Lydia Lunch - Big Sexy Noise
In which Ms Lunch again rallies some grinder men of her own by tempting a coterie of Gallon Drunketeers from their various rackets, soliciting the baddest, seediest secretions to coagulate then hawking up these twelve outstanding steps to a maliciously entrancing enmity fetish. Summoning the aura of a fetid, inner city dystopia like a leisure park of depravity from Ballard or Burroughs this dark, seething, sordid soiree delves into lairs of urban blues dredged from steaming sewers of monolithic Stooges thunder-drones, freeform granite-crunching funk-clank and gargantuan slabs of swaggering mantras in swirling maelstroms stampeded and strafed by scattershot shards of saxoskronk and sheets of Hammond - opener Gospel Singer is surely the closest a quartet can ever come to resembling a blitzkrieg, with piercing Stuka sax and pulverising Panzer rhythms. Amid the tempest, El Lydia berates, taunts, lectures, teases and tempts, spitting out vitriolic ripostes and sarcastic adieus alongside sinister subterranean narratives of grimy southern gothic, warped religion and skewed psychiatry of Slydell, Diggin The Hole and that opening onslaught. Those serrated kiss-offs come in the slinky though ferociously scorned forms of Another Man Comin (while the bed is still warm) and Your Love Don't Pay My Rent that both recall Marianne Faithfull's Why D'ya Do It? and with the egregiously glorious stomach-mushing sludge of Doughboy, get the immediate repeat prescription form. Occasional sections get stuck in the quagmire like near detour into indie-dance straits on Dark Eyes and Charles Manson-themed God Is A Bullet and if the short n' sultry horny moll lament Bad For Bobby (a slight taste, or light lunch perhaps, of Morphine) or the menacingly churning grind of ecstatic hip-swivel turning into grimacing limb-trimming of Baby Faced Killer seem to slide past with no cause for concern, care not. This is a noisy and sexy, yes, but also succinct and sardonically successful colliding grind of the GD brigade's musical armoury as chartered by LL's scabrous personality all channelled through what is now her rasp of acerbic, cantankerous disdain making her some sort of scary grotmother of Royal Trux / RTX's Jennifer Heartmurmer. (And talking of Royal Trux, incidentally the scab-pick over Skynyrd's That Smell - re-christened Smell Of Death here), joins das Trux Deluxe duo's salt-wound of Theme From M*A*S*H and Money For Nothing in the uncrowded closet of classic cover versions.) Cataclysmic, apolcalyptic, coruscating, corrupting and, hopefully, quite possibly, not, considering the steaming cauldrons of still scarcely contained malice here, climactic.