LIVE JOURNAL 2/3/23: Stetson Heat Seeker, Bad Optics, Zookraught @ CONOR BYRNE PUB

Conor Byrne simply feels different when its being occupied by loud bands. One of us knows the storied Ballard venue as a foster house for the singer-songwriter and folk scenes that propelled Seattle to another period of cultural prosperity in the late 2000s. The other one of us has never been. But as we both stepped through the pub’s open doors, we could feel the vibe shift. The brick walls, dingy curtain and modest chandelier that would normally blanket its performers with an austere air instead felt fragile, as if unsure of their own ability to contain the force of tonight’s acts.

By the time we had shuffled past the bar and found a space to stand, the excitement coursing through the crowd rang decidedly festive. For one, the show had sold out, causing the night’s players and their friends to revel in the success - a surprise considering the fact that two of the night’s three bands were in their infancy. For another, it was a birthday show, and so a great deal of that jubilative energy filtered down to Stephanie Jones. You could easily spot her taking it all in, surrounded by friends and loved ones, her hair a wild waterfall of curls hombred in sunset colors. She and the rest of the night’s musicians played with the epiphanic power of an awakening, and what resulted was the platonic ideal of a Seattle rock show: a rapid convection of loud sounds and crowd sounds, each emboldened by the other.

Stetson Heat Seeker

Though Stetson Heat Seeker is a new assembly, its humans are all veterans of the Seattle music scene. Core members Ian (vocals/guitar) and Obi (baritone sax) were both key players in Seattle’s Actionesse, a beloved post-horncore/experimental punk band laid to rest last year. Tonight at Conor Byrne, they were joined by two of the other performing band’s members; Bad Optics’ Christian Hidell on bass and Zookraught’s Baylee Harper on drums.

At their debut show, what was to come could only be pieced together by context clues. Going on looks alone, you might size them up as something like a goth country band. For me, it was the black-clad western dress shirts, the bolo ties, the cowboy hats. “Yeehaw motherfuckers,” said Obi, leading the band into the first song of the night with a guttural wail on the baritone sax.

Obi (Photo by Kevin Olmedo)

It quickly became clear that while they were decidedly country in attire, name, and sometimes banter, they were garage punk in every other respect. Still, with a sax as one of four essential pieces of the puzzle, you could expect Stetson to put their own spin on things. They did so with technical skill, rhythmic complexity, and unabashed head-banging to match that of the bands to follow.

Briefly before their set, Ian had given me a preemptive call for compassion. “Expect some mistakes,” he said, this being their first run in front of a crowd. But there were no faux pas to speak of. An intermittently uncooperative mic on Obi’s sax was perhaps the only thing that could’ve gone over smoother. And still, where the mic faltered, Obi’s energy was more than enough to compensate. They were in constant conversation with the audience, hinting occasionally at Stetson’s openness to free drinks and leaving the stage only briefly to high-kick through the crowd.

Ian Reed (Photo by Kevin Olmedo)

You couldn’t ask for a better debut show than the one Stetson Heat Seeker put on. They closed out with a five-minute ripper, “No Shirt, No Soul, No Problem,” that highlighted the band’s unique brand of glorious madness. “It’s all about my childhood,” quipped Ian, before jolting into the song, leaving the crowd electric and instilled with high expectations.

-Alicia Long

Bad Optics

Jones surveyed the crowd crammed into the pit below, a five-string bass slung over her shoulder and wearing a grin wider than the young February moon. “This is the best night of my life,” she uttered the moment Bad Optics took the stage, the reality of a sold-out crowd on her birthday hitting her fully. Even as J. Hidell dourly approached the mic to introduce the band’s first song, “Everything is Getting Worse,” with an undercutting aside (“Because it fucking is”), nothing could dampen Jones’ sheer joy. Clearly she was determined to make it the best night of ours as well.

The queen of the hour. (Photo by Jimmy Humphreys.)

Of the three bands on tonight’s bill, Bad Optics had the most recognizable name. They’ve been playing shows around the area for years, and considering Hidell’s role in Stetson Heat Seeker and Stephanie’s in ZOOKRAUGHT, this veteran act by comparison made for a perfect linchpin between the two fresh bands bookending the night. And readers, they did not disappoint. Everything they tried, every flavor of punk shooting out from their voices and their amplifiers, felt practiced and confident. For all their eclecticism that comes out of being a self-described “art-punk” band, nothing felt out of place.

Bad Optics. (Photo by Jimmy Humphreys.)

The only real constant, indeed, might have been the pulsing center of moshing bodies at the front of the stage. Jones and drummer Joshua Ilher make for a killer rhythm section; Ilher in particular besieged the crowd with blasts of snare rolls akin to helicopter blades, but Jones held down the showmanship, lugging her cordless bass into the crowd multiple times to become one with the pit. Without missing a note, she met her worshippers (several of whom, in acknowledgement of the festivities, were literally dressed like her) like a Greek god in earthbound transit, cavorting with the public before turning back and reascending Mt. Olympus. Even the set’s last number, a six-minute dirge titled “The Noose,” couldn’t stop that crowd from slamming together in a sweaty frenzy. For a band called Bad Optics, it’s ironically easy to observe their effectiveness at casting a spell over their audience.
-Rob Moura

Zookraught

Zookraught has stage presence like few bands you’ve ever seen. For one thing, they just look cool as hell; Stephanie with the black tendril-like eye-makeup and incredible pink-purple hair haloing her every move. Baylee Harper with her signature exes below the eyes, showing no mercy to the drumset. Then there’s Sam Frederick, the only punk-rocker to ever make theatrically tiptoeing across a stage in skinny jeans and running shoes look both cool and like a possession in progress. 

Zookraught. (Photo by Christine Mitchell.)

At every stage, Zookraught’s varied array of jazz-tinged aggro-dance punk kept the audience in a motion that rivaled the enthusiasm of its performers. The prop street lamps of Conor Bryne were unendingly leaning in submission with every collective thud of feet biting the floor.

Like both bands proceeding them tonight, Zookraught brought chaos in the very best way. Everything was so clean that you could pick out just how fucking good each musician is at any point in time. It was loud and layered but done so intricately that nothing about the volume level could possibly be mistaken for filler noise or fluff. Every note felt intentional, put there on purpose. And the effect of that was not lost on us.

Between shouted call and response and entangled overlapping melodies, Zookraught in particular had incredibly captivating vocal exchanges that would arise least expected. Sprinkling in fan favorites like “Un-fucking-done” and “Break You” amongst some unreleased tracks, Zookraught put their range on full display. Most impressive was their ability to go from all-out noise to a rapid tone-down that instantly balanced out in perfect three-piece harmonies. 

The set culminated with the night’s earlier acts reemerging onstage to join Zookraught in their final song. In a flurry of instrument swaps, they capped the evening at maximum stage capacity and volume, sending Stephanie diving into the crowd, triumphant.

-Alicia Long