The lights lowered and a man crouched behind his mixing board and computers and cued the intro for Last Train to Lhasa. That’s when all hell broke loose.
Things went downhill about halfway through the set, when the band followed Mr. Manson’s lead and left the stage. After the fourth time, it was getting old.
They were loud, rambunctious, and wonderfully satirical, even self-effacing. It takes a lot of guts to make fun of yourself and still pull off a great show.
La Gritona are one of Boston’s few good bands, easily levitating over the usual indie swill and three-chord power-pop pablum. Too bad this was their last show.
She wails and groans, her accompaniment a piano as Luciferian as her voice. Earthquake low rumbling with lightning flashes of sharp highs lifting its voice.