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Recommended: wavepool abortion

From damn near out of nowhere (well, Russia actually) comes wavepool abortion (non-capitalization required), an exhilarating wreck of a band that has neither the interest or patience in, say, “building sound sculptures” or “rewarding repeated listening.”

The Russian duo keep the antagonistic spirit of rock alive, in all its celebratory give-a-fuck-ness. This is addition by subtraction, a reductionist equation that hands your ass to you and tosses you out of the sweaty corner dive, covered in alcohol fumes and (mostly) your own blood. The kind of music that used to be whipped up by teenagers with permanently sunken eyes and garages full of amplifiers. The kind of rock that crawls into bed after dawn and can’t get up before 2 pm, staggering back into existence slightly before dusk, looking like a million bucks, if a million bucks dressed in second-hand leather and was badly in need of a hepatitis shot.wavepool abortion get straight to the point: generating a low-end, lo-fi, reverbed rattle that plays “catch and release” with a swiftly moving horde of touchstones. The speedy monotone riffage of The Ramones. The greaser swamp boogie of The Cramps and (suprisingly!) Duane Eddy. The cavernous drum set reverb of The Jesus and Mary Chain. (The JAMC being another band that found its early ambition at odds with its mostly empty pockets, resulting in Bobby Gillespie being chained to a couple of toms and all the warehouse space they wanted to record in. Gillespie obviously found this to be somewhat limiting and sped off [most likely under the influence of speed] to form Primal Scream, the best/worst thing to happen to rock [depending on which album you’re currently listening to.])

The Russian duo keep the antagonistic spirit of rock alive, in all its celebratory give-a-fuck-ness. This is addition by subtraction, a reductionist equation that hands your ass to you and tosses you out of the sweaty corner dive, covered in alcohol fumes and (mostly) your own blood. The kind of music that used to be whipped up by teenagers with permanently sunken eyes and garages full of amplifiers. The kind of rock that crawls into bed after dawn and can’t get up before 2 pm, staggering back into existence slightly before dusk, looking like a million bucks, if a million bucks dressed in second-hand leather and was badly in need of a hepatitis shot.

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