamond Ruby Night, their first in seven years. Speaking of additions, did Cedric gain more muscle? His drumming sure seemed to indicate so. Anyway, Central Saloon felt way too small for the Black Tones’ arena-ready goth-leaning rock and new wave. The Diamond Ruby Night songs’ subjects are dark (mental health issues, encounters with prison inmates whom Eva’s met, death, etc.), but the music’s uplifting. Right now, I like the early Black Tones incarnation a little better, but the new version is very accomplished and leaves me wondering if opening slots on upcoming tours by U2, the Cure, or Echo & the Bunnymen are out of the question.
Sunday 11/8
THE BLACK ANGELS
The music airing over the PA before Austin, Texas psych-rockers the Black Angels took the stage at a clusterfucked Showbox was fantastic, and likely chosen by the band. Songs by Bruce Haack, Pearls Before Swine, the United States of America, Wolfgang Dauner, and the Zombies, among others, proved that they have impeccable taste. I wish that the Black Angels’ music were as interesting as their record collection.
Don’t get me wrong—the Black Angels are fine, and they still have the ability to draw 1,130 punters on a Sunday night. But I’ve never understood the fuss that many have made over them. Despite the majesty of many of their songs, the Black Angels strike me as Psych 101—basic and straitlaced. A slow and sinister tune such as “Black Grease” is cool, but its similarity to Loop’s “Too Real to Feel” reveals how that British group imbue the blueprint with more edge and lysergic potency.
Anyway, the Black Angels are currently celebrating the 20th anniversary of their debut album, Passover, which they pretty faithfully replicated. It’s a remarkably consistent album, verging on the monolithic. The dominant style is menacing, methodical, and rhythmically blocky, with rudimentary rock riffs blown out to massive dimensions through FX and punishing volume; my ears are still ringing, even though I wore quality earplugs. Whoever was working sound had everything dialed in wonderfully, especially Misti Hamrick and Jake Garcia’s basses.
A friend at the show summed up the Black Angels’ tempos with a gesture: moving his hand horizontally across his torso in a straight line. It took till the 11th track, “Bad Vibrations,” for a rave-up to appear. “Push It” featured the only real danceable beats. “Firefly” introduced a rare diversion with a more buoyant and whimsical tone. And I dug the liturgical Spiritualized vibe of the intro to “Call to Arms.”
Folks began to file out of the club in droves around 10:45 p.m. (90 minutes into the set), but if you stayed till the end, you were rewarded with the night’s most exciting cut, the outré freakout—à la Mercury Rev’s “Syringe Mouth,” albeit not as wild—known as “Molly Moves My Generation.”
It’s weird to be the lone dispassionate observer in a sea of devotees; my ears are still ringing from their cheers. But I’m happy for everyone who loves the Black Angels, and the band did brisk business at the merch table.
