C. Bozulich/ Evangelista + Savage Republic

Anticipation runs high at Circolo for a double bill with the pasionaria Carla Bozulich under her Evangelista guise, alongside a true institution of American post-punk, California's own Savage Republic. Certainly not a lighthearted night out, but for anyone always on the hunt for strong emotions, it's an opportunity not to be missed.

The first pleasant surprise is the timing. The show kicks off right on schedule at 10pm (a miracle!) with an enticing prologue: a performance by drummer/percussionist Ches Smith. His stint in the line-up of Bozulich's latest incarnation follows a genuinely impressive résumé, which includes collaborations with the likes of Fred Frith, Marc Ribot, Trevor Dunn and Xiu Xiu, as well as intriguing jazz excursions such as Congs For Brums. The lanky Smith's set is as virtuosic as it is, ultimately, a bit much to digest, at least for those not devoted to relentless percussion. Still, it wins over the few in attendance, while others prefer to browse the merch stand, where vinyl copies of the Geraldine Fibbers and hardback reissues of Savage Republic take pride of place.

Shortly after, Tara Barnes appears on stage, tattooed arms and a piercing gaze. It's immediately clear that she has more than a small hand in the new Evangelista outfit. Tara straps on her bass, tries out a few chords, but above all literally takes by the hand a dejected Bozulich, who's wrestling with a tangle of cables, effects, pedals, and a broken guitar string. Carla is on the verge of a breakdown, thoroughly annoyed by the mishap (and also by the last-minute change of schedule).

Eventually, amid huffs and curses, her set can finally begin. She launches into "Evangelista 1," the opening track of her Constellation debut. And the crowd is spellbound by that thriller-like rollercoaster, oscillating between nervous spasms, chilling stillness and sudden new bursts of speed.

At this point one might have expected a more or less faithful run-through of her last two albums, but Bozulich delights in throwing everyone off. So instead we get a trio of new, unreleased songs (not bad at first listen) alongside unexpected covers of Antony ("For Today I Am a Boy," completely reworked) and Black Mountain, plus that other feat, "Pissing" by Low (already featured on "Evangelista"), recast in the darkest of tones, with a searing final maelstrom of feedback-drenched guitars and frenzied drumming (Smith is unstoppable behind the cymbals and drums).

It's clear not everything is going according to plan. Bozulich remains a bit dazed throughout, alternating feline bursts of energy with lost, bewildered looks, as when she can't find the sheet music and asks the unfortunate organist Dominic Cramp to go fetch the notebook with a song's lyrics... Adding to the chaos, some idiot causes a disturbance by throwing a coin onstage, triggering in Bozulich a reaction that's at first almost "sentimental" ("I recall that back in punk's golden age, this gesture was considered a sign of affection") and then furious ("otherwise I'd shove this penny up your ass!"). General laughter, and the show moves on.

The improvised interludes from Francesco Guerri on cello help ease the tension, and the band proves tightly knit, skilfully alternating free-form improvisation, stripped-down passages where the voice is left alone with a loop or a bed of keyboards, and noise-rock storms.

The finale is entrusted to that "black hole" of a song, "Hello, Voyager," which swallows everything whole across its more than twelve minutes of pure delirium: ⟦Q1⟧ Bozulich screams at the height of a kind of cathartic ritual. Her voice is now a tornado, blazing with fury and shaking the audience to its core. It's a shame, though, that just as the show was truly taking flight, it has to end, due to Circolo's strictly Teutonic curfew.

"Stay for the amazing Savage Republic," is Carla's parting line, still unsure whether to revel in the warm reception or vent her anger over the mishaps that had gotten in her way.

Orphaned of Bruce Licher, a little worn around the edges but still as powerful as ever, Savage Republic take command of the stage amid general jubilation. The inventors of "Californian trance" (an inimitable blend of kraut-rock, post-punk, psychedelia, Arabic surf and more) can still hit you right in the gut, even without any special effects (no flames or the like).

On stage, the inevitable Repsol drum, tended to by Ethan Port (also on guitars and vocals), stands out; drummer Alan Waddington shows the years mercilessly but is still a powerhouse, as is Greg Grunke (bass), while red-headed Kerry Dowling is equally effective on guitar, and singer/bassist Thom Fuhrmann keeps his devilish grin firmly in place: "We are Savage Republic from Los Angeles and we have a new president… finally!" he greets the crowd, marking Barack Obama's Inauguration Day.

The set opens with a rousing "Procession," dredged up from that goldmine called "Tragic Figures," all tribal, gripping post-punk. The band still hits as hard as ever, even when veering into more properly psych-kraut-wave territory. But the same lunatic who had tormented Bozulich has another stunt in store for them too: two gobs of spit onto the stage, then an ice cube hurled just inches from Fuhrmann, who spins around sharply: "Who did that?" The unfortunate culprit raises his hand in response. "You're punk!" the frontman yells at him. "You suck…" the reckless fan shoots back, seriously risking it, since Thom takes off his bass and tells him something like "we'll settle this outside later." The guy, alas, keeps at it, repeatedly shouting "Obama fuck you" too, and is only removed at the end of the night, when he even tries to storm the stage.

Savage Republic's set carries on, as tough and dark as ever. It ranges from "Next To Nothing" (also from "Tragic Figures") to "1938" (from the self-titled 2007 album), with Ethan Port taking turns tormenting the drum and the guitar, through an extraordinary cover of the Cure's "Hanging Garden" up to the closing "Viva La Rock'n'roll" (from "Jamahiriya," 1988), which by now plays practically as an anthem.

Yet another pagan ceremony from a band that remains, against all odds, indestructible.

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