Ponytail

From the moment I walk into the dining-room-turned-concert-space that Ponytail will soon shake to the ground, I have to pee. But as I debate whether to hold it or make a run for the bathroom, Ponytail start their sonic pummeling and that is that. Molly Seigel, their miniature singer, goes bowlegged and jumps up and down like some pop-punk cheerleader to Jeremy Hyman's battered cymbals.

One or all four of these Baltimorian art students must have ADD. Dueling guitarists Dustin Wong and Ken Seeno lock into a melody for only a fleeting moment; Dustin switches, Ken catches up; Dustin switches again, Ken laps him. There's no bassist, but that would only get in the way of their rapid-fire fretwork — the show is controlled chaos that should have Deerhoof trembling on their milk crate throne. There's no verse-chorus structure to speak of, but there are more guitar hooks packed into these gleeful hardcore jams than anything else I've heard this year. One minute in Ponytail time is one minute you can't afford to miss, bodily needs be damned.

Ponytail's Kamehameha shares its name with the energy balls that Dragon Ball Z's greatest fighters shoot from their hands. Goku and Master Roshi's battling blasts are a perfect analogue for Ponytail's dynamic: Molly and the boys play loud and hard, but like cartoon violence, it's more exciting than brutal. The guitars — alternating metal riffage, Dick Dale tremolo, and the occasional punk chord — are surprisingly poppy, ramped up to top speed by Ponytail's sugar high.

Some publications liken Ponytail's manic energy to that of a high school band, but the only thing high school about them is Dustin's bowl cut. They let it all out on stage, but they have the precision of a band who spent many a teenage year playing along to Master of Puppets. Kamehameha's spartan production (home-recorded in only ten hours) foregoes the crafted effects they've been developing live. Still, the record always finds the sweet spot on the distortion pedals that makes the guitars give off sparks.

My one (quickly eradicated) doubt about Ponytail had been their pint-sized banshee. Molly's vocals, recorded through a homemade telephone mic, sound tinny and faint throughout, but the voice on the other end of the line varies. At her most human, Molly is a further agitated riot grrrl — think Poly Styrene stuck on the shrieked "four" of the count-off from "Oh Bondage, Up Yours." At other times, she evokes a howling baby, a rabid Chihuahua, even a nu-metal monster-growl. The band insists that she has lyrics, though they admit that they don't understand most of them. The vocals make more sense live, not because you can understand the words, but because we see her yelps and wails as her unavoidable response to a total immersion in the performance. If she's not using real words, they're based on some primal urge — a physical necessity, not a pretense. Without the volume she gets on the stage, Molly can sound random. But whether she's adding an element of looseness to counterpoint the meticulously arranged instrumentals or just being weird, she sets Ponytail apart from their sonic cousins. No one sounds like Molly Seigel.

The live show, like Kamehameha's ten tracks in 26 minutes, is too short. I run to the bathroom after a set so urgent and frenzied you might have thought they too were holding in the bathroom need. Sure enough, I see Ken, vying for a urinal. I tell him they blew my mind and ask how he thought the show had gone over. "Well, Molly peed herself on stage," he says. "That means it was a good show."

— Joshua Hirshfeld (jhirshfe at princeton dot edu)