That being said, Iceage is arrogant and irritable and fearless in their fashionable antipathy (Comme des Garçons, man. Comme des Garçons) so despite their lack of immediate ability, they’re pretty fucking great.
Not great, maybe, but certainly punk as fuck.
And when I say “punk,” I mean punk like punk as in the modern cache of nihilists playing up the downed Penny Pretty misery like a cudgel to the knees of hope and charm and inclusive pretense of the freaks, faggots, drunks and junkies once making such a gloriously unsettled mess of the pain scene (I still miss you, GG) while still claiming mine rights to the lives and lifestyles that imploded hopelessly or had babies and babies and Hep C.
Oh, man. Here I go again confusing music with mixed memories…
I’d say that’s inexcusable if what Iceage was doing with their new glum dumpster, Playing into the Fields of Love weren’t harping on every pastiche I held high if not dear from Wire to Lydia Lunch getting face-fucked by Foetus to the post-teen angst of Generation Omega’s line drawing race run muddled and amok.
Besides, I kind of love it.
I say that begrudgingly. Iceage has been a hype band since they were just dumb thrumping kettle kids ripping terse blood and wreckage with blades for sale and the honor of Dais but all the tastemakers are right to drool because this band remains the perfect recess for the queue.
Doom darlings, spent large and held lively by youth.
So, no, they’re not good but they’re NOW! aren’t they? And NOW! is a stain. NOW! is a curse. NOW! is a maudlin exploitation of worth and as much as I yearn to reject it in favor of bygone leather benders, Plowing into the Fields of Love is the NOW! writ large and relentless.