Modern-day rock has splintered somewhat, its shards picked up and whisked away in a dozen different directions by a dozen different acts. In the process, the genre’s original penchant for mindless fun and irreverence seems to have been lost on a new generation. Not that there isn’t a time and place for rock n’ roll to champion a conscience and intellect, but rare are the raw and ragged sheets of sound that used to populate the movement – sound that has little meaning outside its own mood.
Still, acts like the Hairspray Blues seem intent on carrying the flickering torch, and on Sick Little Package they go straight for gut instinct, happy to open the floodgates and let their listeners drown in crude waves of musical insanity. Though the album ultimately trades in subtlety for driving tunes, Package succeeds in being both a cold splash of water to the face and gut-punch to the ears.
Hairspray Blues is an unlikely twosome: the husband-wife team of Kyle and Leslie Stabile based in Oregon, a combination that will likely lead fans to immediately think of the White Stripes. That’s too simple a label, however, for an act that takes pleasure in producing simple songs. Less bluesy and more straight-up rock, Hairspray Blues comes across as some sort of peculiar, mashed-up hybrid of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Ramones, full of lovable danger and unassuming lunacy. Whimsical, nonsensical lyrics are spat by Kyle – often totally obscured by sheer guitar volume – as room-strangled drums pound and pound until nearly broken.
Hence, it won’t take listeners long to figure out that Package’s greatest appeal is its wild, frightening nature – a kind of visceral, death-knell march that could serve as the soundtrack for a world war. “Cool Nightmare,” “Wild Bucking Pony,” and “White Light Afterburn” all speed by, serving as the album’s bus-to-hell introduction. “Eagle Flies Into the Night” is the band’s first real muscle-flex, swinging its shoulders back and forth to a strutting beat. Stabile snarls and sneers like Johnny Rotten as the track nearly derails, characteristics present on entries like “Spilling Coffee On My Blue Jeans” and “Mrs. Vacuum Princess.”
Package lasts barely half an hour, but half an hour is all that it takes. Track by agonizing track, the band invites listeners to take a leap into the darkness – a cup of black coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a crazed smile on its face. By the time they get to “24 Hour Donut Shop,” audiences will be drenched in a cold sweat, hoping for an ambulance-full of first responders to surgically remove Hairspray Blues’ boot from their ass. Make no mistake: Sick Little Package will kick you, beat you, and take you along for a ride unlike any other. If you happen to survive, the rest of today’s rock offerings will pale in comparison.
October 13, 2008
