Stabbing Westward: Live in Pittsburgh
“A Band I’d Loved That Doesn’t Sound
A Single Day Passed Their Prime”
Written by Big Bear Buchko

I’d always meant to see Stabbing Westward, as I unquestionably fit into their key demographic of ‘90s angst-ridden teenager. And without question, Wither Blister Burn & Peel has been on some form of playlist of mine for the last 29 years, give or take, with “Crushing Me” a permanent staple in almost all of my depression/suicide mixes. I’d always meant to see them, but somehow, I hadn’t.

I’d even planned to see them the last time they came to Pittsburgh, which – surprisingly – was not all that long ago, but responsibilities at the time and the ever-present demands of fatherhood always seem to take priority (you know, as they should). But when a Stabbing Westward performance as headliner was recently added to the marquee of the local Warrendale rock house, I made a point to add it to my calendar. As the show neared and the reminder chimed, the debate on if I should really bother to attend raged internal.

For one, I couldn’t imagine them having the same quality to their sound after all these years. Lead singer Christopher Hall – who made his intensely personal wail the immortal lexicon of the Stabbing Westward experience – was 59 years old. We’ve all gotten older, and I certainly know the quality of my output has dipped dramatically over the years, and I’m almost two full decades younger than he is. I was anticipating disappointment, much as I’d felt to finally grace the audience of an Offspring concert just barely a year ago; a band I’d wanted to see quickly became ap band I’d miss not having seen. It wasn’t until the day before the Stabbing Westward show that I finally bit the bullet and bought my ticket for the concert.

The day of the show and a friend of mine decides to come with. Seeing as how I spend a lot of time at venues and music halls alone, the inclusion of guaranteed company for the evening excites me. But then she finds that she can’t buy tickets. Anywhere. The website for the rock house says that the tickets for the event are no longer available, and we find that they’ve been removed from StubHub and Vivid Seats as well. Was it cancelled – what’s going on? She decides to call after the box office opens, and as I’d suspected a bit, it was now “day of” and tickets had to be bought at the door, now for a little bit more money. Okay, cool. But then she expresses her concerns about enough availability for her to undoubtedly have a ticket when we arrive. The person on the phone laughs, and says, “You’re not gonna have a problem with that.” I pause, and think to look up the max capacity for the concert hall we’re going to: 600 people.

Is there really that much ticket availability for a place that only holds 600 people? I don’t understand it. I remember Stabbing Westward as a huge band, with multiple albums charting and going gold, and you’re telling me there is ample ticket availability for a place that only holds 600 people? What the hell is going on? The familiar feeling of dread and the expectation of disappointment returns. “It’s just another important part of my musical adolescence murdered,” I say to calm myself, “It’s no big deal.”

It wasn’t until we were at the venue that I discovered there was, in fact, an opening band. I hadn’t noticed it on any of the publicity sheets, and I’m not sure what I expected, since every headliner needs an opener for the night, but still, for some reason, I was surprised. I read their name as “Dick-row,” snapped a pic of their modest little merch table, and set on my way towards the stage.

There was no fighting for proximity here; at the time of the first band’s arrival on stage, the rock house was holding just upwards of 100 people. It wasn’t just sparse, it was noticeably empty. I begin jotting down notes on my phone about the fragility of fame and success, and how a place like this is only appropriate for two types of acts – those near the bottom who are working their way up, and those from the up that are struggling to keep themselves from the bottom. There are bigger venues in Pittsburgh; Mr. Smalls, the Hard Rock, Spirit Hall, eventually working your way north to a place like Stage AE – where you’ll find shows by Primus, Megadeth, and Meshuggah scheduled all summer long.  But Stage AE holds 5,500. Mr. Smalls – 1000. And here we are, with 100 people in a 600 person venue, wondering where it all went wrong.

The first band is called Dichro (like Dyke-row, not Dick-row, because I am an idiot), and just as I’d missed that there was even an opening band to begin with, I’d also missed the sweet little detail that this was a female-fronted rock band. But sure enough, just as the opening bars of their intro song begin, I am confronted with this eclectic neo-wood sprite in dark hippie dressage floating her way onto the stage. I instinctively turn to my friend and mutter “Shit. There went my chance of liking this.” Because I am an asshole. 

I can’t even deny this fact about myself; I get it, I’m an asshole. I, more often than not, do not care for female-fronted rock bands. I can’t connect with them. With a band like Evanescence, I don’t know what it’s like to be a young 17^th century peasant girl deeply in love with a vampire from the mystic corn fields and also someone raps for some reason – there’s nothing for me there. Type O Negative says, “You know what, I know you’re fucking someone else.” Bam – I get it, I been there, let’s drink. Chick bands are either going to try to be tougher than they are, or they’re going to sing about things that don’t apply to me. So, like an asshole, I’ve all but completely checked out.

But here’s the best part about being a pessimistic asshole… when you’re wrong, it’s wonderful. By the 2^nd song or so, I’d started tapping my foot. By the 3^rd and 4^th, I was fully paying attention, and at about the halfway point, I couldn’t help but exclaim… “Oh shit, this actually isn’t bad.” I decided to take a break and go outside to smoke, and while wandering around in the last heat strokes of the day, I notice that the rock house has the sound from the stage pumped outside as well, so I could still here it crystal clear. I was relieved, because I really didn’t want to miss any of it. But, wait. Why am I relieved? Do… do I like this band? This OPENING BAND?! Shit. I snub my cigar and head back inside, a mere minute after going out to smoke in the first place. It’s an opening band, a girl-fronted band, and I like it… this was a rare thing indeed, and I rush back to take my place near the stage.

As I push through the audience of 40-year-old teenagers, I find that more people have trickled in, and not only that, but there is a considerable amount more attention being given to Dichro on stage. More heads were bobbing, the applause was getting louder, people were getting into this band, man. The members of the group – one able, capable, and recent-addition guitar player; another more-seasoned, more-pro-level guitar player; a solid-hitting drummer (that I previously knew from another band a few years ago); and a funky fucking firebrand on bass – together formed a fascinating, exceedingly-polished modern alt. rock sound that enveloped you like a wall. But it all came down to the eclectic neo-wood sprite in dark hippie dressage, who was approaching that polished modern rock sound with a voice not unlike the bluesy bluegrass soulfulness of a long-departed Janis Joplin.

There was no schlock here; no gimmick. She was waif-thin and undeniably attractive, but there was no grindy burlesque don’t-you-just-wanna-fuck-me? attempted seduction of the audience – that’s not her thing. There was also no attempt to make herself seem bigger or badder or harder that she was; no effort to seem as menacing as her male counterparts. She was intelligent, quirky, aggressive at times, but with a much more internal frustration than outward rage. She was vulnerable and strong at the same time, and we – everyone there – ate it up, and by the time their 45-minute set had concluded, I had seen more than a dozen cellphone in the crowd lighting up to their social media pages. She’d won us over. They’d won us all over. Good for them.

I sat down with Charmaine after the show, the lead singer that had captivated an entire concert hall with her performance, and what I found was someone so polite and endearing and so genuinely in awe of the overwhelmingly positive response she had been getting, there were times I almost expected her to apologize for being the opening band and not letting someone else have the chance. She knew she was giving herself to the people, and her energy and body language told me that she wasn’t used to being heaped with such acceptance and praise. I expect that darling character trait of hers will change as the accolades continue, but for now, it is a beautiful thing to see.

I ask her about the band name. She is warm, friendly, and excited. “I got the idea from dichroic glass! From the outside, it’s like ‘oh, it’s pretty, it’s shimmery,’ but then you can turn it and see the different colors and sparkles that are in the darkness. There’s a lot going on there. You look at it like it’s one thing, but then you look deeper and it changes. That’s the visual that works with our music.” And she’s right. There very much is a pretty and shimmery look to her, but the depth and texture of her words are undeniable, especially with lyrics such as “it’s the first day of the New World Order/I sincerely hope it’s everything you wanted.” I may be a word or two off in the quote, since I am remembering this having heard it one time played live, but regardless, it was a lyric that hit me enough to go, “Jesus, that’s actually a brilliant line. Holy shit.”

I’d asked her for 5 minutes and she gave me 30. She sang the praises of every member of the band, and still seemed humbled and embarrassed by each and every person that came by to complement her voice, her look, her sound, her band. She was charming, and she was interesting. At one point, we discovered that we shared the opposite ends of an unusual hobby: she eats fire, and I breathe fire. If this was a moment in a Sims game, this would be when a bunch of tiny little hearts starting floating above my head. The band is Dichro. They’ve been around for 4 years, they’ve been signed, and their debut album comes out August 23^rd, 2024. Follow them, buy it, love it.

I would be wrong twice this night – the first about Dichro and the second about Stabbing Westward. As more and more people filled the venue, I start to think that maybe they can hit capacity after all. 600 isn’t a lot, but it’s still better than I could do at this age. And then the lights dim, and three of the four core members make their way to the stage. The first song is “Ungod,” according to the recount on Setlist.FM, aaaaand I don’t know it. Truth be told, I’m here based on the strength of maybe six songs that I know, only four of which will be played tonight.

But as Christopher Hall comes to into focus from out of the ether – stage right, I am…  startled?… by his appearance. The bright blonde, boyish, preppy lesbian visage was a good bit different from the memories of his long, dark lion’s mane from the “Shame” video. It doesn’t look bad! Let me stress that again: he does. not. look. bad. And again, for someone less than a year away from hitting 60, he looks downright phenomenal. It was just enough of drastic change in expectations that it made the grey matter have to buffer for a little bit, that’s all. But also, we’re not here for how someone looks. Music is meant to be auditory, not visual, and what I want to hear is that classic, crisp, clean, Christopher Hall yell. And shortly into this first song, I hear it. And it is glorious.

In fact, as I sat down with him after the show with the remnants of an excellent performance all around us, the first question I had to ask him was “How does your voice still sound so strong and powerful after all these years?!” He looked at me honestly, and said, “Well, the cancer had a lot to do with it.” Fuck me, I should’ve done my research. There’s something inherently creepy to me about learning and knowing the personal life details about a celebrity, but at the same time, not knowing that the man in front of me had a devastating battle with cancer just a few years ago… that’s a rookie fucking mistake. “Oh God,” I said, both in sympathy to his revelation and my newfound awareness to my own stupidity, “I didn’t know you had cancer.”

“Yeah,” he said, taking me on a quick tour of marking and scars around his neck, “Throat cancer – it was in here, in here, all over here. Part of my recovery to getting any kind of a voice back at all was to relearn and retrain myself how to do everything I used to do. And I’m still practicing; I’m still training.” And this is why every single song tonight – 17 in total – was done with an intensity and precision that I thought for certain Stabbing Westward couldn’t still be capable of after all these years. And I was absolutely, amazingly wrong.

My next assumption was that a band of Stabbing Westward’s caliber must hate playing in such an “intimate” space, especially having recently done a spate of large festival dates across the U.S. “I’m so fucking tired of festivals,” he tells me, diligently loading cords and cables and electronics in a very specific manner, “Festivals are hard work. You have to try to win over this giant crowd of people that maybe know one song. I’m a fucking old man! But it pays well and gets us in front of a lot of people, so… that’s just me.”

And his appreciation for a proper Stabbing Westward audience was evident and prevalent throughout their entire performance; he talked with people, he joked around and told stories, he looked at people and interacted with them – he was having fun, and he made sure every one of us was having fun right along with him. What I’d expected from a Stabbing Westward show was something morose; stargazer lilies; an overuse of the smoke machine; and what I got was a joyous and magical and thoroughly enjoyable reemergence of a band I’d loved that doesn’t sound a single day passed their prime. They sounded utterly fantastic through all 17 songs, with a force and a showmanship that could blow a band half their age out of the water.

Now, meeting Christopher Hall was a different story. That was one hell of a day-and-night switch between “rockstar Christopher” and “the fans are gone, Christopher.” A person that had seemed so confident and larger-than-life on stage was now this careful and reserved, quiet, gentle man. He’d happily granted me the interview, one that we were only a minute into when security asked for me to leave. What I wouldn’t have expected was for Christopher Hall to go to bat for me, asking them for more time to appease my journalistic requirements. He got us another 40 seconds, and then another security guard decided to ignore his pleas entirely and told me to get out. (He’s the fucking star tonight, guys, isn’t he calling the shots for the time being?!) So, yeah, if you’re wondering why I haven’t said the name of the venue we were attending, that’d be a big why right there.  

Christopher Hall was both very apologetic and very appreciative for the two minutes we had. He gave me a method to contact him personally, something which I greatly hesitate to do because I 100% question my ability to be responsible with such access and information. (I’ve already started texting with the Dichro girl, if you can believe that. #Stalker?) But both him and I expressed interest in doing a full and proper interview together sometime soon. The 13-year-old fan-girl deep inside my 40-year-old-man heart was positively screaming.

For a brief moment in time, the phrase “you can’t go home again” did not exist. While I’ve seen plenty of bands in their 20^th, 30^th year of touring, I can’t imagine a single one that felt okay for having missed them in their younger days because their ladder years are just as good. I felt that tonight. I felt that I have seen Stabbing Westward at a great time to see them. Through perseverance to overcome cancer, Christopher Hall has put himself through the rigorous training of a rookie still cutting their teeth, and this towering and youthful voice is his reward. I feel like I hit the jackpot tonight; an opening band that was good; with a charismatic goth punk Janis Joplin singer that was a delight to talk to; a band that I loved when I was growing up is found to be as evoking and impressive as ever; and the lead singer of which is a kind, friendly, thoughtful person. 

Wow, this was a great night.