Cop Shoot Cop
Consumer Revolt

Don't you find it excessively amusing to notice how different groups can be so seminal yet, at the same time, totally buried by the World Music Business? I do not. I don't understand how Reznor and that "Joan of Arc" of Marilyn Manson believe or are convinced they have created some sort of genre, obviously dated by now, but I think that if they have no difficulty buying villas in the heart of the filth of Los Angeles, they owe it all to bands like Cop Shoot Cop.

The band in question is the most counter-trend New York could afford during the "Daydream Nation-Generation" era: a sound made of hard work, sweat, visions, and cacophonies turned into polluted and polluting air, making it immediately clear what hundreds of groups and kids just starting out had yet to understand, despite the explicit signs put out by bands like Jesus Lizard or Rapeman, namely, the slow and unstoppable death of rock music understood as a tool for fighting.
At times subdued, like an expired digestive, the album inflicts upon listening the unique theme of repetition, so tormenting and frustrating it seems irreversible even to the most optimistic of well-meaning individuals on a good day. Yes, because this is the kind of people who have, shall we say, "studied," to be able to be what they express, people who come from parallel pussygalorian worlds from which they refine confusion, to then impart it metrically like an apocalyptic parable of icy constitution. But what's literally and further chilling, if you allow me, is the fact that this is the first album the four gendarmes in question had the courage to record (Circuit 1990).
The perfectionism with which certain sounds manage to fit one over the other leaves one astounded, as if honored to witness a macabre and mixed birth of scrap metal coming from "Confusion Is Sex," Ministry, and perhaps even from a certain depraved blues that only Birthday Party and Scratch Acid knew how to mistreat in their own way. Encoded messages (She's Like a Shot, second track), telephone lines waiting to explode in infernal warnings ("Disconnected 666", fourth track), and much more, will enchant you with the sweating minimalism that only this album can transmit along the short-lived career of the group. And finally, that touch of industrial that seems to sanctify the fading winds of Nick Cave's first band, and which condescendingly blames the barbarism of the equally early Einstürzende Neubauten.

Tribal, brutal, and visionary are the three adjectives that will dance laughing on your temples, right after digesting the 13 pieces of rusted steel that each track avidly guards.