Rolling Stones. Black Sabbath. Guns N Roses. Aerosmith. Motorhead. Anthrax. Slayer. Metallica.
We music writers tend to throw around the term “rock gods” a lot. It has a way of conveying the larger-than-life, stranger-than-fiction personas of these modern legends. Their exploits approach myth, creating a new set of Western fables set against a back drop of a world at once our own and yet completely alien. A world of decadent excess populated by a cavalcade of parties, drugs, sold out stadiums, screaming or swooning fans, and above all…consummate, world-changing music.

Whether you like them or not, these fables, these modern myths have shaped the world we live in in some explicit ways. Even the blueprint these bands laid out can still be seen at work, albeit increasingly adapted for the pop and hip hop worlds as rock n’ roll takes somewhat of a back seat in the popular consciousness.

The blueprint, however, remains. Just waiting for someone to take it out, dust it off, and rebuild that kingdom in all its former glory.
Thunderpussy may just be that band.

With a name like “Thunderpussy,” one must imagine the swaggering confidence and self-awareness they must have in order to carry that banner. It’s practically a mission statement. Its loud. Its attention-grabbing. It’s somewhat self-effacing. It’s seductive. It’s bold. It is a legion of other things—all conveyed simply by dint of moniker. It establishes a standard immediately that is backed up at every level following.

Molly, Leah, Ruby, and Whitney of Thunderpussy looked at that blueprint codified by some of their childhood heroes like Steven Tyler of Aerosmith and said, essential, “why not us?” Out of that simple question has arose a supremely confident sound, performance, and philosophy that simultaneously pays homage to the rock gods of yore while stating that they are coming to conquer those golden halls.

Were I any of the aforementioned music deities, I would be nervous because watching Thunderpussy perform is like witnessing the birth of new gods. Their sound is loud—classic rock licks with a hair-metal flair, cut with bluesy singing, punk-based rhythms, and precise drumming, all while sporting styled costumes and an air of such bold confidence its intoxicating. There is something simply…vibrant, alive about watching and being around them. As if they are sliding into a plane of existence slightly to the side of our own.

Each member’s movements on stage are as calculated and deliberate as their branding. Vocalist Molly utilizes her background in dance and performance to incredible effect. Each languid twist of arm, each fluid back bend and high step is perfectly deployed to maximum effect, captivating and seducing the audience as surely as it establishes an otherworldliness to the proceedings. Whitey, guitar, meanwhile shreds behind a classic sneer, belying her confidence in her instrument and her art. Ruby, up in her own world behind the drums, is a foundation, her jazz training bleeding through with a largely concentrated performance occasionally punctuated by the odd yell. Leah, bass, employs a more hard-rock approach, her face often rocketing between ear-splitting smiles and yells that demand audience’s worship.

And worship is what they get. Over the two and a half performances I saw them, concertgoers were wrapt. This is a kind of show that many of our generation haven’t been privy to despite so many of those old gods still tour—this is stadium rock n’ roll played in intimate quarters. This is what it was like when those rock gods first got started, forging their legends in the backhalls of dirty rock clubs and on stages that weren’t the size of stadiums.

With their name heralding their existence, Thunderpussy are riding lightning straight to the hallowed pantheon of rock. Do yourself a favor and get to know Thunderpussy before they conquer the world and make us all their loyal supplicants.