![](/brain/images/grails-takerefuge.jpg)
![](/brain/images/grails-takerefuge.jpg)
![](/brain/images/grailsdoomsdayers.jpg)
![](/brain/images/asmus_tietchens-aus_freude_am_elend.jpg)
I really do hope that this officially sanctioned seven-inch remix is the start of an avalanche of Jandek reworkings. This inspired idea of placing someone (so wrongly) regarded as unlistenable in a more acceptable modern context is genius.
![](/brain/images/luomopapertigers.jpg)
![](/brain/images/magnoliahardtoloveaman.jpg)
![](/../../../brain/images/sunnblackone.jpg)
![](/../../../brain/images/usaisamonster-wohaw.jpg)
Häpna
The late morning autumn sky is grey, at least as much of it that can beseen past the tops of the tall buildings. People walk by in slowmotion. A bird hangs in what looks like suspended animation, waiting topounce on the next piece of bread somebody drops or a knish that fallsfrom a moving cart. The collaborative record between Connors and Grubbsisn't a pretty walk in the fields, it's the sound of a dark, urbancityscape. It's also a bit of a juxtaposition. While there's certainlyno rules either collaborator always follow, I'm typically used todissonance from David Grubbs' solo work and soft flowing motions fromLoren (MazzaCane) Connors. The instrumental live in the studiorecording of Arborvitaeopens with soft, flowing piano chord progressions provided by David andharsh guitar tones from Loren. (Additionally, the titles suggest aspringtime theme, but I get a completely different feeling.) As thedaylight comes to an early end, so reflects the mood of the album. Bitby bit, the brightness fades. Half-way through the disc, on "The Ghostof Exquisite," both are playing guitars and feeding off each other'sbleak tonality. By the end of the album, the cold night has fallen."The Highest Point in Brooklyn" features the return of Grubbs on piano,this time, with a much more uneasy, uncomfortable rush, played upagainst the distorted abrasive notes of Connors' guitar, restless anddirty. In fact, at some points, Connors sounds like he doesn't evencare if the instrument cords even come loose from his guitar. The roomsounds, probably picked up by the piano microphone, are those of twopeople getting a little antsy in their chairs. Intentional or not, it'sa subtle hint at a tension, yet by the end of the piece (and thealbum), the calmness has returned. The night has grown as quiet as it'sgoing to get in a city that doesn't sleep.
![](http://www.brainwashed.com/brain/images/connorsgrubbsarborvitae.jpg)
samples:
Tiger Style
It's not as easy as it seems to be noisy. There's more to it than justyelling and banging on an instrument. It takes some real premeditationand skill to be able to pull together a rush of ear-piercing sound intosomething that is abrasive while still inspiring curiosity in thelistener to delve into the depth of the sound. The Sick Lipstick findthemselves on the right side of the line between trash and treasure,dropping an album that is assaulting in its style and modus operandibut is more likely to make the listener flail about with recklessabandon than hide under the bed. Lead vocalist Lindsay Gillard poutsand struts throughout, hurling deliciously shrill invectives ofnonsensical, stream-of-conscious lyrics into the band's swirl of noiseand atonality. She sounds like the spoiled girl who didn't get her wayfor once and unleashes a level of anger and psychological torture wellbeyond her years. She's got a knack for turning a phrase and catchingthe attention with lyrics like "I want / to have / your baby! / So youhave / to come / inside me!" from "Pretend I'm Sleeping," delivered inher elementary schoolgirl tone. Even when the song's subject matterisn't explicitly nasty or violent, Dillard's phrasing and tone are verypointed, and at time disturbing like the macabre, playground taunts ofa budding sociopath who just won't stop knocking the other kids aroundduring an otherwise pleasant game of kickball. Musically, The SickLipstick slug it out with razorblade guitar licks that jerk and squealrecklessly. These licks often skid out of control into waves of whitenoise that undulate wildly, creating a harsh auditory burnout. Backedwith a chunky, fuzzy keyboard they create a remarkably consistent soundfor a band whose aesthetic is so rooted in chaotic intensity. Thepercussion maintains a pleasant bi-polarity, at once both relentlesslynoisy and eagerly danceable. "Mommy's at the Grocery Store" benefitsfrom a modulating riff that repeats rhythmically with the backbeat andmakes it a positively brutal earworm, and the cascading, declarativechorus of "Zombie Cookie" seems destined to be some kind of alternatereality cheerleading cheer. "Thigh Master, I'm Yr Master" is thesurrealist-feminist rant that Kathleen Hanna wishes she wrote, jumpingfrom image to image in a jittery pounce. While their sound isinteresting and decidedly catchy, they rarely emerge from theboundaries established in the first few songs. Their tightness andcontrol keeps them from losing shape. Gillard never outright screams ina wordless fury, and the accompaniment never explodes into thefree-rock explosion that the building tension on Sting, Sting, Stingseems to foreshadow. That might be a difficult goal for the band toreach however, since every song on the album already kicks off at fullpower and never lets up. While the fervor this conveys is exhilaratingand exciting, a foray into more noticeable dynamics and counterpointsmight make those peaks even higher. In spite of these unfulfilleddesires, what The Sick Lipstick does present us with is a screechingbanshee punk rock record with provocative personality and loads of darkfun.
![](http://www.brainwashed.com/brain/images/sick_lipstick-sting.jpg)
samples: