Pop. 1280 – The Horror Pop. 1280 – The Horror

Pop. 1280 are a spaghetti nightmare of Bad Seed expulsions and New York fucking no how. They probably don’t like you. In fact, they’d probably be just fine with you dropping dead two minutes after finishing their fantastically rash full-length debut, The Horror, if it meant one less, cross-lipped shit standing between them and the surly, tattooed bartender who used to slip them morning whiskey on the free before Giuliani went and ruined everything by giving cops the right to issue “Quality of Life” summonses that all but killed any decent man/woman/trans/dog’s chance of living like they should in a town that used to run on dope and hate and wave after wave of counter-cultural sexcapades.

Fucking Disney.

I’d even go so far as to say that Pop. 1280 would kill you themselves (if there wasn’t such a Sam Hell chance of ending up in the pen alongside some thug-life dipshit talking “bitches” and “respect”) just to know what it’s like to enjoy the ultimate hate fuck.

Forget the pigs. Pop. 1280 are on some decidedly human shit.

And I fucking love it.

Because it’s been a long, lazy time since anybody sounded like the city that I love. Not the one that I currently live in, mind you. No. New York, these days, is for the rats, the tourists and the ad-rate birthers. The city I love is dirty, drunk and dark. It slinks by on it’s own filthy ecstasy. It heaves. It burns. It thrives. It died.

Actually, I’m not sure if Pop. 1280 (not my favorite Jim Thompson novel but any reference to the man sets my smoky heart aflutter) is more Bad Seeds or Birthday Party so let’s just say they know well the ominous scrapes and pulsations that gave Nick Cave license to be the most terrifying Australian frontman of the 80s and though Chris Bug (love it) doesn’t share the same affinity for shrieks and bellows (opting instead for a cool, careening dead man’s sneer) he does strike me as the vocalist most likely to drive his shitkickers straight through an eager fan’s teeth.

More than them though, more than any of the no-wave, no-fun, no more fucking around acts that make riding the subway with all the filth and cruelty of a Luc Sante love letter (Unwound, Big Black, Hot Snakes) dimly manageable, Pop. 1280 remind me of the deep, dark plodding of Cop Shoot Cop with their drum/bass fuck and thick writs of animal lust wrapped in a sooty veil of midnight metropolitan wonder.

Some might call it shame.

I think it’s sanctuary.

Pop. 1280 - The Horror, reviewed by Charles on 2012-02-10T04:13:35+00:00 rating 4.0 out of 5



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