Before the band cranked up, someone in the crowd said to a pal: “I love tigers and I love sex, so I think I’m going to love this band.” Tiger Sex is an apt name for the feral, erotic punk quartet from Las Vegas. Singer Kelly Tiger Sex wasn’t a sequined magician’s white Bengal, cage-pampered and waiting for instructions. She was a famished panther, mostly ignoring the stage and prowling the room, ready to eat what she didn’t kill, kill what she didn’t fuck. I was scared of her, and I don’t say that about rock vocalists (except when riding shotgun with Vince Neil).
Tiger Sex grafted the Plasmatics’ raw poetry onto the Stooges’ hell-for-leather guitar-riffing. The songs weren’t a retro trip for vintage vampires, though. The band Montecore’d my ears with gutter-glittering tunes—from guitarist Kei’s wah-wah-pedal frenzy on “My Way” to the street walkin’-cheetah strut of “Prostitution,” bassist Paul French and drummer Chris Moon locking into relentless rhythms. Easily the most exciting rock group—sonically and visually—in Las Vegas right now. ★★★★☆