By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
By Emma Silvers
By Alee Karim
To say you have something against the sort of music played by the Los Angeles noise trio Patsy -- who opened for fellow Angelenos Claw Hammer and the Geraldine Fibbers at the Great American Music Hall last week -- is like saying you hold a grudge against math. Well, maybe you do. Or maybe you covet math. Maybe differential equations and graphs make you downright damp. If so, Patsy's your prize. Me, I just don't react to the stuff on a gut level, at all -- if only it made me mad, much less put me in must. I heard those bassless barrages in irregular meter, and watched the various atonal, asymmetrical sequences contract and overlap, and I thought, at best, "Fascinating, Jim." (Yes, the trio Patsy lack a bass player -- it's just a drummer and two guitarists, one of whom sings in an affect-loaded, but not bad, style. That should sound somewhat familiar before I even bother adding, least importantly of all, that they're all women.) But Patsy aren't alone in this problem -- the calculated, numeric bent is heard in many post-punk bands (including, to a lesser degree, Claw Hammer and the Fibbers), and it has everything to do with that tiresome post-. Namely: After we've yanked out a cultural foundation -- be it a staid chord sequence, overbearing harmonic theory, genre restrictions, or standard instrumentation -- and we can float anywhere we like ... well, where to float? For all the admirable desire to create something unheard of, most unrestricted pop-art efforts seem to end up floating face down.
Without an established idiom, Patsy and their like are left to make their own. Brave as the effort is -- and intuitive, and creative -- most of the time the results have no idiom, self-made or otherwise. Instead, we get a chain of arbitrary absolutes -- seven beats per measure here, five there, no tonal center here, a C sharp there, midtempo here, presto there. Odds and ends, odds and evens -- a music more stiff and mathematical, for all its assertion of freedom, than any genre form could aspire to be. Sometimes it works; most of the time it doesn't.
On some level, Patsy's sloppy constructs might as well have been played on an abacus. (Sloppiness puts a human touch to their engineering -- just like the neglected stresses that might lead to catastrophic failure at one of those faceless and impersonal Colorado dams.) And of course, since rock is still a singer's genre of sorts, it didn't help that I couldn't make out most of the words. At least Patsy tried to make light of it. At one point, their butch vocalist/guitarist turned a four-count into a lyrical gag -- a soft and disaffected version of the Ramones rally recurring twice in the middle of the song. Of course, this might not have been intended to be funny, but it should have been. Funny helps: The Great American cued the evening with a tape of Mr. Bungle/John Zorn-style avant-garde buffoonery -- a good example of a non-genre, post-everything music that finds its own idiom simply by being comical, or at least slapstick.
My unfamiliarity with Patsy probably contributed to my indifference. On the other hand, my relative familiarity with Claw Hammer and the Geraldine Fibbers contributed to my skepticism. Both of them have produced records that, for the sake of adventure, ended up sounding ill-defined. Look no further than the hideous cover art and giggly title of the most recent Claw Hammer effort, Hold Your Tongue (and say apple), and then listen and drink in its Beefheartian spirit. And as for Butch, the new Fibbers disc ... I shied away when I heard the first track, "California Tuffy." It initiates with an old-style strum, almost like a '50s rock 'n' roll prom ballad, with the lyrics, "A ball/ Of light/ Comes down/ To bite me on the ass." On that mildly profane twist, the rest of the band comes in, playing different chords. Singer Carla Bozulich continues: "... the legs, the breasts/ I'm falling from my nest/ My earth, my pride/ Are laughing from inside/ My eyes/ Are closed/ And I'm dripping like a rose." The song pauses and the entire ensemble initiates a churning, fast-strummed break, unrelated to what came before. For an album whose songs play with form -- and over which critics seem to be spurting a lot of saliva -- it is a surprisingly weak intro. (Instrumentally, that is. Make of the lyrics whatever you will. I think dripping like a rose is a perfectly good thing to do.) Nothing on the album stuck with me after that opening. It seemed jumbled and out of sync with itself -- music not by the numbers, but about them. It's often easier to admire the intentions of such stuff than the results.
Imagine my surprise when Claw Hammer's and the Fibbers' music, in person, turned out to have some sass and grip. A few of those mathematical qualities were still there, but in terms of gut reaction ... well, my gut reacted. I don't know whether I can return to Hold Your Tongue -- the cover art is, whoa lordy, just too freaking ugly -- but as for Butch, the performance suggested that it was an ineffective album full of good material.