I very rarely happen upon local music on my own. Most often, I get recommendations from other musicians, artists, producers, and whoever else is willing to talk to me about the music they like. From other shows and from music seminars and from drunk college kids, there was one name sprawled all across my notebook with hearts and arrows: Mary Shelley, Mary Shelley, Mary Shelley. Be careful, saying Mary Shelley three times in the mirror will spawn four Brooklyn babes ready to rock and the spiteful spirit of a woman who fucked a man on her mothers’ grave.
The long ride to Far Rockaway after spending the day moving my cousin into their new apartment had me questioning my commitment to this bit. But I knew they’d be in Europe for all of October 2025 and I couldn’t bear to let them leave without seeing what the universe so clearly wanted me to see. I arrived at Rippers a little late (what’s new) accompanied by the dulcet sounds of Tea Eater. Actually, dulcet is definitely not the right word for a group of aliens sprawled in various positions on the ground dying and buffering into imaginary walls while a person screaming “BUTTERRRRRRR” into the microphone fires butter packets and stickers indiscriminately into the crowd. For fans of tantrum punk with some avant-garde unhinged interludes, Tea Eater is the band for you. You can’t help but be into it. No one has come close to their level of experimental yet.
I spoke to random people in between sets, as I often do. Two guys came into this show from Long Island because they googled “punk shows labor day weekend”. I guess Google’s algorithm did its job, because I had to hunt long and hard for this show last Thursday. Other showgoers I spoke to were attending as personal contacts of the various bands, and a few sunburnt people had wandered their way in from the beach. Not Proud to Be Here was remarkably well represented; they’re up next on my list, anyone with that type of committed fanbase is worth a listen. And Sheer Current’s drummer charmed me so much that I truly did regret being late.
The long ride to Far Rockaway after spending the day moving my cousin into their new apartment had me questioning my commitment to this bit. But I knew they’d be in Europe for all of October 2025 and I couldn’t bear to let them leave without seeing what the universe so clearly wanted me to see. I arrived at Rippers a little late (what’s new) accompanied by the dulcet sounds of Tea Eater. Actually, dulcet is definitely not the right word for a group of aliens sprawled in various positions on the ground dying and buffering into imaginary walls while a person screaming “BUTTERRRRRRR” into the microphone fires butter packets and stickers indiscriminately into the crowd. For fans of tantrum punk with some avant-garde unhinged interludes, Tea Eater is the band for you. You can’t help but be into it. No one has come close to their level of experimental yet.
I spoke to random people in between sets, as I often do. Two guys came into this show from Long Island because they googled “punk shows labor day weekend”. I guess Google’s algorithm did its job, because I had to hunt long and hard for this show last Thursday. Other showgoers I spoke to were attending as personal contacts of the various bands, and a few sunburnt people had wandered their way in from the beach. Not Proud to Be Here was remarkably well represented; they’re up next on my list, anyone with that type of committed fanbase is worth a listen. And Sheer Current’s drummer charmed me so much that I truly did regret being late.
With Mary Shelley, you can forget where the stage ends and the crowd begins—they’re hopping up on tables and stealing people’s hats like we were just as integral to the performance as they were.
Mary Shelley bills themselves as “punk music you can dance to” and there was no doubt about it. There was some bribery involved, some drink tickets offered up by the bassist for the best dancer, but at the end of the day it was the design of the music itself that turned a sun-drained crowd sleepily nodding along on the outskirts of an empty dance floor into the most comforting mosh pit I’ve ever been in. At slower points the pit was a three-body orbital system of inevitable push and pull.
Mary Shelley are naturals at crowdwork, despite their supernatural name. Each member of the band had their time to woo the audience, with moving hips or shaggy hair. With Mary Shelley, you can forget where the stage ends and the crowd begins—they’re hopping up on tables and stealing people’s hats like we were just as integral to the performance as they were. And we are, aren’t we? Nothing sucks the energy out of a performance like a lifeless audience.
In reality, good dance music must be cultivated. It is carefully stitched together until an inviting tapestry emerges. Mary Shelley’s inevitable dance is designed intentionally, it is not left up to chance or crowdwork.
Any performer can tell you that bribes and crowdwork can only go so far to excite a dead crowd. In reality, good dance music must be cultivated. It is carefully stitched together until an inviting tapestry emerges. Mary Shelley’s inevitable dance is designed intentionally, it is not left up to chance or crowdwork. It’s the type of sound you can mosh to, of course, but you can also do the swim or shake ass on a tabletop or snap your fingers like you’re in West Side Story. At one point during “Goin’ to the Beach” I inexplicably found myself moved to Charleston like it was the 1920s.
Dancing on a table was a hell of a way to round out a Labor Day Weekend. Looks like all signs point to Mary Shelley for a reason.