Heaven at the Seventh Circle

(Published in Five Cent Sound)

It’s an abusively cold night off the 6th Avenue Freeway—In that interstitial stretch, just outside

of Denver, Colorado, where all established enterprises fall under one of three banners: Welding bay, service center, or all-nite taco dive. January 17th is a Saturday, and at 9 pm it’s safe to say there’s not much to see in this part of town. Only a handful of running cars, parked in front of an auto-repair shop suggest true signs of life.

This is the usual scene before a show at The Seventh Circle— a fervid atmosphere of mass

anticipation. It's no surprise that a venue named Denver’s Best DIY Spot five years in a row

draws a good crowd, even in sub-freezing temperatures. Of course, there’s also a decent chance that the army of punks currently milling around in the auto-shop turned concert-hall are here for a different reason entirely.

In reality, there’s no question as to the real draw of the night. It is without a shadow of doubt,

Boulder’s premier, all-woman, punk band, Diva Cup. Fresh off the release of an EP titled

Screaming is for Girls, Diva Cup is the undisputed main event— the only headline act that has

adolescent rockers and old-heads alike, buzzing well before the first eerie notes of the opening

number, “Spyder Wife.”

The Seventh Circle actually makes for an ideal venue to take in all that is a Diva Cup show. This

all-age venue is an honest-to-God freakshow— an increasingly rare and beautiful scene of total

chaos. As a band, Diva Cup is no different. They are every bit as raw, just as effortlessly

electrified, as the raging mosh that erupts at the onset of “Man with the Microphone.”

Not for nothing, Diva Cup frequently chooses to swoop between punk-adjecent genres,

delivering a grungy manifesto on contemporary politics in “Jawz” just to kick off yet another

mosh pit with the agonizingly vicious number titled, “K.N.I.F.E.”

Make no mistake, The Seventh Circle is still a punk venue through and through. A survey of

their average moshpit usually consists of swinging fists, flailing legs, and at least one repurposed traffic-cone. That’s half the reason Diva Cup decided to cut one of their slower songs, “Sassy,” as performed by Addy Shae. They figure the crowd won’t want to stop their moshing even for just one song. But there are at least half a dozen high-schoolers in the front row that beg to differ— literally begging. One fan, in particular; a skinny bundle of androgyny covered in thick facepaint, has even memorized all the words.

“I’ll only sing it, if you sing it with me,” says Shae.

No hesitation whatsoever. This rockstar-in-the-making springs onstage and instantly assumes the coveted role of Diva Cup’s fifth member. Cheered on by their gaggle of high-school superfans, Diva Cup launches into a duet version of “Sassy.” It’s obvious that something special is happening— something that doesn’t happen at just any punk show. Shae beams throughout the entire song and in fact, everyone seems to be smiling. Even when the last chords of “Sassy” fade, every member of Diva Cup still has a permanently dazed look. A radiant look that says, We’re fucking rockstars.

“And now… a song that is definitely not about vaginas,” drummer Maggie Kempen chirps as the

band kicks back into high gear for an instant classic: “Girl Hole.”

For this song, lead singer Polly Torian demands an all-girl mosh. If it’s any measure of Diva

Cup’s ferocious fanbase, there comes a moment midway through the performance when an older man forces his way into the pit. Although he’s undeniably taller and heavier, Diva Cup’s crowd makes short work of him. He is instantly ejected from the mosh, played out to the triumphant and aptly titled, “Man from the Slime.”

At this point, Diva Cup has decidedly won the night. The next few songs are a non-stop frenzy—a maddening orgy of screeches and savage whooping. As Torian howls the chorus to “10.63”

several young fans even climb into the rafters, dangling upside-down and looking every bit like a colony of demented, leather-clad bats. This is a punk show at its very best; Every freak under the sun basking in a glorious shared delirium.

Human bats. Blood-red lights. Music so unshakably fierce that it sends bigots running for the

hills. This must be heaven. Or else it’s got to be Diva Cup.