Brooklyn’s Pop. 1280 is a band that should be on any unabashed noise rock fan’s radar. Initially they made a likeable if somewhat minor racket that was defined mainly by how they combined a substantial fount of influences; no-wave, the dark side of new wave, punk, post-hardcore, and even industrial. On their third record Imps of Perversion they’ve shown tremendous growth, and the LP finds them on the precipice of making a true genre classic.
For those familiar with one of US literature’s most emotionally severe genre writers, naming your band after a Jim Thompson novel basically ensures two things, at least prior to actually dropping a stylus into the groove. First, it makes abundantly clear that the music isn’t going to be focused upon celebrating the pleasantness of existence. Unless your idea of a good time includes murder, psychosis, and general turpitude, and in that case Pop. 1280 could easily serve as your personal Beach Boys circa Surfin’ U.S.A.
Second, in choosing the title of a book from one of 20th century fiction’s enduring cult figures, it sets up a certain level of intrigue amongst a specific segment of those who will instantly get the reference as to whether the music is actually worthy of said gesture. If so, it’s likely to be assessed as inspired homage. If not, it runs the risk of being denigrated as simply pilfered cool.
Actually, there’s another given in naming your band after a book by Jim Thompson, specifically that a high number of reviews or articles relating to the music will somehow mention Jim Thompson. And this reality probably wasn’t lost on Pop. 1280. Many readers that won’t immediately grasp the connection through their choice of moniker will however be familiar with the writer in some form, either through his substantial bibliography or via the numerous films based on his work (the vast majority of which significantly lessen the prose’s exploration of violence, desperation, and vacant moral fiber.)
Cynics will surely consider this a cheap way to initiate a fan base, but as stated above, only a certain portion of Thompson’s considerable readership is likely to care about the noise rock-derived convulsions of Pop. 1280. But there is a group of individuals for whom soaking up aggressive no-wave/post-hardcore/industrial-descended thud and reading tales of depraved Southern sheriffs goes together like a plate of warm cookies and ice cold milk. In their choice of a handle, Pop. 1280 have basically cut to the chase.
Pop. 1280’s brand of tumult is essentially impossible without the precedent of the disruptive 1980’s US underground, and that the very same era found Thompson’s cult gaining in stature and welcoming a younger generation of his fellow countrymen (naturally, he already had a sizable rep in France) is highly fitting. In fact, all the elements fall together so nicely for this band that upon my first listen they actually courted the veneer of a calculated throwback.
That introduction came through 2010’s Sacred Bones-issued 12-inch “The Grid.” Across nine cuts was found a brutal and at times tribal drum attack, a scientific approach to guitar scree, and bass progressions as thick as a twenty dollar steak. Fittingly, the vocals were up front and bilious. But a saving element was provided by an ominous keyboard vibe that gave the title cut a Suicide-like orientation (elsewhere it kinda registered as darkwave turned sour.)
Pop. 1280 have been called cyberpunk, but as a musical genre (as opposed to a literary one) that tag doesn’t hold much personal traction. I’ve also read them described as no-wave meets new wave, and while that’s not inappropriate, I tend to think the band’s self-depiction as industrial punk makes the most sense. For as “The Grid” unwound, I was reminded quite a bit of ‘80s era Swans, but with Michael Gira temporarily replaced by J.G. “Foetus” Thirlwell.
Things weren’t as stylistically pat as that summery might make it seem. There were flashes of killer San Fran industrial punk groundbreakers Chrome, though these brief bits mainly seemed picked up through their influence on scads of late ‘80s noise rock bands. Indeed, the balance of “The Grid” is as observant of form as many entries in the era’s Touch and Go roster were, and it’s as uncompromisingly heavy as the formative emissions delivered by the Amphetamine Reptile label during the same period (Am-Rep being quite notable in this instance as the home of Helios Creed after his exit from Chrome.)
And yet it all still registered as somewhat minor. A nicer way of putting it would be to say that for all its precise aggression, “The Grid” was a solid but far from mind-blowing start. That Swans/Thirlwell merger was quite palpable, enough so that the record became mildly reminiscent of Cop Shoot Cop. And frankly, while I was quite fond of that NYC outfit’s early stuff, to my ear they never really followed through on the discomfiting promise of their initial material.
The Horror, Pop. 1280’s full length from last year turned up the heat considerably. The songs were stronger and they were brandishing their sound with a higher level of consistency, their heaviness deepened by a muscular, highly rhythmic dexterity (those tribal aspects only increasing.) Whereas on “The Grid” the music largely fell under the shadow if its influences (though that’s understandable territory for a young band), The Horror felt fresher and wielded more of the band’s own ideas.
Roughly a year and half has passed between the release of The Horror and the band’s new LP Imps of Perversion, and in that time Pop. 1280 have come up with their best long form statement yet. Engineered by Martin Bisi, who’s previously worked with both Swans and Cop Shoot Cop, Imps of Perversion is not only their most impressive record in terms of production assurance, that keyboard/synth element blended into their pummeling attack with maximum effectiveness, it’s also their biggest in terms of pure scope.
While melodiousness ain’t exactly Pop. 1280’s bag, opener “Lights Out” does show that noise rock and strong songwriting don’t have to be oil and water. And vocalist Chris Bug is as extroverted as ever, but his approach has become smarter. He often rides the music’s crescendos and is less prone to going over the top.
That’s not to say he’s mellowed. The next track “The Control Freak” is a showcase for the band’s increasingly massive handle on dynamics, a sort of post-no-wave stomp if you will, and Bug spits out an angry lungful in tandem. Through savvy production, the first minute and a half of “Population Control” sounds like an extremely loud and agitated band practicing in a neighboring apartment. Then they break through the thin wall, the music’s clarity increasing and bringing with it an ominous robotic glaze that brought back some nice memories of Six Finger Satellite.
But Imps of Perversion’s first three songs are but a framework for the album’s seven minute tour de force “Nailhouse.” Bug paints an extremely bleak narrative picture in the first half of the track as the band lays down an appropriately vicious musical bed. And in the second, as the singer continues to unfurl his tale, the tension in the music increases and then gives way to a spectacularly vicious release.
Finely tuned to diamond toughness, “Nailhouse” is perhaps comparable to an American post-hardcore take on The Birthday Party at their most vicious. A person can almost imagine Lydia Lunch nodding her noggin in approval. And from here, Imps of Perversion hardly registers a letdown, though even in its 10-song LP configuration (there’s a digital bonus track, for those interested) it does run a bit long.
Smartly though, the record’s next series of tracks find the band getting down to business rather succinctly. Of the four I’m most struck by the scathing heft of “Do the Anglerfish” and the almost horror-rock swagger of “Coma Baby.” But again, I’m quite happy with how they’ve managed to combine that keyboard/synth element into the overall stew in a way that actually feels natural rather than grafted onto the heft of their assault, and the album’s midsection shows off this development very well.
“Human Probe” extends to five and a half minutes, and is the main culprit in Imps of Perversion’s slightly excessive length. But taken on its own the song is just fine, finding Pop. 1280 building to another harried conclusion. LP closer “Riding Shotgun” is also the disc’s most reserved number, driven mainly through electric guitar strum and Bug’s vocals, though the singer’s dark vision is still front and center.
Some may wonder what all this nastiness and abrasion is good for, but like the writer who inspired their name, this is a band working in a well-defined genre tradition. Both tell stories of a vicious existence that most of us are very fortunate to not know by firsthand experience. And similar to Thompson (and for that matter, most noted genre specialists), Pop. 1280 didn’t instantly commence to knocking out masterpieces.
Through the hard work of failure and improvement, Jim Thompson eventually produced a handful of amazing and formidable gifts of modern literature. They still have some work to do, but Imps of Perversion shows that the same scenario is in the cards for Pop. 1280.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
