Beginning and end

Congratulations: The room is filling up well before the designated 8 p.m. start time. I think, surely, Sacramento came out in droves for homegirls Terra Lopez and Dani Fernandez of Sister Crayon, who haven’t played in town in months.

Then I realize Harlow’s is packed with stoic white dudes. Ah, Built to Spill fans.

That shouldn’t have come as a surprise, I guess, considering Built to Spill is the headliner. And tickets are $35.

Still, Lopez and Fernandez treat the sold-out house like it belongs to them. Lopez scours the entire stage, thrashing around and dropping to her knees. Fernandez rages on the drum pad. Hair flies in all directions as they engage in their signature headbangs.

Too bad the bodies hogging the front of the stage are standing so stiffly. Lopez sings into their faces with the fiercest of eyes, pulling their heads closer. She begs people to move—just a little bit—but people are stubborn.

I feel a shift in the room, though, once Sister Crayon launches into “To Show You Violence.” In the song’s quieter moments, Lopez’s pained vulnerability shines, and it’s powerful. Crowd favorite “Ride|Die” sees Lopez filling the room with her impressive vocal range practically mic-less. The high gets higher.

“Thank you if you’ve ever fucking come to a show,” Lopez says, beginning a long, gratitude-filled list.

Then, she announces Sister Crayon is signing with Warner Bros. Records—and that they wanted to tell Sacramento first. Fan or not, everyone in Harlow’s seems to swell with pride and explode in applause.

“We’re gonna fucking rep Sac,” Lopez says, beaming.

This is just the beginning.

—Janelle Bitker

Rest in peace: What’s G. Green’s legacy?

G.Green emerged organically seven years ago in a small friends circle that by proxy formed a community, a scene maybe. Its members shared housing, sweat, beers and bills with friends that found international notoriety, like Ganglians and Death Grips. In the demise and disillusion of those bands, G. Green kept the torch lit. But that’s not its legacy.

Was G. Green ever a local darling? That would require the rewriting of history. G. Green’s legacy was to exist in the margins. In its early years, the margins meant the perpetual opening band. Post-Area Codes, G. Green was a secret weapon. Despite seven years of itching and scratching for local infamy, Sacramento never let G.Green shed that larva state.

The mood at the living wake at Red Museum last weekend suggested that G. Green changed nothing. The warehouse was not rabid with die-hards down to give their sweat and lose their voice one final time. A man resembling the last living hesher stood front and center as the only one who seemed to understand how performance funerals work. G. Green founder Andrew Henderson respectfully toasted to his passion and dance moves.

Who shows up to a wake to be seen? Who steps out for a cigarette during a eulogy?

Screature, built for weird funerals, paid tribute with a “Black Walls” cover. The song’s tortuous bass line and caterwaul of noise riffs translated in a manner that felt like G.Green wrote it with Screature on the brain. Did G. Green leave a will? If so, I hope it bequeaths “Black Walls” to its goth punk friend.

The room was solemn, but the six feet of space occupied by G. Green was a brave and reckless duel with death. It closed with “Your House” and the whole thing almost ended quick and painlessly. Christopher Orr of Screature rallied an encore chant that led to the performance equivalent of a viking funeral. “TV Coast” bled into “Black Walls.” A noise session broke out with Henderson shouting from the floor while his guitar screeched feedback, while Morales let anyone in arms length play his solo. It was the closest I’ve come to witnessing a blaze of glory.

G. Green always deserved better. For now, keep the records in stock. Some day a young, troubled boy or girl will glance at the Area Codes track listing, see “Brain Fuck,” “Sex Pt. II” and “Drugs,” and find a little taste of salvation.

—Blake Gillespie