33 rebellions per minute
1993
Curve, CUCKOO
I don't know whether Curve were an influential band, but listening to this album makes me feel like I'm hearing a panoramic preview of the electronicazation of late '90's music. Most of Madonna's '98 RAY OF LIGHT album with award-winning producer William Orbit could be derived from "All Of One", from Toni Halliday's vocals to the wispy drum programming to the distended mechanical whistling that distorts the cool synthetic glaze. "Men Are From Mars" deepens the dance pulse-- turning martial drums on and off over the abstracted rapid-fire of a compressed and equalized plumbing leak-- and inserts enough vocal coos to be Paula Abdul's stab at the commercial-industrial market, if she ever makes one (I'd buy that album). "Missing Link", clattering drums and pulsing synthetic bass and tea-kettle feedback whine and syncopated vocal hook, and the buzzing "Turkey Crossing", like PRETTY HATE MACHINE without the warmth, are what Garbage has spent its career diluting, while "Crystal" is similar but with harmonies. "Unreadable Communication"'s distant percussion chatter and quietly sensuous singing and barely-audible Depeche Mode sound effects, sliding into and out of a loud amorphous grind, anticipates Moloko's sound almost precisely and could easily have inspired some Tricky/ Massive Attack grooves; the racing deconstructed electro-groove and cubist aggression of "Cuckoo" anticipate Ruby and Wait For Nothing.
Whether you need this album depends, obviously, on whether you like the styles, and whether specifically you enjoy the style enough to overlook the general neglect of real songwriting. There's also a risk you'd prefer more obsessive consistency-- as opposed to how the whooshing "Super Beaster", despite its trebly machine squalling, is still driven more by electric guitar vamping, while "Left Of Mother" opens with a progression of generically rustic acoustic strums before the bass air-rush and Middle Eastern sing-song melodics invade; "Sweetest Pie"'s electronic churn, already suspiciously bubbly, is further humanized by the echoes of a Mellencampian riff and by Halliday vocals that approach the rhythm of a schoolgirl taunt.
That said, the usual knock against Curve is that telling their songs apart is a difficult and largely pointless party trick; I bought this album becuase it was rumored to be the exception. Curve aren't cruel and arbitrary; nowhere in CUCKOO will you be forced to deal with real instead of synthetic bass or drums, nowehere will you be stuck with tricky time signatures or flashy vocal trills or structural left turns. This is music of impressive facades, rather than depth, and oftentimes I'd mind. But at least the facades are poised, composed, dignified, albeit with an aura of threat. Maybe CUCKOO was ahead of its time-- auras of threat used to be the province of power-chords and We Love Satan bumper stickers, back in the good old days-- or maybe it's just the tenser moments of Skinny Puppy redone with a sexy-looking, but blank-sounding, vocalist. But I say it works.
Links to other sites on the Web
© 1997 bokonin@hotmail.com
Get your own Free Home Page