(Kill Rock Stars)
Let's put the yecch! in sex.
Le Tigre's Feminist Sweepstakes boasted right off the bat that "for the>"/>
(Kill Rock Stars)
Let's put the yecch! in sex.
Le Tigre's Feminist Sweepstakes boasted right off the bat that "for the ladies and the fags, yeah, we're the band with the roller-skate jams," but evidently K. Hanna 3.0 didn't secure the critical, butt-nekkid, peanut butter-smeared, ejaculate-engrossed niche of the roller-skate jamming lady and fag bloc. Hence, Gravy Train and their four towering exclamation phalli. Inspired by "'80s rap bitches," the aggressively synthetic three-girls-and-a-guy troupe has unloaded Tracy & the Plastics' hopscotch drum machinations, Princess Superstar's nasty suburban sexcapades, and Har Mar Superstar's flatulent, ironic excess into a used condom, shaken vigorously, and now invites us to sample the, um, cocktail. For the first half of the barely 24-minute Doctor, Train's junk in the trunk is curiously unstoppablehow does belching "Let me see those titties bounce, let me see those titties shake" over a haywire merry-go-round breakbeat equal a choral refrain on par with, like, Revolver? On "Double Decker Supreme," frontwoman Chunx boasts of improprieties in a Burger King (ࠬa Humpty Hump), to which frontman Hunx retorts, "That ain't shit compared to what I done. I once jacked off in a hot dog bun." The Gravy Train!!!! experience is not unlike the sensation of devouring said confection: fluffy, white, kinky, salty, um . . . definitely not for everyone, but nothing wrong with experimenting. ANDREW BONAZELLI
Gravy Train!!!! play Double Trouble at 9 p.m. Fri., April 18. $6
Although unaffected by age, love still bites for Brit pop-punks.
With some stateside independent labels acting as a clearinghouse for the grand old men of punk and indie rock, their rosters are beginning to look like the lineup for an old-timers gig. But new records from the Soft Boys and Frank Black have shown that while there may be snow on the rooftop (insert your own quip about Black's chrome dome), there can also be plenty of fire left in the belly. To that end, the new self-titled release from U.K. punk vets the Buzzcocks is one loud, snotty, and consistently melodic blitzkrieg bop of an album, delivering a dozen scorchers in just over 30 minutes. The snappy "Jerk" opens the album not with creaky bones and graying-at-the-temples riffs, but with a purposeful and contrite Pete Shelley pouring his heart out over hacksaw guitars and the loud thwack of Phil Barker's drums. Shelly's brain-rattling "Friends" has a healthy dose of bubblegum to go with its requisite piss and vinegar, bringing to mind some of the Ramones' finest moments. And Steve Diggle tosses a couple of gems into the mix like "Sick City Sometimes" and "Certain Move" for good measure. This is a much more vital effort than anyonequite possibly the Buzzcocks themselvescould've hoped for. PATRICK BERKERY
Antimatter vs. Antimatter
Recycle. Reuse. Remix.
I haven't decided if I like this guy Antimatter (also known as mixture 151) because of his remixes of early sound pioneer Iannis Xenakis or if I hate him for them. For the moment I can shelve my inner arguments, because this time around at least, Antimatter is basically remixing himselfhence the album's title. Culling from his own collection of spliced sounds and fragmentary movements, the Bay Area sound artist has basically taken what could have been a best-of collection and turned it into a study of self-editing. The 17 songs on this debut full-length butt into each other like cars in a freeway pileup. The dull (as in shineless, not boring) heft of "Low Pass" lumbers steadily for four minutes and then, in the next instant, "Auxiliary" catches you with its spin-cycle beats and relentless loop. The beats, rhythms, and colors that stutter forth from most of Antimatter's remixed eclectica are often nearer in scope and vision to modern laptop/dance-floor composers than history's musique concrete masterminds (or, for that matter, the experimental Krautrockers of the '70s), but his collages subscribe to neither genre completely he's able to appeal to industrialists, intellectuals, and tweakers alike. "Rangefinder" even begins with guitar strumming, and "Gilded Pallor" features the operatic wanderings of a female soprano, so almost no one is left out. Antimatter's smartly chosen influences are as evident as his ingenuity, and, to his credit, they fit together seamlessly without overshadowing his sounds. LAURA CASSIDY