Last night, much-buzzed about local band Tit Pig played a well-attended show at the Comet Tavern, headlining over Olympia bands Milk Music and Christian Mistress (White Boss unfortunately cancelled). I missed Milk Music, but a friend described them as “like a down-tuned Foo Fighters,” which actually really makes me want to see them sometime. Olympia’s Christian Mistress are a full-on, hair-farming, head-banging metal band in the most classic mold. I will be honest, I don’t have the faintest fucking idea what to do with this stuff. Same friend said they sounded like “Motörhead and Iron Maiden” had a baby, and I’m inclined to defer to him on this one. Fun fact: my iPhone autocorrect knows to put an umlaut in Motörhead. Rock on, Jobs.

As editor of this music section, I take full responsibility for the irony that Tit Pig’s last nine or so mentions in the Stranger this past month have all concerned how little media coverage they get and how impossible they are to track down on the internet. My bad. But it’s better you hear about them than not, even if it involves some beating over the head with a dead horse. In any case, readers should be in for a brief reprieve, as Tit Pig ended their set last night with the announcement that they wouldn’t be playing shows for a couple months so that they can concentrate on making a record. Before that, they let loose a half hour or so of screaming hardcore so fun and vital that it actually has me giving half a shit about the mostly moribund aggro genre for the first time in years.

Sean “the Prawn” Evoy is an ideal frontman for a hardcore band. Before Tit Pig, the last time he was in the Stranger, he was boasting about how he carries a knife when he goes to the Goodwill (don’t let the tough talk fool you, he’s just a big ol’ clotheshorse). Evoy doesn’t “have a mouth on him,” he’s just all mouth. It’s probably for the best that his, uh, singing comes out as an unintelligible series of throat-scraping screams, squeals, and croaks, because he’s almost certainly talking some nasty, offensive shit in there. Perhaps his deadpan between song banter is some indication (although the first thing out of Evoy’s mouth was the Mr. Show phrase “fuck yeah that wide,” which might also give some hint about the band’s sense of humor): “All right, motherfuckers, it’s time to knuckle up. Let’s get fucking nuts, motherfuckers.” “I can’t hear myself at all, just—whatever, fuck it, fucking shit.” “It’s not dirty enough for me. I need you guys to do something. Someone take a shit on the floor.” “Break your fucking legs, let’s get gross.” “Spill some fucking blood. Somebody get their head split open, I’m getting bored.”

To their credit, the crowd responded to Evoy’s hectoring with enthusiastic slam dancing and omni-directional volleys of beer cans. Evoy, quickly shirtless and showing off his garish chest tattoo, responded in kind, stalking through the crowd and shoving audience members. The dude from the hot dog stand upturned a small trash can onstage. There was a cardboard box in the pit, tripping people up; eventually, it wound up around the drummer’s shoulders, like the human/garbage version of one of those dog cones. The songs were short, fast, and hard, the rhythm martial and unrelenting, the guitarist (dreadlocked Willie Nilz from Wildildlife) alternating from distorted chords to fast, one-handed fret-tapping that left his other right hand free for throwing metal horns or, better yet, pointing at his own finger-tapping left hand.

The drummer also got in some good banter. Introducing a song called “Cruising,” named, one assumes, for the graphic gaysplotation Al Pacino film, he said, "I want to say I'm so happy to see some big bears here tonight, and if any of you guys wanna take me home and abuse me tonight, I'm up for grabs. The next one’s called ‘Cruising’ and it goes out to all the bears and it's straight from my heart and I'm dead serious." To which Evoy replied, "we got a limpwrist in here tonight.”

Tit Pig are eager provocateurs (see also their t-shirt), but Evoy’s between song gripes about boredom, his repeated calls for more extreme action, raise a niggling question: how filthy does the slam dancing and the shit talk have to be for this stuff to shock anymore? If anyone in Seattle’s gonna find out, it’ll be Tit Pig.