Laughing Hyenas
You Can't Pray A Lie

The 1980s recorded, among other things, the boom of heroin injected into veins. Everywhere, in cities as well as in the countryside, on the roadside and in parks, used syringes could be found. Between AIDS, hepatitis, and overdose, this terrible drug caused thousands of deaths. Today liquid heroin is the only constantly declining narcotic, replaced by smoked heroin and various other substances, particularly synthetic ones.

Among the punks of that era, many had the habit of injecting. Among them, there was John Brannon, one of the most extreme voices of American rock of all time. Brannon had serious addiction problems, and my impression is that he spontaneously translated the effects of heroin consumption into his music. And they weren't sensations of being high, like those conveyed by a Mick Jagger or, albeit in a much less hedonistic sense, by a Lou Reed or an Iggy Pop. It was pure despair, pain, fear.

The music of his Laughing Hyenas was sad, tragic, without escapes, illusions or hopes whatsoever. One of the great advances made by the alternative rock of the 80s compared to the classic one lies precisely in this revisionism in addressing the theme of drugs, no longer seen as a vehicle for outlet, rebellion, transgression, or as something capable of offering young people those pleasures and excitement that life daily denies them, but more crudely as a cause/effect of incurable existential discomfort.
As a privileged means to communicate this drama, Brannon chose the cursed genre par excellence: the blues. Suffering, heartache, disillusionment, perdition: since its inception in the Mississippi Delta, the blues has always expressed the discomfort of losers of every era towards a reality that tends to crush and annihilate them, but it has also revealed to them a way, if not of purification, at least of endurance.

Like Scratch Acid, Jesus Lizard, Pussy Galore, and other bands of the time, the Laughing Hyenas combined the rediscovery of blues with the use of the most fashionable language of the time, among the bands animating the American underground: noise-rock. And so, the heart-rending, compassionate, hellish screams (almost a growl) of Brannon, were accompanied by a robust, syncopated, enveloping rhythm section (Kevin Strickland, Jim Kimball), and by an extremely versatile guitar (Larissa Strickland), as much indebted to the most hallucinated and harsh English new wave (Joy Division and especially P.I.L.), as it was able to intelligently serve the evolutions of the voice. In these respects, the Laughing Hyenas sounded a bit like a slowed-down and reflective version of Die Kreuzen (an unknown hardcore band from Milwaukee, characterized by the terrifying voice of Dan Kubinsky, whom Brannon was inspired by), while the influence of the Detroit fellow citizens, Stooges and MC5, the fathers of "extreme rock", seems to me to be greatly reduced, contrary to what is said.

Their first LP, "You Can't Pray A Lie", released in 1989, contains 8 tracks of almost unbearable intensity. They all have a good reason to hit the heart and stomach, and they should be absorbed without distinctions, like a painful but necessary ritual. However, I believe it is possible to isolate a masterpiece: "Lullaby And Goodnight", a peak of desolation, imploration, pity, with the most derelict bass line ever, the moans of the guitar accompanying Brannon's lamentations and a shocking finale. "Love's My Only Crime" is instead their formal peak: hypnotic groove, enraged singing (almost a monotone version of the great Nick Cave), a guitar that sometimes wrinkles, sharpens, and becomes sinister, a moment of respite before the final charge. Then there is "Black Eyed Susan", a blaze that diminishes and revives suddenly, in which an atmosphere of anxiety and terror arises. "Sister" and "Desolate Son" surprisingly gain a grandeur and magniloquence akin to certain metal (death or gothic). And if in the obsessive "Seven Come Eleven" Brannon's voice reaches the height of its fervor, in the resigned "Dedications" the rhythm section takes the stage, with tireless work with jazz overtones.  The closure is entrusted to "New Gospel" which starts tense, anguished, fierce, to culminate in a finally cathartic refrain.

A record of notable inspiration, minimal means, and great expressiveness, recommended not only to those looking for hidden gems in the undergrowth of the 80s but also to fans of the most visceral blues.