After four years of experimentation, Tim Kinsella killed Joan of Arc. In hindsight, Milla Jovovich filled the role better. He's clapped the laptop shut and hit CRTL-Q in Pro Tools. Currently, Kinsella(s? Are we still doing the s?) fronts the Owls with a reunited Cap'n Jazz line-up. Their upcoming Steve Albini-produced debut is stripped-down, guitars/bass/drums Chicago emo, pretty much picking up where Cap'n Jazz, Ghosts and Vodka, and American Football left off. In other words, Tim Kinsella either missed the point or desperately wants those teen fans back.

Forever dreaming of a Drag City membership, Kinsella gradually moved from rock tunes with subtle electronic flourishes like "White Out," "The Hands," and "God Bless America" into illegitimate Bastrd del Sol cut-and-pasting. And all while failing miserably, save for one or two standouts per album. Yes, somewhere in Joan of Arc's four album career lies enough solid material to piece together one quality LP. Tracks like "Me (Plural)" with Jen Wood, "Who's Afraid of Elizabeth Taylor," "Me + America (or) The United Colors of the Gap," and "How Wheeling Feels" will make the inevitable Jade Tree hits collection a purchase to consider. So, taking into account Joan of Arc's inability to fill an entire album with intrigue, a posthumous EP seems potentially agreeable.

Until we learn that this is a wastebin of The Gap leftovers. Technically more diverse than anything else Joan of Arc has released, How Can Any Thing So Little Be Any More at times molests ears more brutally than ever before. One song, "Most at Home in Motels," succeeds as a brief, improved summation of the direction on The Gap. Erratic acoustic guitars pick and slide over digital scribbles and potato-chip drumming. A novice piano and insectoid noise flutter through the second half, and for a moment, Kinsella seems ahead of the curve. Otherwise, the EP plummets into realms of inconceivably horrendous lyrics and fuck-off music.

"Ne Mosquitos Pass" offers delicate music, overshadowed by a shit-blimp vocal performance. Kinsella rambles lines like, "Toilet brush and icebucket/ Where are you now/ How long is your hair/ There's a couch in the back of my work you can sleep on," then shouts, "Fucking strangers feels better feels better fucking strangers" over and over before the climax: "Big gay Mr. T knocked the fucking teeth out with a telephone!" Someone should be reading the labels on their prescription bottles.

The short instrumental "My Fight is Necessary" shows Kinsella flirting with Metal Machine Music drones, sliding whistles, and reversed guitar to no acceptable result. A solitary guitar whimpers, tucks its tail between its legs, and tries to hide behind Kinsella's naked, saggy voice on "My Cause is Noble and Just." The sluggish, country-tinged ballad "What If We Are Not After All, All Destined for Greatness" has Kinsella dueting with some poetic barista guy and admitting to his recording practices: "I'm singing this in my friend's kitchen." Thanks for the effort.

Worst of all are the trio of children's songs. Not songs for children, mind you; songs sung by children. A lone toddler croons, unaccompanied, into a tape recorder on "We Neither Hide Nor Seek." The kid belts, "I never wanted I never wanted to touch you... DADDY!... the way I wanted to feel to you. I love the way of your daylight I love you sweetheart." This sounds illegal in 49 states. The kid also pops up briefly on the next pointless instrumental before taking the mic with a little buddy on "I'll Show You, I'll Show You All." The song opens with echoing emo (echmo?) repetition, then disappears to let the kids sing, "I love you Jesus do do do do do," a sentiment with which the Christian Coalition might begin to disagree.

Ol' INRI gets more props in the next track with the opening line of "Jesus really was so/ Goddam pretentious." Kinsella sounds jealous. And relating to the topic of Mr. H. Christ, Kinsella mumbles, "Blessed be we amateurs," earlier in the EP. After a silly career of bumbling art, that's a lost sermon-on-the-mount beatitude Kinsella can only begin to dream of.

-Brent DiCrescenzo