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In the post-grunge (post-Hole), post-alternative (post-Garbage) and post-feminine (post-PJ Harvey) world, Queen Adreena's mainwoman Katie Jane Garside established a turbulent environment to be in, as shown in opener "Cold Fish", an angst-ridden pop anthem, unpegged by razor-sharp feedback. The twisted lounge "Soda Dreamer" followed, dreamy and haunted, while in "I Adore You" the violent thrusts of the guitar pushed further towards what was already a tense track. Katie Jane Garside occupied a dejected territory, delineated by "Yesterday's Hymn", a ghostly trip-hop comprised of her broken baby-doll delivery, male chanting vocals, and raspy loops. Then "Pretty Polly" started as a depressed dream-pop lullaby, but was later having feedback-laden rage-attacks.More eclectic, "Yemaya" resembled a post-grunge cabaret for lost little-girls in an adult hostile environment. "Madraykin" continued to occupy a desolate territory, in what was essentially a fading radio transmission of a post-alternative serenade. These schizophrenic alternations between manic depression and rage attacks continued in "X-ing Off The Days", whose cries of agony pierced the air in what was basically a supersonic litany. The mania retreated in "Hide From Time", the little girl lost covering herself in a cocoon of psychological fortress. Alas, it was not to be, the raging mania resurfaced in "Friday's Child". The album was displaying a borderline dual personality. All these rage attacks, resulted in the same lapse of positive energy, a vicious loop confirmed by the trip-post-blues "Sleepwalking". The closing "Weeds" didn't offer any ray of hope, essentially a lament for what was a vicious circle of emotional dysfunction. Get it here.
When dance-punk was a prevailing movement in the early 00's, and before the Liars decided they were an art-rock band, they gave one of the definitive records of the genre with They Threw Us All In A Trench. It started with "Grown Men Don't Fall In The River", introduced by typical slacker-rock plucking, but soon got a kick up the butt by turning to a manic Gang Of Four-like punk-funk exercise, though it's structure was anything but stable, a trait that was also evident in the quasi-free-form and quasi-rap "Mr. Your On Fire Mr.", reminiscent of the Beastie Boys at their best, before it embarked once again in a Gang Of Four-styled chorus. Then the irregular chanting and rhythming in "Loose Nuts On The Velandrome" veered into no-wave territory, reminding of the Teenage Jesus & The Jerks' shattering "Orphans". "Tumbling Walls Buried Me In The Debris With ESG" harked back to the Bush Tetras more broad punk-funk, albeit in modern post-everything production settings, and in the end embarking in a very effective dark-punk and punk-funk jamming, proving that the Liars were above all good musicians. In the meantime, industrial gurgling electronic noise enhanced the spazz framework in "Nothing Is Ever Lost Or Can Be Lost", one of their most angst ridden endeavors. The most impressive experiment was "This Dust Makes That Mud", whose fluid structure, led by tense synthesizer lines and agonizing thrumming shrieks, harked back to such cold-wave classics such as Joy Divisions' "I Remember Nothing" and the Talking Heads' "Overload", eventually leading to a nightmarish, psychedelic loop going on for 20 minutes, from where it seemed there was no exit. Get it here.
Erase Errata were amongst the more extreme practitioners of the dance-punk movement of the early 00's, essentially harking back to the no-wave of the late 70's and the spazz-rock of Brainiac from the 90's, as introduced by "Tongue Tied". The highlight was how the lead-guitar indulged in manic geometrical shapes within the already effervescent structures of the tracks.
This practice hinted towards a schizophrenic version of math-rock, as in "Bully Mummy", which basically enhanced Ludus' program from the early 80's, further shown in "Delivery". In the meantime, the noise-funk "Marathon" felt like a more extreme version of the Bush Tetras, while also remembering the Gang of Four in "Other Animals Are #1", and let's not forget the inventor of the chaotic math-no-wave, the Captain Beefheart of Trout Mask Replica, in the multi-layered chaos of "High Society".
Following that, the sheer noise of "..." reminded of the spasms of DNA. On the other hand, "French Canadia" was pure hysterical progressive-rock. Again, Ludus was the benchmark, a characteristic that was manifesting itself as intense and groovy in "How To Tell Yourself from A Television", or obsessive and ceremonial in "C. Rex", as impressive short circuits in "Walk Don't Fly", and finally resulting in spastic electrons trying to escape the confines of the atom in "---". Get it here.
"Mother's Hour" dispensed with the long progressive complex structures of their other work, but intensified the chaotic approach. At two minutes, this raised a tribal hell, free-form guitar noise, cathartic screams, yet still was perversely danceable and groovy. The B-side, "Patient", was not as spastic, but still sounded like a lounge-jazz tropicalia band having a panic attack. Ludus prove to be a quite versatile outfit. Get it here.
A sprawling, spazztastic nerdcore no-wave attack, backed by a competent band that veers in off-kilter free-jazz and damaged ethnic mayhem (two saxophones, two drum-sets), occasionally revisiting the Pere Ubu-esque modern dance in a more dissonant form ("Gift"), and of course the Beefheart-ian damaged blues ("I Know How It Feels. Bad."), and further enhanced by the vitriolic lyrics. Get it here.
Arguably, their masterpiece. "Creep In The Cellar" served as a timid introduction, turning just a bit more sinister and damaged in "Sea Ferring", more than ever applying their art-damaged punk aesthetics to a broader American context, not urban, but modern rural, as if freak redneck farmers from Texas living in their own decadent incestuous microcosm. An unrecognizable mutilated cover of "American Woman" supported this impression, veering into psychedelic tribal chaos, while later resembling a mutant electro-rap. "Waiting For Jimmy To Kick" revisited the debut's acid-punk from another perspective, more sound-effect laden, with more ambitious arrangements, no less severe, no less drug-fueled. Ever increasing the intensity, "Strangers Die Everyday" was a delirious requiem, an organ mass gurgling in a lake of LSD, creating nightmares. In "Perry" they paid tribute to their godfathers, Chrome and their supersonic acid punk-rock, albeit from an american populist defunkt robotic point of view. Then "Whirling Hall of Knives" assumed the form of a vibrant raga, glowing as if splattered with radioactive waste, marching and ponderous, self-transcendental amidst the miasmatic atmosphere. It was a recipe that got more rarified in "Mark Says Alright", before turning to a disorienting and abstract nightmare in the reprise of "In The Cellar". Get it here.
It seems funny now, when considering the kind of stature they enjoy today amongst the indie community, how uncompromising the Animal Collective used to be. "Native Belle", a direct continuation of the spirit of Danse Manatee (their masterpiece), was an even more abstract tribal chant amidst a jungle ambience. "Hey Light" went further beyond, basically a flat-out free-form acid-trip, and ditto for the 12-minute "Two Sails On A Sound".
In "Infant Dressing Table", the musique concrète sampling turned to a mechanical chant. In "Panic", it was the reverse, it was the tribal chanting that formed a musique concrète ballet. After such excruciating dadaist environments, the hyperactive pop oddity "Slippi" came as some sort of relief, and felt like a cover of The Trashmen' "Surfin' Bird", paving the way for the fluid defunct chirping of "Too Soon". Get it here.
