Clubfooted Nonsense Yowled Through Thick Walls
As usual with screaming Americans doing the clonic neuronic Euro-art-student-with-guitar sound, it's impossible to intuit any of what Seattle's Chromatics are writing about. Vocal yowling is reverberated through a mile of tin-walled hall, song titles reveal zilch, and neither do the lyrics, printed small to torment those with failing vision.
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Plaster Hounds
Gold Standard Laboratories
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Plaster Hounds is scratchingly loud in the right places, though, which is almost all the time. Another weapon is a great drummer who plays in the holes left over by the stringed instruments, if not the other way around. Beating and controlled falling down of stairs carry "24/32/22/22" almost by themselves.
"Monarch" is a dedicated clearer of the weak from any room, a genre tough to pull off, but always welcome when efficient. Electronic handclaps and fuzz-bass take over, building to shrieking man Adam Miller's big moment, "Ice Hatchets," a dance number for funky clubfoots. For the finale, it's an anxiety attack with the slogan "Pain is its own invention," I think, set to a bip-bop-bipping synthezoid hook. It is said this number was formerly a hit for the Silver Apples.
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