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For
a while I thought I was listening to a strange hybrid
between Hellhammer and Hey Colossus. Pretty killer
stuff. Had that been the case of the full album
Barbara would have been the coolest chick on the planet,
the one everyone wants to bang to a satanic tune, the
one corner skunk always willing, permanent curious grin,
eye buggered, cotton mouth, dirty finger nails, tight
red leather mini skirt, her whorisms knows no bounds.
You can tell this lazy lady knows her tricks. She is
well-read, she has studied her underground masters, she
is passionate about doom and yet, she is quite the hip
slut. No stranger to the economic duo formula, she is
well-aware of the indie friendly sounds of
improvisational fucked rock and dudes like the dudes
from Lightning Bolt. In other words she rules.
And in other
words, with a couple of drinks in she is just fine for the full
duration of Peger, which by the way comes to a mind
blowing slow start of fuzzed up distortion and rudimentary
drumming. The rudimentary aspect of Barbara stays and through
the course of the album extends to the vocals (demented shrieks
and screams) and the bass (atonal, one second inspired and the
next purposely ugly).
There is
certain looseness to their sound that gives out the idea of
improvisation. Their rhythms are awkward, their songs sound
broken. Ugliness is forever. One second Barbara sounds
frenetic, and the next their music drags like a toy running on
low batteries. Like the street worker described above; Barbara
is one second playing the streets, conning the weak, chain
smoking, pacing the block, dropping jokes on the prospective
clients, spreading her STD’s, and the next, totally depressed
and depressing, with a cloud fixed on top of her head, her
mascara smeared all over her face, with a broken soul and damned
to the end.
MySpace
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