The Velveteers: Aggie Theatre

Three local Colorado bands sold out the legendary Aggie Theater in Fort Collins this past Friday night, providing a show that won’t soon be forgotten by those in attendance.

The first opener, The Crooked Rugs, pulls listeners in with their very much King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard appeal. You’re at the same time sipping a bold IPA while your brain takes a journey into dissociation nation. A much smaller, imaginary, version of yourself floats down the rippling sound waves resonating from their guitars on a pool floatie. Their modern twist on psychedelic rock takes you through a sonic landscape with warbly vocals and plenty of reverb. Explosions of vibrant colors frame the stage—purple, blue, and yellow—as you close your eyes. Songs begin to intensify, like a storm in the distance you can hear but can’t quite see. Soon, you’re engulfed in the tornado with rolling toms, heavy bass drum, and spiraling guitar licks. What once felt bright and groovy becomes a deeply gritty, earth excavating experience. Clearly, the versatility of this band spans a broad range while still remaining under the hypnotic charm of trippy rock. The Crooked Rugs rally the troops, bringing the crowd to a low boil—setting the stage for what’s sure to be a wild night.

Following a brief intermission, local favorites Bitchflower stalk onto the stage. The deep reds of the backstage lighting illuminate the devilish grin and wide eyes strewn across lead singer Brooke Van Buiten’s face; a look that reads pure evil. They take what was once a low-boiling tea kettle to the brink—whistling, water spilling over the edges. The sound they produce is like plunging your fingernails into the coarse skin of a citrus fruit, then ravaging it—tearing it to pieces; splaying its pulp, guts, and seeds as juice runs down your arms. Looking out into the crowd, there’s a sea of rhythmic head nods; people transfixed in hypnosis.

Bitchflower has them in a stranglehold. Things continue to spiral into madness as Van Buiten stomps about the stage, throbbing kick drum in the backdrop. Visceral growls bubble up and rip through the microphone as she’s purposefully entangled in its cord. Just when you think the roller coaster is about to come to a full stop, you’re launched back into the stratosphere. Metallic guitars clanging, reverberating off the walls with drippy bass lines while Van Buiten whipps her head around like a ragged doll. Just watching is enough to give you whiplash. Bitchflower’s menacing energy seeps into the crowd and abducts all bodily control in the pit; crowd surfing ensues, bodies contorting and twisting as the masses carry them along in waves. This band can truly bring out the animalistic nature in every one of us and can only be described as maniacally genius.

As Bitchflower’s set comes to an end, a thin veil of fog blankets the stage. The crowd is effectively rallied and buzzing in anticipation for the night’s main act, The Velveteers.

Production rolls out two drum kits and for a second, you swear you’re seeing double. Another team member hauls a large canvas to the corner stage, a tarp laid beneath. As the lights dim, the band emerges, revealing their unapologetically amorphous style. Shaggy hair, bold eyeshadows painted across lids, and sequins adorn drummer Baby Pottersmith while lead singer Demi Demitro struts out in full cheetah print glam. Without warning, the backing track's bass rattles the bones in your skull and you’ve just started to wonder what’s about to happen here tonight. The tab on the Cherry Coke™ has been tapped; pop, hiss, and the sickly-sweet, syrupy fizz erupts. The opening track to their new album starts and the guitar strapped to the lead singer cries in high frequencies while synchronized drum fills ricochet off the audience.

The on-stage artist paints vivid hues through broad brush strokes to the ruckus in full swing. Demitro’s eyes pierce the souls of anyone willing to snag a glance with a vocal range that scrapes cloud edges.

The drummers, Baby Pottersmith and Jonny Fig, exchange carnivorous grins before unleashing their unbridled energy through gritted teeth. With a white-knuckled grip on their drumsticks, they launch into a fury of noise. As Pottersmith’s blonde hair is tossed frivolously from pure kinetic energy, they bring a single drum into the crowd, thrashing about as someone obediently holds it overhead. Lights flicker, resembling the distorted fuzz radiating off amplifiers as spellbound fans shout lyrics up at the unstoppable force that is the Demitro. The crowd’s uncorked fervour spirals into a mosh pit filled with riled up maniacs. In an eye-of-the-storm moment, the Demitro drops down, twisted microphone cord in hand, and leads a call-and-response of “oh-oh-ohs”, rousing mass enthusiasm from the front rows. She climbs back on stage, their set nearing its end. They say their farewells with the guitar left mic’d and screeching into the void when desperate cries of “one more song” echo through the theater. They perform one last round of soul-shaking rock that even still can’t satisfy us, leaving you with a vacant hole—Velveteer shaped. The sound they give is engulfed in pure rock & roll, like drinking orange juice with the pulp—raw and unfiltered.

As you go to close out your tab, you’re left with the lifting of theater lights, ringing in your ears, and the fragmented memories of a sweetly sinister evening.