Bellafea - Cavalcade / The Dead Science - Villainaire (both Southern)
1/5
By: Liam Manley
"Same hair, revolution
Unisex, evolution
Tomorrow who's gonna fuss?"
'Androgynous' - The Replacements
In 1984, Paul Westerberg sobered up long enough to envisage a future free from stale gender conventions, judgement and ridicule. 24 years on, with Katy Perry's handle on feminism amounting to little more than latent homophobia disguised as Girls Gone Wild titillation, you'd be forgiven for wishing Westerberg had shut up and ordered another drink.
However, the fight's not yet conceded, as a recent open letter in an Icelandic music paper saw Bjork denounce the latent sexism inherent in music journalism. Sadly, elsewhere in Popland, Ladyhawke's refusal to conform to 'gender stereotypes' by only wearing men's clothing appears largely superficial, particularly when faced with the fact that she's simply adding teen appeal to the tea-towel pop of Bonnie Tyler. So, just as Westerberg's vision seems ever-distant, two releases via Southern Records offer variations on this particular subject, bringing equal amounts of success and failure to each.
With a name derived from the Spanish words for 'beautiful' and 'ugly', North Carolina trio Bellafea seek to posit themselves as a mass of contradiction; Androgynous in the feminine-as-masculine sense, their debut Cavalcade has, on the most part, a muscular Chicago rock feel, though rather more taut and sinewy than steroidal. Sonically, this is the most Albini-esque album not to bear the good man's name. Though, with the recording overseen by Brian Paulson, best known for his work on Slint's Spiderland, Bellafea forge a link to the post-rock/hardcore past they draw on most.
Recorded over several sessions spanning two years, the production quality remains the album's most consistent element, as Cavalcade fails to establish an identity of its own, regardless of frontwoman Heather McEntire's obvious, if erratic, talents. Lyrically poor, McEntire tends towards angst-ridden proclamations that never quite achieve the level of obliqueness aimed for. Perhaps most tellingly on 'Depart (I Never Knew You)', she urgently instructs "just say anything", which, intended sarcastically or not, could be her lyrical ethos. She does manage some success, however, on masochistic standout 'Telling The Hour', requesting "punish me with the cruellest summer", despite her inadvertent paraphrase of Bananarama.
Whether failing to transcend their influences or taking more from their peers than is advisable, a debt to Blonde Redhead is all too evident on 'Thornbird II' as this soon slides into straight-aping, right down to the vocal cadence and phrasing of Kazu Makino - something that the ending segue way into fitful post-rock can't escape. For all the apparent mimicry, however, McEntire reveals herself as a guitarist of simple yet effective invention. Adding jagged edges of obstinate dissonance around rhythm section Eddie Sanchez and Nathan Buchanan's tightly locked patterns of rhythm, she creates room for her instinctive vocals to run thick and thin.
While Bellafea encapsulate all that might be considered 'authentic', Seattle three-piece The Dead Science prefer to deal in varying levels of high camp and artifice. Though occupying similar art-rock landscapes as Of Montreal, they supplant Kevin Barnes' marriage of electronic hysteria to human heartbeats in favour of frantic chugs of guitar and highly-strung violins. Not adverse to overly-theatrical and operatic feints, lead singer Sam Mickens' asexual falsetto veers towards diva-esque, a penchant for bombast perhaps betraying his previous tenure with Xiu Xiu.
Nevertheless, looking for clues among the lyric sheet's graphic novel tableaux or the inner sleeve's gallery of portraits, including Rocky, Mike Tyson, and what looks like Tony f**kin' Danza, you're left with an aesthetic sense as muddled as the music contained within. Dedicated "in word and deed" to the Wu Tang Clan, there's little beyond Villainaire's title to tie it to the likes of RZA, Ghostface et al, other than the occasional comic book reference and affected Wu-wordplay that emerges through the jazz-inflected clatter. Half-baked concepts and heavy-handed irony aside, Villainaire works best when playing it honest, with the reflective Prince-like careen of 'Wife You' or 'Make Mine Marvel', a halting rush not heard of since Arcade Fire's last bereavement.
Yet, for all their current shortfalls, with Bellafea's burgeoning promise and The Dead Science's urgent, if not fully realised, ambition, they need not be dismissed. Because, even as Metallica straddle the globe once more with their steroidally small-balled wrestle metal, these two records offer something much more valuable: Hope. And there's hope for the future yet.
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