Back in the Flash-forward Flash-forward There’s I can only
late 70s there was a Scots band called the Scars who, consumed by anger and
sexual frustration (presumably) and a fierce inner belief, released a series
of spunky, angular, buzzsaw punk singles with grating riffs that cut straight
inside. Perfect in their own bile, the image was shattered once contact with
the outside world was made and the former outsiders started buying copies of
The Face and believing that image is important. (It is, but never in
the way musicians reckon.) The Scars made an album wherein they ruined all the
brittle aggression, swamping it with New Romantic-style production–the
sort of thing that Americans of a certain age unaccountably still refuse to
be embarrassed by–and never recovered from their singer’s stint as
Nico’s "toy boy."
20 years: I despise any band with an * in their name.
to this morning, when I listened to nine songs by a young, spunky group from
New York with song titles like "Young Lawyer" and "The 88,"
who sound like Blur always had in their own dreams (and not in anyone else’s),
who sound so straight and edgy that one hair out of place would cause them to
crack irretrievably, whose album is mod in a way that mod never was, whose guitar
schizophrenically flips between speaker and speaker, or perhaps that’s
my head. I know little about this band, except that they sound like I hope the
Strokes sound when I finally hear them and that Alan McGee’s post-Creation
Poptones label has picked up on their six-track mini-album and released it to
an uncaring British public with three tracks added, and that I can almost taste
the blood of sexual tension within their taut, compressed sound. I’m sure
the boys are all cute, too: it’s difficult to make music this assured without
having a safety net beneath you.
an element that is very Jane Birkin in French Kicks’ sharply angled vocals,
or perhaps I’m free associating on their name too strongly: it’s the
kitten punk of their brief harmonies, the way "The 88" insists on
sounding like a Washington, DC, riot boy band with all the pretensions of cute
shorn away, the static Clash ("London Calling") guitars on "Call
Our Hands" behind a vocal that sneers in the way Costello once sneered,
Nick Stumpf’s propulsive, precise drumming everywhere. Not a note is wasted,
even if the tastefully named "White" does meander along in a postcoital
comedown haze better suited to French Kicks’ more self-indulgent Chicago
post-rock brethren. Even if the music sometimes veers into quirky territory,
the way Talking Heads rapidly degenerated into a bad art-rock parody, there’s
enough staccato energy and sneering distaste for that not to matter. For now.
hope the French Kicks never pick up an English fashion magazine.
Back in the
I can only