PARAMORE IS A BAND

In the heat of the midday sun, amplified by the sweet-and-sticky humidity of central Maryland, Paramore headbanged above a dehydrated crowd at the D.C. date of the Vans Warped Tour.

It was their third year on the traveling circus, arguably their first without making obvious allusions to Christianity in their onstage banter. They dressed in coordinating ketchupand mustard-colored skinny jeans on a makeshift main stage in the middle of the lawn at Merriweather Post Pavilion, long before Animal Collective’s experimental indie rock-pop would become synonymous with the place. It was 2007, two years after Paramore made their Warped debut on the first official Shiragirl side stage for female-fronted acts—separate, and certainly not equal, despite the best of intentions of its creator, NYC riot grrrl Shira Yevin. Someone threw a tallboy can of water at the stage, a tiny weapon and tinny product that later would be retooled, given irreverent marketing, and sold to the millennial masses as “Liquid Death.” It certainly tastes like it. Paramore’s set was sandwiched between “scene” bands lost to time (Amber Pacific, Scary Kids Scaring Kids) and those few who’d sustained careers, easing themselves into familiar paths to veterancy (Circa Survive, Killswitch Engage). There are only so many ways to innovate a palm-muted power chord; at least, that’s the dominating criticism fans of this music have adopted as true.