172. Thunder Pussy
Underworld Camden
9 June 2017
There are band names that make you raise an eyebrow, and then there’s Thunderpussy, a name that doesn’t just raise eyebrows but guarantees that you get no airtime on Radio 2. It was a band that one of my friends in Seattle had put me on to. Apparently Mike McCready, Pearl Jam guitarist and Seattle royalty, had produced their latest single and had pushed them into the local scene.
So, on the strength of that, one of my best pals and I signed up to see them on their UK tour on a muggy June night in Camden at the Underworld, a sweatbox that has seen more leather trousers, eyeliner and bad decisions than most human institutions. We went in with curiosity, low expectations, and a vague sense that we were about to witness either greatness or a gender-studies dissertation in real time.
Thunderpussy took the stage like a hurricane, four women dressed like rock’n’roll demigods, armed with riffs, charisma, and a collective sense of purpose that could have powered a small village, had the technology existed.
From the first crash of the opening chord, it was clear they meant business. No irony. No apologies. Just swaggering, unfiltered rock music, the kind you thought had been outlawed sometime around 1992.
Frontwoman Molly Sides strutted and howled like a cross between Joan Jett, Mick Jagger, and a particularly glamorous big cat. Her presence was a mixture of seduction and full-blown exorcism.
They ripped through their set: “Speed Queen,” “Velvet Noose,” “Torpedo Love”, no song title left unirony-ed, but with enough swagger to resurrect the entire ’76 Sunset Strip. The sound was filthy, the energy was feral, and the crowd, mostly dazed, bearded men clutching Camden Pale Ales, stood there in stunned, slightly aroused, admiration.
When the amps finally fell silent and the feedback faded, we made our way to the merch table, as you do, keen to say hello, maybe buy a CD, possibly just bask in the afterglow of pure, unapologetic rock. However, then came the realisation.
The only people at the merch table were men. A sea of them. Lads of every shape and beard length, awkwardly clustering, mumbling praise, fumbling for wallet change, and trying desperately not to look at any of the band’s tits.
We exchanged glances, that unspoken, slightly panicked understanding that to join the queue might look, well, a bit dodgy. In a rare act of moral fortitude for Camden on a Friday night, we swiftly left before anyone could mistake enthusiasm for perviness.
Walking out into the warm Camden night, with the echoes of those riffs: sharp, sexy, and righteous. Thunderpussy had done what every great rock band should: made you believe, for one night at least, that guitars still mattered and that the world wasn’t entirely run by boring people. It was a thrilling, tongue-in-cheek resurrection of classic rock swagger with riffs, attitude, and zero apologies.