The Belles of Skin City have violence in their music.
Instead of merely keeping time, the percussion takes form akin to splatter painting. It's as if snare drums were lined up like footballs and kicked clear across the room. The vocals mumble, sputter and wage a war of self-restraint against themselves. It's a combustible mix that, on the surface, seems like a winning formula. The trouble is, it's all violence without any passion. It's a punch to the gut for punching sake and in the end it grates on the nerves.
Whatever it is, it's definitely unique. It's a stark bass heavy sound filled with random noises and sonic clutter. The band manages to keep things cohesive throughout the album, but to a degree where none of the tracks really stand out. The closest to an album highlight would probably be "Bobby Socks Melts My Butter," a song full of whirling distorted organs and stop/start percussion.
But this leads me to another point of contention. This band tries too hard to be clever. Song titles like "Patrick Costello: Putting the Art Back in Smart-Ass," or "Joni Loves Trotski" are groan inducing. Lyrically, David Joe Holiday has some decent moments, but often he ends up with something like: "What to do when the nerve goes limp, and sets a tempo to 'pulse of a coward,' you belly up to the be-bop-a-loo right now."
This band needs more time to grow into the unique sound they've created for themselves. I think in a few years we'll be hearing some mind-blowing music; however, as it stands right now, it requires an incredible amount of patience and effort to sit through this album without getting bored or annoyed. MS
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