Portland has long been revered as an ungovernable beast. It’s the kind of city where a vegan strip club and a craft donut shop can sit across from each other without irony, where moss creeps over stop signs, and where unofficial civic religion is still “do what you want, just make it loud.” If Portland was made for any band, it is undoubtedly Mannequin Pussy.

Formed in Philly basements, Mannequin Pussy has never been about sanding down the edges. The quartet initially formed as a scrappy duo over a decade ago—spearheaded by  singer/guitarist Marisa Dabice. Across four albums—Gypsy Pervert (2014), Romantic (2016), Patience (2019), and I Got Heaven (2024)—the band has formed a catalog that just won’t choose between brutality and melody—songs that burn fast and hot but leave the kind of scars that you hope will last. Live, they’re combustion in real time: no filler, no patience, no permission needed.

But to really understand Mannequin Pussy, you have to see them live. Dabice detonates as the band’s front. Her voice swings from howl to whisper, her presence unrelenting, the kind that pulls you into the wreckage whether you’re ready or not. Behind her, the band keeps pace with punishing precision: riffs like jagged glass, drums that crack through the air, basslines that punch holes in your chest. A Mannequin Pussy show is, simply put, something you survive, and come out of a little transformed.

At Project Pabst, the city’s resurrected beer-soaked festival, their classic combustion hit Portland square in the chest. On the Willamette river forefront, the air was thick of beer and fried food, the crowd humming with a hangover-summer delirium. Sharing the bill with Iggy Pop, Japanese Breakfast, Devo, and Wednesday, the band tore into their set as though it were the only one that mattered.

What followed was less a set than an exorcism. Guitar riffs cracked like lightning, drums reverberated off the water, and Marisa Dabice’s voice tore through the park—equal parts snarl, cry, and battle cry. One moment tender enough to make the crowd ache, the next loud enough to rattle their ribcages. Bodies crashed into one another, strangers became temporary comrades, and Portland was mutinous yet again.

For Portland, Project Pabst felt like a reclamation. For Mannequin Pussy, it was another reminder that their sharp edges cut clean across any backdrop—whether in basements or beneath festival lights. See below, their exclusive photo diary from Project Pabst: a document of noise, sweat, and a city remembering how to scream back.