Pissed Jeans
Hope For Men

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - De-Rece Whimsical - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Pissed Jeans are a young American quartet from Pennsylvania who have reached their second full-length release thanks to the far-sighted label SubPop; they are proponents of a remarkable Noise-Rock reminiscent of the Amphetamine Reptile sound of the nineties.

Among not too veiled references to certain bacchanals dear to the Jesus Lizard ("I'm Turning Now"), acoustic delusions similar to Oxbow ("Scrapbooking", "The Jogger"), bloodthirsty guitars à la Unsane ("Secret Admirer") and hysterical vocals that seem to come from the muscular throat of vintage Rollins, they provide, in the scarce forty minutes of the work, a valid opportunity for those who feel the need to (re)approach certain sounds characterized by strong aggressiveness, little melodic inclination, and considerable specific weight, accompanied by enviable performance skills and a substantial dose of indispensable imagination that makes it enjoyable even for those who do not usually indulge daily in certain rustic and wild expressive types.

Should they happen to cross your path, enjoy the listen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - De-Rece Serious - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Orcocàn/Orpogatto* how much sound-intrigue/beat these young rock-lanzichenecchi bring here!

It moderately concerns me the fact that delicate and levitational sonorous delights such as this raspy/wobbly, depauperate-gulped second work by the Pennsylvanian and (as some say) inadequately-diapered Urinated Pantalons**, should pass semi-inaudible.

So much, (indeed too much) eschatological rock-mire cloaks and unhealthily infests the crowded air of all of us, hearing-impaired as miserable listeners-not-just-of-Sundays, as if to listen to it (West horse) washes our brains to the point that the stereo noxious-ante matter might/must align in harmony with our dyslexic and ever lonely, dangling (mono)neurons.

It may also be that, to provide a scapegoat recent exampol {perhaps wandering, who can say?}, personally of the latest para-$-rearranged musical-vicissitudes smashed-sugar I care a (c.s.i.-style as well) circular nothing to those rows of ramp-grinding/macerating teeth, it stands de facto that these filthy-busted, voluminous, pan-Germanic and reactualized Amphetamine Reptile convolutions appear to me as the best that can be offered piously to the enthusiastic sound-capturing pavilion, referring specifically to the pretentiously disruptive-rock path.

Even if one wanted to: how to offer suitable resistance to the extremely decerebrate and rancorously monolithic-reiterated lugubrious sonic assault named "People Person" that opens the stunning seismicity? How not to suffer, moreover, a morbid papillary attraction to the caveman, sound-obese, potential (simulated) hit-single (in vitriol) "I've Still Got You (Ice cream)" sort of "We're Not Gonna Take It" stuffed with nails, firecrackers, and bolts then drizzled with two/three canisters of corrosive/flammable fluid? It is beyond doubt that there is a sort of (very effective) noise-revival within the anabolic microgrooves, but in front of [indeed: opposite] such a happy audio-torment the question seems entirely devoid of deconstruction.

Classic neonihilist SubPop-manufactured item that could stochastically send into a considerable hotchpotch of gooseberries (never tasted, yet) and/or audio-delight, just to provide an authoritative and recognizable example, that sort of fuzz-snob AntMo [the work in question, to some extent, can be approximated to the gasping sortie released by A Frames last year, which, it is rumored, greatly seduced "our" trusted radio(phono) chronicler].

On the other hand: not trusting is still good, doing it would be decidedly (in)sensible.

* according to the symphathy[for the de-vil] of each animalist;

** "to anyone who asks for further explanations I always reply that a name like '200 Year-Old Wolf Pussy' exists.. and it is much stranger than ours. However, I have never peed my pants: it's not an autobiographical name!" Matt Korvette - Vocals

Additional jests (ad personam):

This textual nastiness I would symbolically dedicate, quite willingly, to Mine Rainerico Poet (almost)the only one who - I couldn't say exactly where he finds such courage - endures me and, alas for him [and above all alas for you], incites me to persist in keyboard-crime;