By Sage Matkin and Tate DeCarlo

Photos by V Solar-Miller

Cover Photo: Dylan Sizemore of Frankie and the Witch Fingers mid-riff

Illuminated by the irrational flair of plum colored stage lights, a slight figure emerged against the milieu of surging bodies and straining instruments. Clad in some form of sailor costume, the faceless waif appeared from the rightmost corner of the stage, sprinted toward the roiling crowd, planted their feet like an olympic gymnast, and leapt into the cauldron of sweat. Though observation of previous divers would affirm a person–especially one of their stature–would float on the surface, a small part of me still expected the figure to slip right through the masses’ outstretched limbs. Instead they balanced with ease, surfing the crowd with the calm air of someone at their home shorebreak, until they were placed lightly on the ground at the opposite end of the venue. Before I could begin to comprehend the spectacle before me, the figure had sliced their way back through the knotted bodies and disappeared past me through the stage’s side entrance. It was magic.

Of course it was, and I was a fool to expect anything less from Frankie and the Witch Fingers–especially on the night after Halloween. Wizardry was afoot at the Tractor Tavern; it twinkled in the neon signs and bauble lights hung that climbed the brick walls and tickled the rafters. It danced across the painted faces of masquerading spectators, frolicked in their burbled conversations, and embedded itself in the center of my chest as the reverb of musicians tuning their guitars softened the edges of my world. My heavy eyelids perked as the spirit of the show wrapped itself around me, wiping away the lull of our drive into Seattle. It became impossible to suppress the smile crackling across my face. We were in for a doozie.

The Tractor Tavern in all its majesty

I stood shoulder to shoulder with KUPS compatriot Sage Matkin as the crowd began to stir. Our in-house photographer, V Solar-Miller, was to our right, perched in an ideal sniper’s nest at the edge of the stage. A liveliness took hold of the faces around us as the performers prepared. I watched as punks well older than myself–perhaps late-twenties well into mid-forties–shed the weight of their years. Sage and I speculated about the unfamiliar trio that warmed the stage–our tickets hadn’t listed an opener–as the oldheads in the crowd were transported to their bygone rocker days. Time seemed to tick backward as the magic of Frankie and the Witch Fingers wafted through the Tractor Tavern well before they hit the stage.

The band in front of us stalked the stage like they had yet to notice the audience. They offered no courtesy in the form of a handshake or hello, but instead introduced themselves with an ear-piercing shriek of guitar feedback that rang until every head was locked in forward position. The frontman, clad in a purple velour suit that burst open at the collar to reveal the scrawlings of an intricate chest tattoo, sent one look to the long-haired, no-sleeved drummer, and we were launched to the moon. Damn, these guys were vicious; They introduced themselves as Monsterwatch after their second song, and they spared absolutely no prisoners. Before we get any further, Sage would you care to weigh in?

Sure, I’ll take charge for a moment. It’s a little scary when you see a band member come out with sheet music, but I wasn’t gonna judge these guys based off of their drummer *cough cough Ringo Starr reference cough cough*. I am however going to judge the bassist for having the same bass as my highschool crush. Granted, it was less decked out in stickers and had an overall shine that insinuated cleanliness–which was very unlike Patrick, who still has the bass (I’ve stalked). They had a saving grace in that their singer/lead guitarist came out with a mug of tea; I was too far to see the label on the teabag but he struck me as a Tazo man. 

Tate, you and I were standing there, looking at this three-man band, collectively wondering whether this was the moment to go grab a beer or stay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by people who I’d bet were wondering the same thing. I’m glad we stayed to witness the coagulation of the Monster, leaving the watch part to us. 

A one Mr. John Spinney–the frontman in the velour suit–ripped into that first note, which rang out in the crowd for about 45 seconds, from his baby-blue, chest-strapped guitar. Me, a non-musician, thought that those who held their instruments lower–Jimmy Page mode–were cooler, but he played that guitar as if he were touching an extension of his heart, which I would guess was an inch lower than where he held his guitar. Are you getting that he had his guitar slung high? 

Monsterwatch consisted of Spinney on the guitar, Ben Parker on the bass, and David Cubine on the drums. I question the Internet on this one because we got to speak to him after the show, and I swear he introduced himself as Tom. Regardless, they were a trio from Hell–I mean that positively–perfect for one day after Halloween. 

John Spinney and his back-bending breakdown

Cubine was relentless on the drums; he fired laser-precise volleys into the crowd, atop of which Parker’s hammering baseline bounced. As if of its own accord, my head began to pound in rhythm as Spinney bent over backward–still shredding–to make upsidedown eye contact with the crowd. Bombarded by the sheer intensity of Monsterwatch’s unexpected heft, my woozy brain could form only one thought: So much fucking reverb! Each note melded with its own echo and built to a frenzy matched by the audience’s perfect reenactment of sharks feeding. Spinney commanded the crowd to Open up that pit!! and, despite being optimistically early in the show, the mortgage-having men around us eagerly obliged. 

Spinney was mosh-inducing and mosh-demanding. I had to run out of the crowd when his vocal sorcery got the audience rowdy. It was a sad scurry to the sidelines; us goody-two-shoes KUPS staff got there early and had planted ourselves quite close to the stage. I knew to leave Tate to the horde, it’s what he prefers. This wasn’t his first mosh, and definitely won’t be his last.

Sage is right. I had promised myself on the drive up the night would be a chill Wednesday evening, and that I wanted to write a report about the show–implying a strict no-moshing policy, as I have a tendency to get so caught up in the fray that I miss watching the actual performance. That promise didn’t stand a chance once I heard Monsterwatch, and after a few heavy-handed tracks I wormed my way in with the sharks. While, upon entering the show, I had assumed that this crowd would be pretty tame, those old guys proved me wrong. The pit was lively, and the energy was high despite their age; After catching an elbow to the face from a dude who looked exactly like Steve Buscemi, I felt perfectly at home. 

The set was over before I was able to fully grasp Monsterwatch’s creative crowd engagement. Though Spinney issued occasional commands for a circle pit and expressed his gratitude for the venue’s energy, he shared few words otherwise. Instead, he commanded attention through a series of wild antics and original techniques. He paced the stage like a madman, tossing his glorious, ‘70s mod-style mullet with gusto, pausing only to perch like a snarling gargoyle at the stage’s corners. Near the end, he set his guitar aside and let the bassist and drummer come together in a smashing foundation for his vocals-only performance. I watched dumbfounded, my jaw hung slack in unapologetic shock, as he wrapped the corded microphone around his neck with an attitude that could only be described as clinical. As he sang, he pulled the thick wire tighter and tighter, constricting his vocal cords to create a growl like nothing I had heard before. Sage, what did you think?

I won’t lie Tate, I warmed up to them pretty fast, and I’m sure the moving, sweaty bodies had nothing to do with that. Maybe it was the way all of them had amazing hair, that swayed with the music like wheat stalks in the wind. Maybe it was how Parker did his consistent dance of two steps forward, two steps backwards. It could have been how David/Tom Cubine’s toned arms kept the drumline tight (tight asf imo). It most definitely was how Spinney’s hair, when caught at the right moment, looked like a plasma ball in the purple-red-blue hues of the stage. Or, maybe it was how even just a bassist and drummer could keep the crowd hyped, especially when the singer was occupied wrapping himself up–sexily, might I add–in the microphone wire and crowd-surfing. Even though I showed up for Frankie and the Witch-Fingers, I can happily say that I left with Monsterwatch on the mind. 

I couldn’t agree more. While I came for Frankie and the Witch Fingers, I can say with absolute certainty that Monsterwatch’s performance will be forever imprinted in my brain. Not only was their music absolutely top notch–unique and hard-hitting uptempo sludge punk–their stage presence was electric. I will never forget Spinney’s mad-scientist attitude, dead serious and wickedly precise in his manipulation of the crowd. If his job was to drum up hype for the headliners, watching him air walk atop the adoring hands of the crowd confirmed he had gone above and beyond in the fulfillment of his duties. Monsterwatch’s set was like a first round knockout, visceral and intense despite its brevity; a performance that piqued my hunger for what was yet to come. The spell had been successfully cast.

A quiet chill crept across my sweaty body as the crowd cooled between sets. The lights stayed dim, but Frankie and the Witch Fingers took their time getting ready. Sage, set the scene for me.

I’ll tell you the first thing we saw; when a bespectacled man clad in a camouflage, trench-length army coat and joggers–comes onstage, you think he’s the sound guy. And when you see an on-the-shorter-side man rocking Frankie and the Witch Fingers (FTWF) merch with shorts definitely made to be worn on a boat, you also think he’s the sound guy. You especially think he’s the sound guy, when, while doing an instrument/mic check onstage, he gets called “Super Mario” by the joint-smoking man behind us.  

Then the two on stage became four when the bassist and lead guitarist joined the drummer (boatshorts) and frontman (joggers). Now, on stage in front of us was Frankie and the Witch Fingers, though spoiler: none of them are actually named Frankie nor Witch nor Fingers. Dylan Sizemore, my crush in camo, was on vocals and rhythm guitar; Josh Menashe on the backup vocals and lead guitar; Nikki Pickle on the bass (EEK FEMALE BASSIST EEK); and Nick Aguilar on the drums. These rascals came together and the four-headed beast was on stage ready to play. 

It’s true, when Aguilar first took the stage, Sage and I joked about the showboating audio tech trying to steal the show. It wasn’t until the other members trickled out and started tuning matching guitars that we realized who we were looking at. Aguilar was young and overflowing with talent, eager to demonstrate his mastery of the kit in front of him. Menashe, to his right, oozed psychedelic flavor from his wavy mane, an energy that Pickle raised with her shock of neon pink and acid green hair. At front stood the Sizemore, the band’s general. He was a tall, lanky dude with glasses and a bit of a bowl cut. Though my first impression of his appearance was that of a handsome, soft-spoken professor, his raw attack on vocals and guitar shattered any assumptions of a meek demeanor. 

Dylan Sizemore in the heat of battle

To be blunt, Frankie and the Witch Fingers were not shy about edging the crowd. Their unhurried behavior and powerful warm-up chords stoked the eager audience, and I could feel a flush rising in my face as the imminent crescendo neared. Instruments poised to strike, they hovered on the precipice amidst the ringing echoes of their tuning. Just as I was certain the set was about to blast off, the quartet set their instruments down and exited stage right. 

Luckily–given the ravenous crowd–they were back in a flash, and wasted no time before launching into their set. I do not know whatever backstage preparations occurred before they unleashed pure psychic witchcraft warfare on us, but I am certainly grateful for whatever mysterious, last minute ceremony helped them build up their power. Once they began playing, all I could do was hold on for dear life and enjoy the ride.

Frankie and the Witch Fingers performed in a style that I can only describe as strategic smash and grab. Listening to them play was like licking a battery, high voltage spikes punctuated by staccato flourishes and breakdowns. I spent most of my time getting battered in the moshpit, tossed left and right under the spell of the maniacal, bespectacled Sizemore wizard leading the band. Their sound was all build up and crash, lightning fast, high pitched ripping that tumbled into Pickle’s heavy bass and Aguilar’s drum poundage. After the show, I felt as though I’d eaten a hearty breakfast–Frankie and the Witch Fingers were part scrambled eggbeater guitar, part sizzling slabs of bassline bacon, and a heavy sprinkle of psychedelic smash-up seasoning.  

As if the talented Spinney of Monsterwatch hadn’t been enough, Sizemore of Frankie and the Witch Fingers absolutely outdid himself with his on-stage antics. I struggle even now to characterize him, my first comparison some fiendish animation straight out of an old Pixar short.  He was stringy tall and bobbed his head like a chicken, pecking the air as he howled into his mic. Like Spinney, Sizemore too wore his guitar slung covering his nipples, but he played it like it was possessed. Thrashing back and forth, he strangled a beautiful caterwauling from its neck, shredding as though trying to exorcize a demon. Somehow, he managed to sing while wrestling his guitar, unleashing an incomprehensible spill of words at a pace nearly as breakneck as his playing. 

Sizemore was a militaristic leader, unloading sonic submachine gun fire in his long camo coat, the rest of the band his faithful soldiers armed and ready. For the absurdity of their auditory volume and out-of-control speed, they were ridiculously tight and played with incredible precision. My admiration for their skill mounted as I noticed the skill of each member, Pickle’s nimble fingers danced across the fretboard with ease as she swayed effortlessly in sync with the Sizemore; the Menashe dragged notes out perfectly to create feedback harmonies with the rest of the strings; Aguilar did his best impression of a demolition crew in his battery of the drumset. Together, Frankie and the Witch Fingers shared more than just an excess of technical skill–each looked as though they were having the time of their life.

I think it would be impossible not to have a blast while listening to them play. While I was getting pummeled in the pit by people my parent’s age, V was snagging photos left and right, despite technical difficulties with their camera. Even sleepy, surly Sage had a shit-eating grin plastered on her face. While I have no doubts of Frankie and the Witch Fingers’ mystic sorcery, I can confidently say that our humble music reviewer standards could confirm their magic as well. We were completely bewitched by Frankie and his talented Fingers, and when the encore eventually came to a close, I was left winded in wonder. 

It is hard to call what transpired at the Tractor Tavern that night a concert. Though closer to accurate, a show still doesn’t capture the experience fully. Imagine a seance, but the undead are in the room with you, blaring otherworldly tunes from a blown out boombox while they destroy all the furniture. Frankie and the Witch Fingers aren’t a band, they are a carefully calculated onslaught, calibrated with intent to reduce their listener to a puddle of blissful sludge. A blend of weird and wonky psychedelic rock with the raw power of an angry rhino and a dash of punk’s fuck-you ethos, I think my brain has been slightly reset after their show. I know my hearing is for certain.

Listening to Frankie and the Witch Fingers isn’t enough. This is a band that must be seen performing, one that must be felt and experienced, not analyzed with a critical reviewer’s lens. To quote a random man who thundered past me in the moshpit, “The more music, the happier I am.” I remember thinking that I could not have related to anything more, that all I wanted was for this band to keep on playing. I crestfallen when the show finally ended, but even I know that magic can’t last forever. Frankie and the Witch Fingers’ performance was like something leaked to this world from a rift in some interdimensional boundary, a commodity so rare that I urge anyone reading to find tickets to their next show. This is a band we must be certain to appreciate before they hop back on their broomsticks and blast back to whatever psychotic galaxy from whence they came.