The evening started unexpectedly early: the Mortiis show was pushed up from a typical eight o’clock start time to five-thirty at Kungfu Necktie, a well-established sore-thumb in the embarrassingly “up-and-coming” Fishtown neighborhood of Philadelphia. My heart went out to the archaic ghoul – all of us performers know how annoying a last-minute schedule change can be – as I received my second surprise of the night. Sitting down for pre-show cocktails at an attractive new bar less than a block away, my girlfriend and I realized, after ordering our drinks, that the entire cocktail menu was crafted from non-alcoholic spirits. Whoops! A full list of cocktails under fifteen bucks should’ve been the giveaway in this part of town, no matter that the descriptions still featured words like “gin” and “bourbon”. A modest suggestion: they should cutely modify the names of fake spirits the same way they do it for vegan meat substitutes. Had I seen V’dka and not-tequi-LAH listed, I swear I would’ve figured it out sooner.

After quickly departing and meeting friends for (boozed-up) cocktails at a different spot across the street from Kungfu Necktie, we sauntered under the El and into the corner club, evading the final raindrops of the day for an evening of dark electronics. Already on stage were Sombre Arcane, a staunchly medieval synth duo from Worcester, MA. Presenting two sizable racks of synths, they firmly established the evening’s vibe, what with somber-marching, fantasy-gaming instrumentals that ebbed and flowed like a horse-led caravan over a craggy war-torn mountainside. They reminded me of Carrot Top in the way that they made sure to give every prop in their trunk a whirl: glowing orb, check; triumphant animal horn, check; replica 1600s-era lyre, check; wizard and barbarian costumes, double check. A friend remarked that the wizard’s cloak was wrinkled in a manner ill-befitting the medieval era (“the creases looked like a picnic tablecloth!”) but the wiz’s spirited thumping of a large staff in time with the occasional synthesized bass-drum thumps proved an entertaining distraction from any period-appropriate wardrobe inaccuracies.

The jovial atmosphere established by Sombre Arcane was roundly shushed by the presence of the next artist, seminal Swedish power-electronics artist Brighter Death Now. Wearing the typical elder noise-guy uniform of matching black short-sleeve button-up / train-conductor cap and hunched over the typical “noise table” array of effects pedals with digital and analog hardware elements, he whisked the crowd away from any sort of friendly cosplay atmosphere into something far more elemental and crushing. Considering Brighter Death Now’s dead-serious demeanor and physical appearance matching any given member of Genocide Organ or Grey Wolves, I had to wonder if he was aware of how soothing his set was; there was a lulling comfort to his mechanical rhythms, long-tailed static pulses and monk-like vocals distorted into oblivion. Many pretenders have run this style into the ground over the past few decades, but his concise set was artful yet unpretentious, a distillation of the best elements of death-industrial from one of its heralded originators. I doubt he’ll be back around here anytime soon, so I felt extra lucky to catch him while I had the chance. You don’t get into making this kind of music because you want to greet strangers around the globe and sell them t-shirts.

It wasn’t even 9:00 PM – was it even fully dark outside yet? – as we maintained our solid crowd position for the arrival of Mortiis. Kungfu Necktie is decorated like a Hollywood set designer’s idea of a wild rock club – part The Bronze from Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and part PCU common area, with Halloween masks repurposed as glowing orange lights and a punk rocker’s take on TGI Friday’s-esque bric-a-brac, all coated in a thin layer of stickers of terrible bands no one has ever heard of, not even me. Could’ve used a few more cobwebs (real or fake) or splatters of corn-syrup blood on the walls for Mortiis, but the well-worn rock-club atmosphere didn’t necessarily clash with his brutalist rig. It appeared to be a rusted-out steam-punk engine shell on a table, not unlike something Bob Bert would bang on alongside Jon Spencer. It surely concealed some modern technology within – an electronic keyboard, at the very least – but I appreciated the strict attention to visual and sonic detail, no half-assing, not even for this motley Kungfu Necktie audience. Mortiis sported his trademark prosthetic nose and cheeks, and his skin was painted a distressing shade of grey to match, from his forearms up over his ears and across the shaved sides of his head. As advertised, he played two of his 1994 albums back to back, long suites of repeating medieval motifs that relied on sullen, forlorn melody over rhythm or heaviness. A projected slideshow cycled through black-and-grey etchings of ancient depressive landscapes behind him, images you might expect to float through J.R.R. Tolkien’s dreams during a fitful night of sleep. Occasional shots of low-end consistently reverberated in an unnatural cadence, a nice trick that had me wondering if any ancient spirits might have had a small hand in the proceedings. It’s undeniable that Mortiis more or less created what eventually became categorized as “dungeon synth”, and from his shirt designs brandishing the slogan “dark dungeon music”, he appears fully aware of the legacy he fostered and interested in ensuring that he receives the respect he’s due. If anyone’s expectations remained unsatisfied at the end of his extensive set, there was simply nothing to be done to please them.

The Kungfu Necktie show’s unexpected early arrival proved to be fortuitous, as I quickly snaked my way through the crowd without anyone’s eyeshadow smudging my shirt while Mortiis plucked his final somber notes. Mary Jane Dunphe was set to headline her own show a couple miles down the road at Foto Club, a veritable island of punk rock ill repute far from the city’s more favored social enclaves. It’s an indoor-outdoor “private” club well equipped for all bacchanalian purposes, from drum n’ bass DJ nights to egg-punk fests to anything that starts with the term “after hours”. Punk bands record their seven-inches there now, too! I’m not saying with certainty that you could find a poorly lit corner of the compound around 4:00 AM, pass out and wake up the next morning to discover that you’re the new DJ or janitor, but I’m not ruling it out, either.

My crew made it to Foto Club with enough time for me to buy and consume a home-made tofu pupusa from the punk with a fully tattooed skull that was vending them inside the club before finding our way upstairs to the flashing disco dance-floor from where the crowd would watch Mary Jane Dunphe perform. Singing along to backing tracks, she played guitar on the opening song, the calmest MJ Dunphe live moment I’ve ever witnessed. Had she finally mellowed out, her inner lightning bolt reduced to a manageable pulse? The answer is resoundingly no, as the guitar only lasted a song before she was stomping, dancing, posing and thrusting while running through numerous bangers from her fantastic debut full-length, last year’s Stage Of Love. I don’t think she was wearing tap shoes, but her dancing was so undeniably physical that the stomp of her shoes acted as a sonic percussive element, spinning circles within circles as her legs shook the rhythm to life. The PA system was shaky but not unexpectedly so, and while Dunphe’s body frequently moved around and beyond the active range of her microphone, I didn’t need to hear her voice perfectly to process the vivid emotions she was communicating. I have the album (and the Sub Pop single, and the CC Dust records, and the Vexx records…), so I know she sounds half like Björk going through a terrible breakup, half like Kate Bush giving birth to twins when properly amplified. It was a quick set, too quick if I’m feeling greedy, but the energy expended was greater than the sum total of what I witnessed at Kungfu Necktie, and the bar, and the non-alcoholic bar. Just a couple of miles apart, Mortiis was the wet, fertile soil birthing ancient strains of lichens and Mary Jane Dunphe was the laser light-show ripping a hole in the sky.

The first warm evening of Spring is traditionally a fantastic day to attend a show, and this was no exception. Taking place on the outskirts of the Chinatown district in Philadelphia (in a venue that bears some sort of fiduciary connection to the infamous Diplo), the odds were in favor of Escape-Ism, Kilynn Lunsford and Annie Achron. I met a friend outside the venue, sporting black sunglasses, a beanie and a winter beard so bushy that it required two glances before I could confirm his identity, and we ventured in, eager to shed our winter layers.

South Philadelphia’s Annie Achron opened the show, standing up straight behind her table of cord-laden synths and related accoutrement. No worries if you haven’t heard of her – I don’t think she’s played more than ten shows in her life, and seeing as I missed all of them up to this point, I was pleased to have arrived on time. While her 2021 cassette release Silver​-​Handed In Subterranea reveled in the grimier, post-punk side of homespun electronic dance music, her live set landed closer to upbeat tech-house in a club setting. With imperceptible breaks between tracks, her songs buzzed with double-time loops and high-pitched effects, as if she was testing the highest keys on her sampler keyboard at least once per track. A nice touch! While Achron herself was stoic, even when adding her reverberant vocals to the mix, her music was buzzing with energy, like the dog that hops around excited to greet his owner when they come home from work. It’s my understanding that a highly reputable underground label has signed on to release her next album, and I can’t wait to hear it.

Up next was Kilynn Lunsford and her band, as she announced them in their matching mechanic suits. I’ve seen her perform a number of times now, not to mention her shows with the no-longer-active Taiwan Housing Project, and was eager to experience her junk-store voodoo no-wave amongst this crowd of friends and strangers. Lunsford sported a new shaved-head ponytail style, looking like a glamorous new member of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ 1991 lineup, and her band were particularly inspired this evening, drummer Thomas Storck throwing his hunched, lanky body into every skeletal beat alongside that rack of misbehaving synths, rubber-band bass and Lunsford’s echo-loop vocals. She played all the hits off her 2022 debut, Custodians Of Human Succession, as well as some I didn’t immediately recognize, giving hope for another new recording in the works. “Sewerland” and “Reality Testing” hit particularly hard with a live band. There’s a reverence for classic no-wave inherent to the funky bass / death-disco drums / vocals n’ noise configuration, but Lunsford is an expert student of the genre, knowing full well the most important thing is to put your own personal stamp on things, which in her case also includes wearing a large phallic pendant as a necklace and smushing her cool hair all around. We are lucky to have her with us.

Escape-Ism was the headlining act, a group I had yet to hear in any form but was particularly excited to see. Having been a fan of Ian Svenonius since discovering The Nation Of Ulysses as a teenager and hearing the stories of their wilder-than-wild live shows (they bring a rack of black suits to the show and throw it into the crowd like maniacs???), he’s been a low-level legendary force, the type of guy who accidentally reveals himself to be extra smart by behaving extra stupid. It can be hard for any performer to live up to the hype we build up in our heads, but I am relieved to share that my expectations of this DIY punk luminary were surpassed.

Escape-Ism is as stripped-down as a Svenonius group can get, this one featuring him on vocals and guitar, backed up by Sandi Denton on bass and keys. Sporting matching fire-engine-red suits, Denton played it straight while Svenonius remained locked in half-character at all times, introducing songs humorously and off-the-cuff, always lightly pushing for audience interaction. (Lots of “can I get a”s and “are you with me?”s inserted into every song where other singers would normally take a breath.)

I had not previously known Svenonius as a guitarist, and after witnessing Escape-Ism I can’t say that I know him as one now. His was some of the most technically-unskilled guitar playing I’ve seen play out in front of a live audience, which of course means it ranks near some of the best. In a delightful and confounding twist, he insisted on holding a second microphone in addition to the normal one on the stand, struggling to find chords with the added difficulty of holding a skinny retro mic with those same fingers. While the songs were staunchly primitive rock n’ roll, all public-domain riffs delivered without shame or pretense, Svenonius’s sharp lyrical mind was on proud display, skewering the capitalist rich in a variety of entertaining and funny ways. “Fire In Malibu” is still lodged in my head from hearing it only that once, an ode to the property-destroying blazes that continually pop up in the richest counties of Southern California. As Denton’s two-note grooves and Svenonius’s one-rhythm drum-machine hold down the fort, he jumps up, scatters across the stage and gesticulates uncontrollably, his guitar switching between silent and brash as he struggles to hold that extra mic, almost reminiscent of Neil Hamburger fumbling with four gin-and-tonics in his grip.

Considering the low overall wattage of Escape-Ism’s setup, it was surprising when the venue’s power dropped out for a few minutes. Such a sad turn of events has killed the energy of many a live performer, this writer sadly included, but Svenonius didn’t seem remotely phased, instead jumping into an unplugged sing-along, still strumming his electric guitar and wildly emoting with nary a care as to the lack of amplification. The power came back the exact second they finished that song, almost as if it was part of the show. But really, it was Svenonius affirming the fact that, had all of his limbs fallen off instead, he would’ve simply taken to spinning on his torso with the mic lodged in his throat, a vivacious performer incapable of ceding to anything besides the grim reaper’s eventual call. After the show, another friend remarked that much of the crowd smelled really good, a rare inversion of the typical underground gig. It was just one of those nights.