I’m tired, I’m confused, I’m dirty and I’m hungry, and five yards away my girlfriend is trying to sleep… Guess I better review these demos, then.
I’m tired, I’m confused, I’m dirty and I’m hungry, and five yards away my girlfriend is trying to sleep… Guess I better review these demos, then.
What can be said about the Doors’ back story that hasn’t already been covered? The truth, for a start.
There could hardly be a more apt sounding death knell for lo-fi indie garage than Nathan Williams’ infantile pop farts. Both the genre and Wavves itself have been due a backlash for some time now.
In another universe, parallel to ours but not too distant, Mathangi ‘Maya’ Arulpragasam is the pivotal character in Pulp’s ‘Common People’.
Everyone seems to hear something different in the kind of piercing racket that only the pairing of a former hardcore guitarist and an ex-girl group singer could produce
Wavves washed up as Women go with the tide
Words Alex Denney
A ganja leaf scrawled on a promo single first drew me to the music of Wavves. Rudely announcing itself in fat marker pen, it seemed somewhere between a puerile ‘fuck you’ and the utterly inane likeness of a cherished item, presumably settled upon after a coin toss ruled out cheese string sandwiches.
The slip case’s contents repaid curiosity, A-side ‘So Bored’ a paradoxically ferocious shoulder shrug that sprinkles drugs on its breakfast and goes straight back to bed with Pixies on full-whack. Listening to it, you might suppose Wavves would be to grunge what Times New Viking are to eighties lo-fi.
The reality’s more like middling Sebadoh. Essentially the project of San Francisco-based Nathan Williams, parts of tonight’s set sound shambling and not nearly nasty enough, although the aforementioned ode to ennui and ‘No Hope Kids’ offer compelling evidence of one well-schooled in the art of power-chord pop.
A little of Wavves’ bad-resin fumes permeate Canadian headliners Women’s outlook, but their vision is tempered by compositional flair and musicianship somewhat in advance of Señor Williams’ inchoate mumbling. Their recent, self-titled debut lingered in many a critic’s memory for its ambitious collage of art rock, noise and lush sixties pop, so expectations are understandably high tonight.
Despite the listless air of shuffling collegiate sorts we’ve become accustomed to in North American bands of late (is it possible to slope on to a stage?), the five young menfolk of Women snap into focus as they tear into material both new and old with dexterity, suggesting tracks like the Beach Boys-ish ‘Black Rice’ were no accident.
In spite of surface scuff the band performs with a restless, metronomic rigour. To this end ‘Group Transport Hall’ is transformed into a cryptic, slow grind from its rather perkier acoustic-based guise on the record, and even ‘Shaking Hand’’s giddily rushing coda seems premised on certain mathematical certainties.
The fairer sex may be nowhere to be seen among the band’s ranks, but Women are most definitely in the house.
Popularity: unranked [?]