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Rating: Few words for what seems to me to be one of the most successful experiments of the late eighties, years in which only the much-loved hardcore had the privilege of infusing a bit of verve into the young misfits of America...
But when you produce, live and defecate music in New York City it is almost impossible not to be impregnated by layers of extra-reverberated sonic scrap metal that only old Europe can offer, especially in Bands like Einstürzende Neubauten. Precisely from this immediate and no-frills sound, the four members of what seems more like a gang of comedians or satyrs than a band appear to cling eagerly, aiming to mock the trash can where the decaying remains of spaced-out bands like Birthday Party, Stooges and so on, giving life to a hybrid that sounds strangely familiar to all those who have heard and witnessed the growth of the no wave in all its most schizophrenic forms.
Pussy Galore are the door that seals the most effective musical incinerator ever: sound-sadistic garbage men capable of discarding your own listening right from the first bars of the first track you will have the honor to subject your ears to, hopefully and I wish, in a completely uncritical manner, because latex gloves are not needed here, believe me.
For these people, rock'n'roll is not only dead, but it produces further fumes from which to draw inspiration to create porn-parodies like in "Knock Up", precisely, the eleventh track. Pieces like these, with no other possible resentment, are highly inadvisable for durin-durello amateurs of Sonic Youth "by Sonic Nurse" or "Daydream Nation." This stuff is pure blues crap, and I love it, damn if I love it. Not even early Warsaw sounded so fucking dirty and even less do I believe that even if they wanted or at least tried to do it, not even the immense Einstürzende would have been able to open their abyss to such oceanic depths.
To be even more brief: this record sounds like when in the distant '50s, children around eleven years old unknowingly ruined Elvis vinyls with the needle only to play them endlessly in the sterile living room at home, waiting for frustrating reprimands. Oh yes, this is crap! Luckily, this is crap! Leave behind every critical propriety, because in this context, I guarantee you, it is not the case.
SIDE EFFECTS: photosensitivity, heightened receptivity to reverb, monomaniac tendencies, propensity for Codeine abuse, dimming of vision.
I forgot that before being the well-dressed lady of the "Jon Spencer Blues Explosion-rock'n'roll band", Jon Spencer was the immense creator of this obscene hybrid of pure sonic asbestos.
May God, if he exists, forgive me, but I love this crap, I swear. (Have I said it already?)
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