In jazz and improvised music, free/creative playing is just as much about liberating instrumental possibilities as opening up rhythm, melody, chord structure, and form. It was in the 1960s that instruments like the bass clarinet and cello found their way into progressive jazz environments under the direction of artists like Eric Dolphy and Joel Freedman. While the favored instrument of traditional jazz players like Sidney Bechet and the well-regarded bebop saxophonist Lucky Thompson (a favored tenorman on Thelonious Monk’s early sides), under the watch of John Coltrane, the soprano saxophone became associated with high, wailing, and dervish-like cycles emerging from modal-jazz frameworks. Those who followed in Coltrane’s footsteps similarly employed the higher-register axe, which, to paraphrase bassist Kent Carter on his association with Steve Lacy, can “cut through an ensemble like gold.”
Lacy (1934-2004) was a Dixieland soprano player who jumped into the deep end of creative music with both feet, quickly becoming known with pianist-composer Cecil Taylor in 1956 and leading his own groups exploring the music of Monk shortly thereafter. His esteemed quartet with trombonist Roswell Rudd devoted itself to the search for something harmonically and structurally “beyond” in Monk’s music, leading to the saxophonist’s embrace of free music in the early 1960s. Based in Europe from 1966 until shortly before his death, Lacy began to create a significant solo saxophone repertoire in the early 1970s, which resulted in numerous concerts and recordings, one of the finest being 1977’s Clinkers (Hat Hut). Like most of Lacy’s records from the close of the 1960s onward, Clinkers presented pieces — Lacy’s headlong leap into freedom resulted in a unique and painstakingly detailed compositional approach (almost as though the other side of “freedom” was structure). Recorded in concert in Basel on June 9, 1977, Clinkers was a little less than three-quarters of a storied performance, and the remaining 20 minutes consisted of a rare improvised duet with another saxophonist, Joe McPhee. McPhee, an acolyte of Lacy as much as Albert Ayler, had opened the concert with his varied solo palette including tenor, soprano, and pocket trumpet, and Lacy invited him to play duets on the straight horn. This was intimidating for McPhee, who had been playing saxophones for less than a decade (he started on trumpet and added reeds in 1968). Titled The Rest, its issue on a one-sided Roaratorio LP is the music’s first appearance anywhere. Despite a bit of print-through, dropouts, and hiss on the tape — McPhee’s cassette was the only known copy — their duo is rousing, moving through fragments of Lacy’s tune cycle “The Way” and singsong vortices, ending up in breathy clambers and pinpricks mirrored by ghostly tape flutter. Both players are jovial in conversation and carve out spaces for one another, but their differences in approach are stark — melodic abstractionists and pure-sound improvisers whose understanding of a comparable field results in an obliquely parallel relationship, in togetherness and opposites. The Rest is a fascinating view into the working process of two improvisational architects in their only recorded meeting.
Coltrane’s music on both tenor and soprano was a guiding force for English saxophonist Evan Parker, who, along with such figures as guitarist Derek Bailey, percussionists Tony Oxley and John Stevens, trombonist Paul Rutherford, and bassist Barry Guy, is a certifiable architect of English free music (not to mention European free-improvisation). Though free improvisation is certainly group music, like many of his compatriots (save Stevens) from the 1970s onward, Parker has also been heavily invested in solo playing. Following two solo LPs on Incus (the label he co-ran with Bailey and Oxley), Parker embarked on a solo tour of North America, which up until now had only resulted in two rare LPs for pianist Greg Goodman’s Beak Doctor label, both recorded in Berkeley, California. Another piece of that tour has now emerged in Vaincu.Va!, recorded at the Western Front art gallery in Vancouver and recently unearthed as a celebration of their 40th anniversary in a handsome LP-only release. Crisply recorded and yielding one piece over two sides, Vaincu.Va! fits right into Parker’s 1978 release slot, which also includes the fantastic direct-cut solo LP Monoceros, and, if not quite as alien and overpowering as that set, it’s a staunchly immediate presentation of Parker at work. As tenorist Ivo Perelman astutely observed in conversation with this writer, “Parker hypnotizes himself so that there is a sort of dialogue between his rational mind and his hypnotized mind. He gets lost in the process and establishes a binary approach, I think.” The intensity of Parker’s auto-dialogue (if we’re to call it that) is formidable, overlaying cycle upon cycle in real time so that multiple interconnected strands emerge. It would be unfair to call this music “minimalist” because it’s so detailed and massive, yet repetition and nuanced variation are endemic to Parker’s solo art. There are restive pauses and warped phrasal nattering, as well as elegant curlicues and astounding progressions, but it is the complexity of his closely valued multiphonic shapes that make his solo work unlike that of any other saxophonist.
When you Google this song, you find an entry at the Neutral Milk Hotel archive that explicitly states that it has the same chord progression as Green Day’s “When I Come Around.” It’s a curious thing, I guess, but somehow it feels irrelevant. Having said that, I understand the importance of the mention; the almost cliche progression plays a role in the sentiment within this song, and it’s something that defines Neutral Milk Hotel.
Perhaps it really is the familiarity of the chord change that makes “My Dreamgirl Don’t Exist” click, or maybe it’s the theme Jeff Mangum touches on (about being in love with a girl he found in a history book) or the lines he uses in later Milk songs (more notably “Ghost”), but I can’t think of something sadder. Maybe it’s just the song title, though I refuse to believe that.
Jeff Mangum is an exposed nerve, an acne covered high school student who can’t stop reading his poetry out loud to the cheerleader he fell in love with. His voice often cracks, he screams and misses the note, howling in despair. It’s a vulnerability that can’t be faked, paired with beautiful, tragic poetry with biblical and historical images that evoke feelings in our brain that we can’t escape. Of course, this is not for everybody, but if it’s for you, if the chemicals in your brain respond to everything Mangum gives us, then there’s little as powerful as his music. Which is why most fans are so vocal about their love. However, if you’re wired differently, you can’t help but being annoyed by it.
It’s three chords, an easy to remember melody, lyrics that reach back in time and ask very big questions, and you’ll have something to yell about. The pain caused by sorrows past that fuel the feelings summoned here are supplied by the listener who gets involved, whether he or she likes it or not.
Back when I was starting out as a music scribe doing the Skyscraper Magazine thing around the turn of the century I first heard Amps For Christ, and I can say with surety I was not-not-NOT ready for it. At all. There was something creepy about the project that caught my ear, but it was too diverse, too seemingly contradictory, too perverse. Had I known AFC (my favorite NFL conference too) arose from the liquid-black death of Man Is The Bastard and Bastard Noise I might have given them more time to stretch out in my brain’s womb. As it stood, I moved on without a thought to whatever I was deep-diggin’ at the time (Pinback, Kingsbury Manx, Interpol; basically all-indie-rock, all-the-time) and tossed Amps For Christ into the ‘loser’ bin with Gulcher releases and Gay Tastee (that Xiu Xiu EP with the naked Asian dude on the cover might have been in there too; oh, the embarrassment).
Now that Circuits, originally released on Vermiform in 1999, is finally available on a bulbous 2xLP mainframe, I can absorb what I missed the first time around and hopefully make up for the mistakes of the past (which of course, considering my track record, would take three lifetimes to compensate for) in some small way by giving the all-important, sought-after, gold-encrusted Gumshoe stamp of approval and perhaps pointing the stragglers in the right direction. You need this music, is what I’m trying to say. Not because you’re a sad sap, in particular, but because successful, art-damaged takes on folk are hunted to extinction these days, drowned in overly serious Pentangle/Fairport Convention apery, somber drudgery, and an all-too-common refusal to do anything new with the medium.
Amps For Christ dash any folk expectations the listener might have almost immediately, dabbling in pseudo-fuzz-metal slamma-bamma a few times on Side A and busting out the occasional drum-machine beat and/or noise freakout. Apparently sketched out from songs AFC leader Henry Barnes remembers hearing his ‘mum’ sing, or some such thing, the only hint of nursery-rhyme melody comes from the vocals; other than that, it’s often tough to parse what’s going on. One thing I do know for sure is the troop have little use for acoustic guitars and delicately plucked folkpeggios. They’re all about washed-out fuzz that floods the compositions like an oceanside apartment, dirty synths (or noisemakers; not sure where a lot of these squiggles originate), high-pitched squeals, feedback in any and all forms, and rumbling, tumbling bass that likely exudes from anything but a bass guitar, though I could be wrong.
When AFC are at their best, they’re pushing the limits of Song to the breaking point. “Wishful Thinking” is basically looped vocals atop a gnarly-ass riff of some sort, but it sounds so utterly foreign you wonder how it was all chopped up and assembled together, yet the track holds together perfectly, bound by the glue of the gods rather than chewing gum and bailing wire. It’s like Ariel Pink’s old stuff, Frusciante’s heroin dreams, Aaron Dilloway’s viciousness, and a bittersweet folk rumination packed into the same dusty duffelbag, yet I’ve completely failed to capture its beauty; these are roadsigns in a blizzard, not any kind of basis for what’s actually happening on this record.
Such a tough-to-pin-down record is exactly what the doctor ordered amid the often-dismal hordes of drone-dwellers (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Get your brain fried by Circuits again, for the first time.
Your girl would love this album, trust me. I’d play it for her on March 14. Oooh yeah, right Thur. Of course, she might giggle a little at first. “What’s this, porno groove?” she’d ask, because she’s cute like that. You should see her now, her hair and nails looking right, and that dress… You know the one: she wore it out with you that one time, but hasn’t since because it makes her butt look fat or because life got in the way or whatever it was she said.
Our dinner destination’s “A Secret Place”1 about eight minutes uptown, just far enough for her to take in what’s about to happen, nay, what is happening. Cruising ‘round wooded bends, cracking windows so winter’s waning breaths can cool us down to equilibrium, grooving so naturally no one would ever notice.
I’d expected her to order something light like a salad, so my eyes widen when she tells me, “I think I’ll have the New York strip” — sarcastic, of course.
“Yeah, you will,” I’d tease back. Then comes that wink I love, and her hand disappears from the wine stem to scale my inner thigh, her digits doing a “Dolphin Dance” (Hancock).2 Her eyes aglow in flickering candlelight, she leans in and squeezes. I return the gesture and feel her whole leg quiver. What can I say? The girl’s hungry.
By the time we make it back to the other side of town, the ride’s a fucking mess. I’m jockeying to peer through a fully fogged windshield against which the defroster stands no chance. Honey’s already soaked through the upholstery of the passenger seat and demanding in between slurps for me to pull over.
I’m like Banderas before the shit hits the fan: “Not Yet.”3
Whispering sweet nothings to honeysuckle lips humming affection, I’d let her in on something special: she deserves no less than tonight every night forever. A purred whimper overcomes her inflection, and it’s on from there: claps, pants, rumbles, heaves — the works.
Approaching this, her fourth climactic event of the evening, she seethes with long-unfulfilled desires now bubbling cutaneously in drips of sweat and lust. Much is said in the heated throes of passion, but one indisputable truth need not the slightest utterance: “Love Makes It Better.”4
1 Recorded in October 1976 at Van Gelder Studios, A Secret Place is saxophonist Grover Washington Jr.’s sixth studio album and his last for CTI Records’ subsidiary/sister label Kudu Records. Produced by label owner Creed Taylor, the album features Washington on tenor and soprano sax accompanied by Dave Grusin on piano, Anthony Jackson on bass, Harvey Mason on drums, Eric Gale on guitar, John Gatchell on trumpet, and Gerry Niewood on alto sax, with horn arrangements by David Matthews (no, not that David Matthews, douchebag). Richard Alcorn is the man responsible for the moose-knuckle-showcase photographs displayed on the front and back covers.
2 Recognized today as a jazz standard, “Dolphin Dance” was originally written and recorded by pianist Herbie Hancock for his 1965 album Maiden Voyage. Washington’s rendition features George Mraz on bass as well as Steve Kahn on guitar.
3 Watch this.
4 Some skirts in Switzerland confirmed as much. Read this.
Most people know “21th Century Schizoid Man” and most music fans are at least a little familiar with King Crimson’s sound from the 70s. It is broadly defined as “progressive rock,” but touches upon many sounds, structures, and has enough good ol’ fashioned ambition to make for some of the most exciting music of the era. Having said this, few people nowadays mention their output from the 80s (except, of course, for dedicated fans of prog).
It is said that King Crimson came into their own for a seconds time when Robert Fripp and Bill Brufford welcomed Adrian Belew and Tony Levin to their ranks. Discipline, the first album from this new lineup, is considered a return to form for the band, yet remains an album few people talk about. Either that or we remain too astonished by their first seven albums to move on.
Yesterday, my boss at work came across this video and (Miami Vice outfits aside) it sounds like the future. It’s layered with new elements added slowly, with loop upon loop building a clockwork organic realm. The band uses (admittedly) crude sequencing and electronic drum pads along with their traditional instruments, which themselves are heavily effected (hello, Frippertronics!). You can hear the sounds of Gamelan and subtle African percussive music in it. You can hear the era itself (guitar synthesizers, Simmons pads) but also something else to come in its core.
This is Don Caballero before Don Caballero, Battles before any of them knew about two-finger guitar tappings in a rhythmic way. This is Foals before their members were born. “Waiting Man,” from their album Beat, could be inserted in a 2013 album and no one would notice. This is the sound of richly layering instruments to make pop music before the 21th century demanded it.
1986 - 1987: Big Black - Atomizer / Songs About Fucking
Count Roland lifts the horn up to his mouth,
Then sets his lips and blows it with great force.
The hills are high; the horn’s voice loud and long;
They hear it echoing full thirty leagues.
King Charles and his companions hear it sound.
The king declares, “Our men are in a battle.”
– The Song of Roland, Stanza CXXXIII, line 1753 (circa 1140 C.E.)
It’s only a coincidence that the drum machine that helped unite electronic music with traditional masculinity shares its name with an 8th century Frankish war hero. Though according to his literary depiction — poems limn him as a broad-shouldered he-man with a deafening horn — the Roland of legend makes a fitting namesake for the Roland TR-606, the drum machine of choice of Steve Albini and Big Black.
Big Black wasn’t the first band to use a drum machine, or even a Roland. However, in the early 80s, Albini’s aggressive noise-rock outfit was one of the few bands that could rely on a little whirring gadget and still come off as unquestionably (if slightly satirically) macho. It was a stunt decades in the making.
In the early 20th century electricity in general was perceived as threat to masculinity. Electric current, and the chic urban modernity that came with it, was expected to wash away strength and virility in a wave of comfort and soft living. In his 1901 novel Labor, Emile Zola shows electricity pushing humanity toward an Eloi-like existence defined by unending leisure. Others, significantly less optimistic, saw power’s shocking influence as a factor in speeding all of civilization into a Spenglerian decline. While these fears of castration-by-a-thousand-amps did fade, it was decades before electronic music got it’s cultural bar mitzvah and was welcomed into the world of masculine pursuits.
From its early days, music primarily produced through circuit boards did not put hair on chests — it was largely the realm of sweater-clad academics (see this incriminating photo of Stockhausen). Even its first foray into the mainstream was headed by androgynous goths like Gary Numan and the faux-andriod neuters of Kraftwerk. Partially, this is a holdover from those old concerns: Twiddling the knobs on a synthesizer did not hold the same masculine allure as pounding out a beat on a drum kit. It wasn’t until the advent of industrial music that electronics started to beef up their effete image. And here the semantics are decidedly not a coincidence. Early practitioners of industrial music self-labeled, consciously attempting to associate their sounds with the gritty, blue-collar world of machine shops, blast furnaces, and steel mills.
With their two mid-80s albums, Atomizer and Songs About Fucking, Big Black drove away any remaining vestiges of electronic music’s frou-frou reputation. Both these albums present a raw, angry, and distinctly male ethos — and they do it using a Roland TR-606 (later, using the less evocatively named EMU Drumulator). In fact, the drum machine was as crucial to the band’s work as its hyper-masculine affectations. The machine was even credited in liner notes as “Roland,” as if the menacing beats on “L Dopa” were created in-studio by a burly Frankish percussionist and not an 18-volt appliance.
Roland isn’t undeserving of the credit, either. The persistent rhythms it provides on “Kerosene” give the song a taut, suspenseful energy. The device’s mechanic precision and cold textures help color all of the band’s work, providing a rigid backbone for Albini to build his bellicose tracks around. The combination of Roland with Albini’s dissonant guitar and transgressive lyrics created a novel effect. Big Black’s songs are rooted in electronic and mechanical sounds but use the direct, aggressive nature of traditional rock and punk. The songs often traffic in dark and ugly tropes that present a critical view of masculinity (sample: “feel my fist/my fist of love”), but Albini’s complex relationship with gender politics aside, the music is not twee. Listen to “Strange Things” and you can hear how masterfully the two realms are blended — Roland’s percussion sounds right in line with the thumping bass and guttural yells of its human counterparts.
Big Black’s catalog is a stunning combination of electric power with animal magnetism. Where Kraftwerk used drum machines to transcend the physical to a Computer World, Big Black put them to work creating brutish, visceral Songs About Fucking. Electronics plugged into pure atavism. Where the machine may have seemed more in place in dance music or a karaoke bar, it was now a tool fit for anger-fueled aural destruction. Like the Roland of legend blowing his horn, the drum machine could now signal chaos and violence.
Back in the early 90s Darkthrone was releasing their best material in the form of black metal classics such as A Blaze in the Northern Sky and Transilvanian Hunger. Things were going just fine, but Darkthrone half, Fenriz, wanted to experiment with synthesizers. Black metal is all well and good (err…bad and evil?), but it’s not the kind of genre where you’ll be able to experiment with Tangerine Dream-style kosmiche. Fenriz explained in an interview that he made some synthesizer music intended for Darkthrone albums, but decided against it because it wouldn’t fit right. Enter Neptune Towers, a project Fenriz described as, “Avant Garde Astral/Alien Synth.” Pretty fitting.
So, yeah, you can sum it up pretty easily as “black metal guy jams out to some Tangerine Dream,” but who wouldn’t want to hear that? The first album, Caravans to Empire Agol, is the better of the two in my opinion. Consisting of two tracks, “Caravans to Empire Agol” and “The Arrival at Empire Agol,” the album is concerned with soundtracking the journey through this strange alien world. While Empire Agol seems like a place you would never want to go near, I don’t mind vacationing there while this dark little album plays.
2009: V/A - Electric Holyland
Would Jesus jot band names like Wild Olive Branch Band and Earthen Vessel on his Trapper Keeper? Or, more interestingly, is it fundamentally wrong to write, release, and promote music about God? EVEN MORE FASCINATINGLY, is it logical to expect missionary-style rock from members of the Christian flock?
Hell, if I knew the answers I wouldn’t be here right now, knowhat’msayin’? But the Electric Holyland compilation, released in 2009 by Lysergic Sound Distributors, goes a ways toward lessening the stigmas associated with music with religious connotations while also absolutely justifying them in a few cases (even the true hand of god couldn’t save some of these tunes). It’s not an album I expect rookies will be craving; you only need this if you’re already schooled in Nuggets and its many (of varying quality) offspring to the point of utter exhaustion.
Jesus hears our every need / This you’ve got to knoooooow
The mind goes through a couple of stages upon absorbing statements such as the above over and over. The first stage is humorous appreciation for the abject devotion the participants display. They talk ‘bout talkin’ with the lord, walkin’ with the lord, calkin’ with the lord (sorry, had to complete that rhyme scheme), and their preachiness is so much more natural than the weird bullying religious presence we seem to all be resigned to today. The second stage is to recoil a bit; aren’t these bands the precursors to seed-poisoners like Scott Stapp and Jars Of Clay? This ain’t COOL man… This ain’t COOL man.
The third and final stage is acceptance, as Electric Holyland is, in the end, a fun listen that insists legitimate music can be found absolutely anywhere, and while I’m not ready to laugh about Creed just yet, they never rocked as hard as the wonderfully vexing Shekina Glory’s “Ask” (which glues Sabbath fuzz to a goddamn flute solo and insists Jesus has come to “claim us as his own;” to me that’s creepy) or perfected a Mamma/Papa/Spanky/Gang melody as complex as those found within the godlike fiber of The Jesus Band’s “Jesus Is Mighty to Save.” They certainly never snarled like Britt Warren, who half-raps over a strange riff that starts out sounding like that fucking Tonic song then morphs into a 1970s stomper. Weird, brody; weird.
It’s one thing to worship our god the savior; it’s another to suck unholy ass while you’re doing it like, say, Petra. A good portion of these bands don’t suck, even as they’re beseeching you to get involved in something that most definitely does, and the strange ins and outs of the situation make for an interesting listening experience. That a lot of these ditties are direct copies of radio hits of the time only helps, as the oooh-ahhh factor of hearing your favorites of the era sets in nicely alongside the odder cuts. Maybe living in mega-church hell has something to do with it, but I find Electric Holyland a lot more authentic than most god-based offerings.
1985: Exodus - Bonded By Blood
We live in an age of privilege. If you know how to play your cards on the internet, you can listen to anything. The only limit is whether you want to listen to something or not. Because of this, stigmas about what you are “allowed” to like have perished.
This wasn’t the case 30 years ago.
Metal was the music of burnouts, fuck-ups and losers looking to a) get laid and b) nerd out on exciting guitar music. Any self respecting music fan felt embarrassed by the look, sound, and attitude that headbangers manifested. For their part, metal fans thought people who listened to other music were morons who couldn’t handle their genre. They were close knitted elitists.
Exodus were the Tomás de Torquemada of heavy music. It seemed like their whole point of existing was to yell “Death to posers!” Legend has it that original vocalist Paul Baloff used to cut people’s Mötley Crüe t-shirts and wear the rags on his wrists as trophies. And, just recently, I came across a comic book where they imagined themselves as serial killers cleansing the scene from “pussies.”
This adolescent attitude is surely to cause anyone not committed to metal to roll their eyes. It would be pretty easy to dismiss the band given this proof. Musically speaking, Exodus (at least on their first album) were untouchable.
It is said that the Big 4 – that is, the best and most recognizable bands to come out of the thrash metal scene – were Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, and Anthrax. None of these bands would have gotten anywhere without Exodus. They were amazing songwriters with ambitious yet grounded arrangements and memorable riffs. What made them truly great was that their music possessed an urgency and heaviness unmatched by most of their contemporaries. Tracks like “A Lesson in Violence” churn like Minor Threat if they had guitar lessons, while “And Then There Were None” showed they could display power without resorting to speed.
Bonded By Bloodis not considered a groundbreaking album because it was shelved for a year and, in that lapse of time, the Big 4 and others released stuff that sounded groundbreaking. Whatever the case, the album is one of the most intense records ever put out and, despite the risk of being called a poser by the surviving Exodus members, I hope it’ll get more recognition outside the metal gates.
1981: Crass - Penis Envy
The story of “Our Wedding” by Creative Recording and Sound Services is a good one that bears repeating. Included in a 1981 issue of UK teen romance magazine Loving was a “Fabulous Record Offer,” a write-in coupon for a free copy of this “Wedding Day Single” sung by one Joy De Vivre. Little did the Loving staff and readers realize that Creative Recording and Sound Services were actually the anarcho-punk band Crass and Joy De Vivre one of their two female singers. Once word got out, Loving editor Pam Lyons called the hoax “a sick joke,” and told NME, “It was just a pathetic ploy by Crass to get publicity.”
A sick joke? Definitely. A ploy to get publicity? In a sense.
But pathetic? Not at all on Crass’ part. The only thing pathetic about the ordeal is the fact that a successful mainstream publication failed to recognize “Our Wedding” for what it was: a blatant regurgitation of the magazine’s own fear mongering and propaganda. Consider that whichever dimwit passed for a music or entertainment editor at Loving really might’ve listened to the desperately pleading lyrics “Never look at anyone, anyone but me/ Never look at anyone, I must be all you see/ Listen to those wedding bells/ Say goodbye to other girls/ I’ll never be untrue my love/ Don’t be untrue to me,” and actually thought them romantic, or at least passable as such.
Crass founder Penny Rimbaud had this to say: “These are the same authorities that made Chinese women into festering hooks, that made Victorian women gasp for breath beneath their whalebone binding, that make women today distort themselves with high heels and chemical additives … They offer you cheap products that exploit you and the emptiness that we all feel; their obscene and mindless intrusions into the emptiness are tragic insults to our intelligence. It is because of their poverty of thought that they off[er] ‘Our Wedding,’ pure unadulterated shit. THEY SELL IT TO YOU WITHOUT A CARE.”
Looking back, one mainstream magazine’s embarrassing failure and perhaps more embarrassing reaction to said fail created a perfect moment in countercultural history; an instance in which the day’s tastemakers were so brazenly heartless and out of touch they mistook satire for the real thing and advertised it accordingly. A contemporary analogy might come in the form of vaporwave artists successfully pushing their hellish Muzak distortions on banks and department stores. This, of course, hasn’t happened… yet.
While “Our Wedding” parodies pre-packaged romance and the commodification of love with a voice of innocent naïveté, Penis Envy’s first cut, “Bata Motel,” offers a searing send-up of the psychosexual nightmare patriarchal society attaches to the female gender, spelling out the “she was asking for it” mentality in terms none too abstract. Man’s prototypical female is embodied by the willfully submissive sex object (rape victim?) played here by Eve Libertine, who like Joy De Vivre in “Our Wedding,” addresses her mate directly: “Burn me out, twist my wrists/ I promise not to shout, beat me with your fists/ Squeeze me, squeeze me, make me feel/ In my red high-heels I’m an easy kill/ Tease me, tease me, make me see/ You’re the only one I need to be me/ Thank you, will you take me?/ Thank you, will you make me?/ Thank you, will you break me?/ Use me, don’t lose me/ Taste me, don’t waste me.” How one reads such requests and demands in light of modern pop’s sexual identity crisis (see: domestic violence victim Rihanna singing “I want you to be my sex slave”) is another matter altogether.
One laste note: if you’re looking for more information on Crass or at all interested in anarcho-punk music or anarchistic living in general, I cannot recommend the full-length documentary There Is No Authority But Yourself highly enough. Please do yourself a favor and take 65 minutes out of your day to check it out.