Seven or eight years ago, I saw Nika Roza Danilova lift a mace over her head in a Chicago bar, and the image has stayed with me ever since. That night, Zola Jesus was opening for Fucked Up and Kurt Vile at Chicago's Empty Bottle, and I almost showed up late on purpose. At that point, the only Zola Jesus album was 2009's The Spoils, a squalid and seething noise record. I'd listened to it, and it didn't seem like something I needed in my life. But I did show up early enough to see Zola Jesus, and what I saw was huge and beautiful and overwhelming. Danilova was only tall enough that, even when she was standing onstage, I could barely see her over the heads of the people in the front row. But she emanated this sound, a lonely foghorn wail, that I've never heard another human being even attempt. She paced back and forth across that tiny stage like a caged tiger. And for one song, while the three guys behind her worked up a towering keyboard drone, she held that medieval weapon aloft, looking like she was about to go to war with the entire world. I've been to a lot of shows in my life, but I've never seen anyone project strength the way Danilova did that night.