By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
"Bodies, can't you see what everybody wants from you?" Annie Clark wondered on "Cruel," a fitting obituary for a year in which bodies were pulled in every direction at once, for pleasure and pain, life and death. Clark's word choice is strategic: She's addressing not sentient beings (or "My Country," as Garbus does), but the assemblages of flesh and bone that are prone to inhuman actions. On "Surgeon," Strange Mercy becomes a salacious soap-opera hospital, and the invasiveness of surgery is conflated with the act of lovemaking. The song starts off dreamily, as if succumbing to a local anaesthetic, before building to the sort of orgasmic climax for which Prince should get residuals. Clark's repeated plea "Best finest surgeon, come cut me open" could emanate from a desperately injured person or one seeking a tabula rasa for her outward appearance.
Yet it remains. Even the smartest critics were taken aback by the sight of Clark's tiny frame slashing through Big Black's "Kerosene" at the Mercury Lounge in May, recasting its dark, nebbish machismo as something they didn't have language for, as if the Y chromosome alone contains the predisposition to fucking shred. In their own virtuosic manner, Garbus's remarkable live performances extend her body's built-in capacities with a simple loop pedal, collaging her own utterances to create an organic funk foundation with a fiercely primal urgency—the tribal face paint doesn't feel like an affectation.
w h o k i l l is at its most compelling when Garbus unleashes her most primal desires—the "jungle under my skin," as she calls it—particularly those that don't jibe with stereotypical understandings of bodily empowerment. On the sultry slow jam "Powa," she confesses her preference for ceding control in the bedroom, punctuated with the confession "my man likes me from behind," before collapsing into a gorgeous orgasmic wail. She one-ups even this on "Riotriot," admitting an erotic attraction to the Oakland cop she watched handcuff her brother. It's a quietly stunning moment to hear an artist, especially a woman, so bluntly admit the most repressed form of desire: that which arises when encountering a source of power well beyond your control.
Garbus opens w h o k i l l by speaking truth to state power. By nicking the first two lines of "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," she twists that song's claim—that America is made up of sacrificed human bodies—by boldly asking, like Harvey, if that's necessarily a good thing. As tribal drums layer atop one another, Garbus extends the metaphor of country as human, acknowledging her discomfort in her native land's embrace, its misdeeds in her name too egregious to overlook. She can't see a future within America's arms, but Garbus's own body politic will incorporate anyone. Most importantly, sacrificing one's body isn't required. The only rite of citizenship is answering in the affirmative to the question Garbus is known for yelling out in concert: "Do you wanna LIVE?!"