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30 READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE Music

THE SLITS LIVE AT THE GIBUS CLUB (SANCTUARY) SOMEBODY’S MIRACLE (CAPITOL) Girl Problems A Slits live and Liz Phair’s latest illuminate the prejudices that (still) plague women in rock.

By Jessica Hopper t’s 2005 and one thing is island-tide jerk that would dis- clear: rock critics still have tinguish Cut is barely evident on I their heads up their asses Live—instead the band is melod- where “women in rock” are con- ic and surprisingly poppy. Viv cerned. Though there has been Albertine’s guitar playing is a some progress in the last decade staccato crunch, like someone or so, the plight of the female marching on ice, and the deeply musician is still very much a rooted rhythm section specializes plight. If it’s not the sexualizing in bounce. Ari Up’s German review it’s the backhanded refer- accent sneaks out from behind ences to talent or ability or the her crisp British e-nun-ci-a-tion speculation about whether the on her singsong shouts. She’s at artist is the one in control of her her most shrill only when heck- own image and ideas. The sort of ling the hecklers, sounding like a gender-suffused discourse spun Teutonic Bette Davis as she tells by music magazine journos and one, “Go back to Texas, cow- freelance flacks has as much to booooy.” In the span of 30 min- do with the fantasies we build up utes they bang out ten songs, around an artist as it does with then encore with two they’ve just the killer riffs on side B. And played (“Split” and once the mythology is handed “Shoplifting”). While it isn’t as en down and locked in, it hinders IN fuego as their Peel Sessions— any attempt at a clear, unbiased their earliest and best record- critical listen. ings—Live at the Gibus Club is a ANNE FISHBE , UK punk’s first visi- The Slits solid addition to their catalog. ble all-girl band, for example, are mentioned as forebears or tars for them. They were a viscer- years down the pike the Slits are stone, he adds that the band cre- hile the Slits’ legacy is built “punk’s grandmothers” in every al, caustic, and calamitous singled out as being uniquely ated great music “through sheer W on their supposed lack of girl-punk history. While that cer- band—fantastic in spite of their inept, their innovation and song- emotion and desire.” Live is intent, Liz Phair has made her riotous defects, claimed a 1979 writing rarely granted true legiti- culled from a five-night stand in intentions known since day one. NME review. They were primi- macy. Discussions of the band Paris in 1978, shortly before the The cover of her debut, Exile in tive rank amateurs who did not and their debut album, Cut, Slits recorded Cut, and features Guyville, shows her lunging give a fuck. It’s implied that if rarely take place without their original lineup, with drum- toward the camera, blurred in they did in fact care, they reminders of what they “could mer Palmolive (later of the motion, mouth open wide, bar- would’ve become good in the not do,” critical examinations Raincoats). It’s rather shocking. ing tit. Supposedly a double- technical, virtuosic sense. But hemmed with “in spite of” rather For all the descriptions that album response to Exile on Main since they didn’t, it must be that than acknowledging that there make them sound like jungle Street, Guyville dealt with desire their songs were not of their own had never been a band like the cats on an episode of Wild both explicitly and subtly. Phair careful design. Slits. Ultimately their genius was Kingdom, for all the talk of their forged a bond with her audience What’s extra ridiculous about writ (off) as accidental. emotional, visceral, and nontech- based on the authenticity of her this is that during the baby years The liner notes for the recently nical playing—they sure do portrayals of postcollegiate tainly counts for something, of English punk, the prime dic- released Live at the Gibus Club sound like a band. Like a band ennui, romance, and fucking. their legacy as it’s commonly tum was not giving a fuck: pretty (Sanctuary) do little to dispel the that had been together for three Her songs were stark, feminist, understood and recited abne- much every band consisted of prevailing mythology. “They years, composed of people who’d and prosaic, titillating but never gates the sense that they may pimply kids clawing at clumsy were breaking new ground with- been playing instruments for crass. You felt smart identifying have had any true talent. The power chords out of disdain for out really trying,” writes their about that long. They sound like with them. She may have been a established “facts” are these: virtuosity. The bloated power road manager, (later what they were: a skronky mini- neophyte, but she displayed out- They could not play. On their noodling heard in the Stairways of ). Then, malist quartet masquerad- size ambition and was accepted first tour, opening for , to Heaven of 70s rock was the chiseling a cheerful patriarchal ing as a punk band. as a serious artist. She was Mick Jones had to tune their gui- sworn enemy. Yet somehow 30 platitude into the band’s head- The ghostly sound and excused from the rote special CHICAGO READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE 31

grief reserved for female musi- hand. Phair had broken an cians regarding whether they unspoken rule, one that holds as “can play.” Those rankled by her true in rock ’n’ roll as it does in a candor or disappointed by her strip club: When you acknowl- live performances were grossly edge the exploitation, you cor- outnumbered by the fans and rupt the fantasy. You can go for critics genuflecting at her feet. the cock, but don’t start fishing Phair’s ’03-’04 game season around for the wallet, too. was little more than a louder, In recent interviews Phair has more overt application of the said that anyone still hung up on plays that had her arty of a decade Liz Phair been working ago “should get over it.” Her lat- loose jangle that slides into the WHEN Tue 10/25, for her all est album, Somebody’s Miracle unassuming slow burn chorus— 7:30 PM along. Liz (Capitol), is a 14-track telegram and “Table for One,” a song about WHERE The Vic, Phair, her first that lets you know if you came self-medicating, drinking, and 3145 N. Sheffield album in five looking for anything other than shame, could almost fit on PRICE $30 years, featured music to play in your hair salon, ,with its INFO 773-472- her nearly you’re shit out of luck. She simplicity and questionable 0449 or 312- naked on the makes getting over it phenome- Spanish guitar interlude, but in 559-1212 cover. But nally easy. the end neither one’s good for while she was Somebody’s Miracle has the much more than playing behind still offering libidinous odes, she glimmering sheen of Liz Phair, the closing credits of a Julia was piggybacking them to glossy but the would-be Matrix hits Roberts chick flick. production and the sort of hooks have been replaced with a style The rest is worse—an inter- that sound good all the way up in of music known in the biz as bor- minable mix of Crisco-gilded the cheap seats of the Coors ing. The lyrics are purloined AOR that sounds like Sheryl Light Pavilion. from “Love Is” cartoons, and her Crow if she had two ideas This attempt at having it both pro-boner sentiments have been instead of just one. With

ways misfired big time: critics DUSAN RELJIN replaced with virginal tender- Somebody’s Miracle Phair evis- lambasted the 36-year-old single Liz Phair ness: “Let your body hold me cerates all trace of the artist we mom for both acting like her 25- close / Let your body move you / thought we had pigeonholed, year-old self and not sounding miniskirt poses and songs about when a 36-year-old combines Moooove yaa” is the album’s leaving little to grasp and even like her 25-year-old self. The way fucking you’d think she’d included big-budget production with most explicit line. “Everything less to fight about, and forcing scenesters and critics alike a bukkake DVD as a bonus disc. overt sexuality, she knows exactly (Between Us)” hints at some of us, once and for all, to take her clucked their tongues about her The real problem was that what kind of transaction is at the hallmarks of her sound—the on her own merit. v 32 CHICAGO READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE

Music

WARLOCKS SURGERY (MUTE)

Wait for It Surgery isn’t the Warlocks at their best—until the very end. By Monica Kendrick ometimes, on dark days, I and like the BJM’s the band’s really resent . early records were ambitious and S When they broke up I was grating and joyously, dorkishly left with an awful jones for their energetic, like college boys wax- peculiar brand of evil trance-out ing rhapsodic drone rock—a sound that holds Warlocks, about opium. on to its pop bones, as if the vul- Gris Gris, They might tures missed some bits. I’m even Miss Alex have just been madder at them than I am at the White & the applying fuzz to Velvet Underground, who were so Red pop songs all distinctive you knew something Orchestra dressed up in like that was never going to come WHEN Fri 10/21, black and love around again and that you’d bet- 9 PM beads with ter start collecting bootlegs on WHERE Metro, nowhere to go . long-lasting formats now. other than G Q

3730 N. Clark GRE Spacemen 3, on the other hand, PRICE $14 someone else’s Warlocks created the illusion that anybody INFO 773-549- dorm room, but could do it, and it sounded so 0203 or 312-559- they did so bet- ten years, and there’s been a fair each repetitive, maddening, lines on the bloated “Thursday’s fucking great it’s hard to under- 1212 ter than anyone amount of competition. But with Chinese-water-torture ching- Radiation” (repetitive in a frus- stand why everybody doesn’t. MORE 18+; see since the Jesus their newest release, Surgery, ching-ching drawn out so far tratingly cautious way), the The creative arc of the the Treatment and Mary they’ve gone a bit off the rails, past the point of absurdity you desire to be taken seriously can Warlocks—who for a few years for more on the Chain. If noth- and I’m not sure it can be chalked could imagine strobe lights flash- be downright oppressive. were very, very close to the Warlocks and ing else “Shake up to “maturity.” ing off the band’s shit-eating But despite Surgery’s disap- Grail—can be instructive on this Gris Gris. the Dope Out,” On the Warlocks’ early records, grins. Now it sounds like pointments and its incompre- point. Front man Bobby from The for all that the music was grim Hecksher thinks we ought to pay hensible timidity, I don’t think Hecksher did a stint with the Phoenix Album (Birdman, 2002), and dark and guttery, there was a lots of attention to his usually this album deserves the likes of Brian Jonestown Massacre before is the best entry in the “Sister lightness and a sense of fun in regrettable lyrics, and judging the scathing review it got from starting the Warlocks in 1998, Ray”-lite category I’ve heard in the totally over-the-top playing, from the way he works the vocal Nick Sylvester at Pitchfork: “A CHICAGO READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE 33

mopey bunch of trite sap O.D.- type tales almost as unstomach- able as the band’s former crapothecary hymns.” It’s still perfectly listenable, lightly psy- chedelic mope rock, with some charged shivery moments scat- tered here and there. “Evil Eyes Again” hits me in a certain “aw, look, boy trying to be all scary is really adorable” way—see, in public he tries to be all Michael Gira and Charles Manson and shit, but in private he really likes Sandman comics and The Nightmare Before Christmas just as much as his girlfriend does. It’s an awkward combination— the band’s melodies aren’t what they need to be to pull off some- thing this sweet and dreamy— but it does offer a retro romantic sort of pleasure. “The Tangent” and “Above Earth” are the kind of slow-dance songs you might’ve wished you had in high school instead of that waily Whitney Houston stuff. And “Bleed Without You Babe” has a musky, languid swagger that hints at a lingering audacity and a not entirely dead instinct for the well-placed landing. But guys, that’s not what I’m here for. “Suicide Note,” the 12-minute closing track, is what I’m here for: the Warlocks have guitars and they’re not afraid to use them, well past the boiling point, when the water in the pot’s evaporated and the eggs have burst, and there’s maggots in them, maggots, I swear, get ’em off me! Oh, the listener has to earn it, there’s a good spot of pitiful crooning in the begin- ning, over churchy organ chords—the reason Ian Curtis and Kurt Cobain are still mourned is because they didn’t write suicide notes of this sort— but then there’s this intense gui- tar swell, like someone who’s worshipped David Gilmour all his life trying to copy Sterling Morrison, and it sounds like at least someone in this band is willing to put up a fight. It’s corny, it’s elegiac, it’s faux ecstat- ic, and it frustratingly hints at the heights to which this band could soar if it didn’t feel com- pelled to weigh itself down with soggy “intimacy.” And if you stick it out to the end there’s a buried coda, a bit of stiff-legged but ringing raga that rocks so hard you wonder why they both- ered with the firstseven minutes at all. Or the first ten songs, for that matter. You tricked me, bas- tards, and I like it! But could you err just a little more on the side of instant gratification next time? v 34 CHICAGO READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE

Music

LURKER OF CHALICE LURKER OF CHALICE (SOUTHERN LORD) Whimsy Leviathan’s Wrest goes exploring

By Monica Kendrick suppose I got into this racket (Locally, at press time Metal because I wanted to figure out Haven had CDs in stock and I why some records struck me Reckless had the vinyl.) as merely enjoyable while others Why all the fuss? Black-metal seemed to just overwhelm me, side projects aren’t unusual, but grabbing me by the ear like a their creators usually stake out vicious nun reprimanding an pretty specific patches of turf— errant schoolgirl. For me the best somebody flying their freak-folk have always been the flag over here, another falling ones that imagine worlds as deeper into a Lovecraftian sink- rounded and complex as any hole over there. What’s delightful you’ll find in a good science fic- about Lurker of Chalice is that tion novel—and just as with a Wrest sounds willing to try any- pretensions and Wagnerian good novel, you’ll have to call my thing, swooping out of his usual ambitions, is too often thought name more than once and fairly black-metal mode to skim the of as the exclusive province of loudly if you want to pull me out low mountains of gothic pop, gloomy Scandinavians who set of its spell. dark ambient, and art rock. On churches on fire, kill each other, I’ve gotten better at describing the first track (whose title is a and wear ridiculous makeup. But that sort of record, but I still pitchfork-shaped graphic) the the stuff’s much more expressive have a hard time anticipating opening martial drumbeats stop than it’s given credit for—it’s where the next one’s coming abruptly, and the song shifts into dark music for dark times and (a from. In retrospectI should’ve some delicate guitar plinking. It’s subculture of pro-Nazi acts expected it from Wrest, a one- a deliberate wrong turn, almost a notwithstanding) a relevant man black-metal juggernaut musical joke; Wrest stops dead update of ages-old lore. from who’s been and goes twee after building up America’s national mythology is recording as Leviathan since the your expectations for some- nothing like, say, Norway’s late 90s. Wrest clearly has a thing—anything—else. (though North America did get more fertile and restless imagi- The ringing guitar tone in the Viked), so most stateside black- nation than most of his peers. surging, stormy parts of metal bands tend to be more Under the name Lurker of “Piercing Where They Might” ironic—they can’t lay it on too Chalice he’s put out a couple cas- has more than a whiff of early thick without smirking. Wrest sette-only releases that show off Bauhaus about it, which means a seems to enjoy having it both his (relatively) lighter, more inti- certain bloody-minded archness ways: though he plays straight- mate side, and his first full- isn’t far behind. Gurgly baby- ahead black metal in Leviathan length under that moniker sold demon noises? Wind chimes? and Twilight, a project with out almost immediately when it Echo-laden spoken-word inter- members of and locals came out on Total Holocaust ear- ludes laid over plains of dreamy , he counterbal- lier this year. Southern Lord synths? Oh Wrest, you rake! On ances it with the dark whimsy of rereleased the CD in August, and “Granite” he merges a cliched Lurker of Chalice. this month it announced the morass of kick drum with some Metal usually needs a band release of a vinyl-only version incongruous goth rock and ethic—the genre gets its power with an extra track. Southern makes even that work, sounding from its collaborative, tribal Lord’s sold out of the CD; the a bit like Fields of the Nephilim. aspects. But there’s something vinyl sold out in preorders. Black metal, with its satanic delightful about listening to a CHICAGO READER | OCTOBER 21, 2005 | SECTION ONE 35

Ink Well by Ben Tausig

42.PD alert Play Calling 43.Massive departure 45.Vodka grains ACROSS 46.Valentine’s Day candy word 1. Zealous, as a fan 48.Pot top 6. Catalyst 49.Radio host who said of , “These 10.DHL competitor guys are from England and who 14.Without aid gives a shit?” solitary soul rambling so far 15.Neck of the woods 50.Italian jeans designer afield. When the clanging, puls- 16.OJ matter 53. “I’m not gonna stand in their way.” ing intro of “Paramnesia” starts, 17.Plea to avoid bankruptcy from 55.Too young for a draft? we don’t know where Wrest is 1983 to 1986 57.Stop daydreaming 19.The Chipmunks, e.g. 61. * going with it, and I think he’s 20.Trattoria treats allowing us to believe he doesn’t 62.Invitation to the stage since 1972 21. Ends a crush 64.Susan portrayer on Desperate know either—he lets the mur- 23. City with no photographs of the Housewives 14th Dalai Lama muring voices give way to some 65.Salinger heroine 25.Where Angels play groove-oriented riffing, some 66.Howard Dean or John Kerry 26.This is hell choral interludes, and still more 67.Iditarod ride 29.Peruvian singer Sumac 68.Austin Powers euphemism riffing. Creeping underneath 31. Whichever 69.Small flies these songs aren’t the usual 32.Ice Cube holder? marauding hordes, belle dames 33. :-) DOWN 35.Pen sans merci, or angry heathen 1. Charged, with “up” 38.“It’s so ______!” gods; instead, on a song like 2. African plant 39.Part of a Queer Eye sobriquet “This Blood Falls as Mortal Part 3. Orange or Sugar 40.Angeles or Alamos preceder 4. Got some air III,” eruptions of fusiony notes 41. Shock’s partner lure you into an Arkham 5. Final acts? Asylum padded room filled with 6. Block (up) LAST WEEK: ATONAL 7. Paper tiger, say dark keyboards and high- 8. Extreme shoe width pitched wails. 9. Dread sporter 28.Titular throwdown from 1986 to 1993 49.Noted one-note wonder There’s no narrative on Lurker 10.The Green Mill’s neighborhood 30.Hint at 50.Checks for prints of Chalice, but it feels like a 11. Dawson’s call from 1976 to 1985 33. Clinton blows it 51. Big chip maker novel—perhaps a Burroughsian 12.Works at 34.Canon camera model 52.They may fill your shoes cut-up, a gentler Lovecraft work, 13.Good loser 36.Adjective for Belle & Sebastian 54.Takeout general 18.Sri Lankan hip-hop sensation 37.Polite assent 56.“Gee whillikers!” something Philip K. Dick 22.Doesn’t bomb at all 39.It might get high 58.Silents star Negri might’ve done if he had a 24.33- or 61-Across, e.g. 44.Pickle 59.Pinhead swords-and-sorcery bent. By 26.“Howdy!” 45.Fast time in Iran 60.Shiftless !s? allowing himself the freedom to 27.Per person 47.Handle on the web 63. ER readout run wild, without genre conven- tions, Wrest goes to a lot of dif- ferent places, but it feels like he’s gathering energy rather than expending it. The next Leviathan album should be a monster. v