I was surprised as hell when I read that existential crises were back in vogue. I mean, you
give a fancy overseas war with high production values to a country of TV-addled youth whose
social outreach extends to the local pharmacy waiting line, and what do they do? They don't
even wait for their nation to be occupied by a warring fascist state before chronicling their
tribulations with emotional isolation in a post-millennial millennia. And here I was thinking
retro was the new retro! Well, as an established music critic, I was obligated to prove that
I had my finger on the national pulse. After countless conference calls, it was decided that
I should employ Pitchfork’s patented 'Literary Introspection through Comedic
MeansTM' and proffer a surgically sliced portion of my
psyche to the readers for analysis; the way Dostoevsky, "Weird" Al, and Brent DiCrescenzo
used to kick it.
After authoring an admittedly incoherent expose on my grappling with sexuality in a
"Lester Bangs world," Editor Ryan courteously emailed me with some well chosen words of
advice:
Don't step on my cape
So how was I to convincingly marry the time-honored and humorless topic of philosophy
to a webzine: the ultimate manifestation of ultra-modern technological excess? With
a joke!
Q: "How many nihilists does it take to screw in a light bulb?"
A: "Who the fuck cares?"
Congratulations, you have just taken part in the world's first documented 'interactive
litmus test by means of musical criticism.' Judge yourself accordingly. If the
pointlessness of that premise aggravated the shit out of you, you may be ready to listen
to Pretty Girls Make Graves. If it was the pretentious upper-crust literati ambience that
hung on every word like that layer of filth you just can't wash off, I advise you to go
out and pick up the band's Lookout! Records debut, Good Health, before your roommates
finish funneling last night's meal of crumbled snack crackers into your gas tank (go check
outside). But, if you actually followed along with the introduction, finding it to be replete
with factual and historical inaccuracies only to relish the idea of writing an email to
point out your humble reviewer's misconceptions and snobbery, you'd fuggin' hate this
record. Likewise, if you actually enjoyed that thing: we don't want you as a reader.
Excuse me if I'm a little selective in which faction of my demographic I actually reach,
but, you see, I've developed a pretty tenuous relationship with Good Health over
the past month or so, and I don't want just any underprivileged twenty-something getting
their hands on it. The truth of the matter is, Pretty Girls Make Graves are in your
town right now recruiting the disaffected, cynical, and pissed off to join their cause.
Finally, another group that the impoverished slacker bourgeoisie can champion as 'a really
good punk band.' Seriously, Tim Harrington's shoulders feel so much lighter now.
The album opens innocuously enough, as a bubbling synth rises warily up and down an
infectious melody that lingers just long enough to establish itself before dissipating
into a torrent of guitars. The knowing lyrics of "Speakers Push the Air" chime: "I found
a place where it feels alright/ I heard a record and it opened my eyes." Elsewhere, an
untitled epilogue to "The Get Away," one of the record's finest moments, exposes the 'epic'
song's skeletal foundation to the listener for thirty seconds or so, allowing us some
time to breathe. Fortunately, oxygen breaks are few and far between.
While underground America's musical landscape seems ruled by a vast court of unskilled
musicians content with simply bastardizing their lo-fi influences whilst betting on the
medium's once-staple-now-long-lost-and-forgotten 'cute and intimate' card (an infamous
artifact from the early-to-mid-nineties which has recently been sighted somewhere near
Olympia, Washington), Pretty Girls Make Graves wear their technical prowess like a
badge of honor.
Though never letting the 'Guitarist's Grimoire' set the parameters for their sound,
PGMG manage to juxtapose riff-concentrate with enough perspective and focus to escape
even the faintest grasps of what could have devolved into 'virtuoso punk' under less
inspired hands. However, the fact that ex-Murder City Devils bassist Derek Fudesco
established Pretty Girls Make Graves only months after the dissolution of his former
group, insinuates that the nine songs comprising Good Health were written in an
inordinately condensed period of time. Where such circumstances are, more often than
not, a hindrance to the potential quality of a final product, Pretty Girls are clear
beneficiaries of this situation, as the short allotment of time seems to have
contributed to the sense of urgency found in both the group's writing and performance.
Conjuring up a direct musical comparison to Pretty Girls Make Graves proves difficult,
as the album plays like an aural amalgam of the past 40 years or so of rock music
(though Sonic Youth, Unwound and Les Savy Fav all serve as dandy reference points).
Similarly, it's tough to ferret a particular quality to scapegoat in the name of
objective criticism. But, if there's any negative criticism to be had, it should be
focused solely on the disc's hit-or-miss lyrical content. The unfortunate truth is
that even a slight misjudgment of the line delineating revelation from callow
self-concern can render a modest album/song unlistenable. Luckily, there aren't
any cringe-worthy moments to be found here-- just a few lines written from inexperience
and masked by singer Andrea Zollo's innate sense of melody. It's her commanding voice
that's truly the group's most effective instrument, infusing the genre with formerly
unseen emotional layers.
When each track is a struggle to contain as many Pixies-by-way-of-Archers-of-Loaf riffs
and hooks as humanly possible in less than three minutes, you need someone manning
the controls well enough to keep the music's instinctual and emotional appeal intact.
Bolstered by engineering guru Phil Ek's gracious production (which never oversteps its
bounds, more than making up for his overbearing work on Ancient Melodies of the
Future), Good Health serves as a testament to the punk idiom-- a homogenate
product of the genre's countless guises and forms. "Ghosts in the Radio," the album's
obvious highlight, even boasts a successful Fripp/Eno-esque breakdown mid-song,
indicative of the group's ability to meld rampant experimentalism with an evocative and
accessible commodity.
Though not as epic and cinematic as the Trail of Dead's galvanizing Source Tags &
Codes, Pretty Girls Make Graves act as yet another healthy pulse sign for indie-rock
outside of M2's adopted garage-rock revivalist spectrum. While it's true that everything
contained herein has been done before in some form or another, Good Health succeeds
on its own merits due to its impassioned delivery and inexorable performances. More than
just a faithful document to the group's incendiary live prowess, the record somehow
approximates the environs of a good indie-rock show. That, in itself, is always worth
the price of admission.
-Kevin Adickes, July 5th, 2002