Q&A
SONIC REDUCER
Low vs. Coil! Raz Mesinai vs. Liliput! Boyd Rice vs. Everyone!
Our Newly Deluxe Album-Smasher A-Go-Go Brings You the New 'Out' Sounds of Today!

by JOHN GRAHAM CHRISTOPHER MCQUAIN and LIZ BROWN
243-2122

LOW: THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE (Kranky)

The infant daughter of Low's Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker must love bedtime. Parker's unfaltering soprano paired with Sparhawk's vulnerable, hushed vocals form the crux of soothing, slow-motion lullabies. Strip away the Duluth, Minn., trio's typically spartan instrumentation--Parker's bare-bones drumming, Zak Sally's resonant bass, Sparhawk's softly
droning guitar--and you have the soundtrack to a nursery nap full of odd dreams.

On Low's latest, Steve Albini-produced album, Things We Lost in the Fire, the band builds on its skeletal sound, as it has on recent efforts. Occasional string accompaniment matches the precise and solemn vocals. Keyboards here and there add an eerie undercurrent. A proud trumpet parallels the relatively boisterous chorus on the single "Dinosaur Act."

But the best songs play up Low's original strengths: flawless harmonies; an abundance of space in which the songs can breathe; powerful repetition; tension and emotion conveyed by way of restraint. Throughout "Laser Beam," you can almost hear ghost harmonies over Parker's delicate crooning, but the song's melody and simplicity are its assets. Harmonies reappear on the wistful "In Metal," during which Parker wishes she could keep her baby's tiny body in metal--like her baby shoes--to keep her from growing up.

While Things We Lost isn't as consistently engaging as earlier Low efforts, its best moments could pacify all but the most colicky listener. What they lost in the fire is unclear; what they salvaged is a sense of grace and that precious virtue, patience. (LB)

BOYD RICE: THE WAY I FEEL (Caciocavallo)

Boyd. Sweet Boyd. We know that, behind the industrial thunder and that neo-fascist shield you erect around your public persona, you're actually a fuzzy-wuzzy widdle teddy bear...right? Um. Okay. Maybe not.

Consider this Boyd's spoken-word album, a compiled litany of misanthropic essays laid atop placid backing tracks: Sip a martini to the lounging exotica vibes of "Hatesville," with its knowing slogan, "Hate is groovy"! Turn on your heartlight to the sighing choirboys and beat-down-the-weak social Darwinism of "Equilibrium"! Chortle to the cocktail-party politics ("Have you ever dreamed of killing all the stupid people?") and strummed apocalyptic-folk guitars of "People"!

All the hot-button issues are here: sexism, racism, classism--you name it, Boyd's twisted mind can rationalize it. Such a nice boy. (JG)

LILIPUT: LILIPUT (Kill Rock Stars)

Years ago, a used copy of Totally Wired--a "post-punk" compilation now shamefully out of print--found its way into the hands of a 20-year-old underground-pop neophyte: me. There, buried amidst revelations from the Au Pairs and the Raincoats, was the most precious lost gem of all: "Die Matrosen" by LiliPUT, a Swiss all-girl band (they called themselves Kleenex until the tissue peddlers interfered). The song is sheer pop heaven: chugging, melodic bass; propulsive drumming; blurry guitar; wailing sax; half-shouted Germanic vocals; and an unforgettable, psychotically catchy whistled refrain that could've come from Sesame Street.

So I anxiously awaited Kill Rock Stars' re-release of LiliPUT's '93 double-disc retrospective--long unavailable and allegedly drawing top dollar on the hipster black market. There are so many hits here, you'd be a fool not to shell out for the Olympia label's always-generous sticker price. "Ain't You," with its sassy broken-English come-on "Ain't you wanna get it on?," sounds like Shonen Knife on vacation to Zurich in '79. The hectic "Eiseger Wind" is just too much song for four minutes--all the better.

This essential artifact chronicles gutsy kids making their own pop-rock for the sheer love of it. Don't worry, though--it's so much fun to listen to, you won't even feel the weight of history. (CM)

TEXAS TERRI AND THE STIFF ONES: EAT SHIT + 1 (Junk)

A reissue of Terri & Co.'s slinky and sleazy, street-strutting punk party, plus one most excellent extra: "Women Should Be Wilder," a manifesto (of sorts) for this henna-topped and tattooed banshee who's often called a cross between Iggy Pop and Wendy O. Williams. Backed by a gnarly guitar riff, her purr-to-scream cigarette rasp urges women to run with wolves--and I don't mean the lunar-goddess-worshipping kind. I mean the party-til-ya-puke, no-good-scumfuck breed. When Terri loses herself in the infectious chaos of her unchecked adrenaline flow, you hafta admit she's got a point. Makes a great Mother's Day gift. (JG)

RAZ MESINAI: THE UNSPEAKABLE (BSI)

Mutant, feral children dance like spiders around a bonfire, heaving freshly cut human limbs onto the blaze, their eyes crimson embers lit more by some half-hidden animal instinct than the flames themselves. And that's only the first mental vision conjured by The Unspeakable. With its messy splatter of clattering drums and chattering voices, illbient mixman Raz Mesinai (Sub Dub, Bedouin Sound Clash) leaves BSI's usual techno-dub excursions far behind, charting a darker course through a psychotic inner space. Bloodthirsty nursery rhymes run screaming from creeping clouds of ambient terror. Spastic chants conjure forgotten demons. Lullabyes lull and relax, then violins and pianos attack like black scorpions racing across your brain. Brilliantly horrifying. But hide the straight razor. (JG)

COIL: CONSTANT SHALLOWNESS LEADS TO EVIL (Eskaton via Soleilmoon)

England's masters of ritualistic electro-ambient weirdness return with a surprisingly un-complex investigation of viciously twittering noise frequencies. Synths squeal and scream, blasting across the inky soundspace like ear-burning laser beams, while echoing moans sometimes crawl underneath. It can get grindingly repetitive--the last "song" stretches over 18 separate (but nearly identical) one- to two-minute tracks of computer-crash feedback--but in the proper mood it's hypnotic. The proper mood, by the way, is muzzle-and-straitjacket insane. Dr. Lecter, your table is waiting. (JG)