There was that police chap recently, who avoided a whopping speeding fine for doing about two-thirds the speed of sound through a built up area after dark in an unmarked car. Citing, in his defense, that he was merely familiarizing himself with the inbuilt hyper warp drive or something, he claimed he was, ergo, acting responsibly. And maybe he was. If that’s the case then maybe we can assume that Corin Tucker is doing a similar thing on behalf of the entire human race’s larynx, under controlled conditions, so you don’t have to. Because you’d only end up on the wrong side of the magistrate’s hammer. Or mute.
And the conclusions? That even with impressive miles on the clock the human voice can, in the right hands, be capable of stretching itself into unnaturally terrifyingly, acute shapes capable of taking the eye of an unawares man clean out. Despite minor changes in style, gradual developments and natural shifts over the years, which are to be expected of any band this far down its life-line and worth its salt, Sleater Kinney have remained staggeringly on form.
As a unit they still feed, bounce and thrive off each other with a genuine delight, that is evident all the way through seventh album ‘The Woods’, forming a united front practically unmatched by any other band. Their strength, like a particularly tenacious liquor, is intoxicating even before ingested. But beyond this unparalleled technique it’s their vibrant, don’t-suffer-fools songwriting that has really carried them so far, out-striding the limitations of the Riot Grrrl scene. This album then stands as solid testament to the Sleater Kinney we know.
But by that same chalk it’s not identical to anything we’ve heard before, though the intensely thrilling single ‘Entertain’ is certainly a calling card. There’s a dirty, up close and personal sound here. The dueling razor-riffs of albums gone by give way to a muddier, though no less decisive sound. Carrie and Corin’s vocals, if anything, have to battle harder to do battle, on songs like ‘The Fox’ and 11 minute impassioned assault course ‘Let’s Call It Love’. But do battle they do, working up against and around each other with the usual glory, like peacocks in crash helmets, tail feathers extended resplendently. These days though they also find great strength in subtlety, evident in the fluttering voices of ‘Jumpers’ and the surprising alt-REM fest ‘Modern Girl’.
Several albums down the line, in terms of age (as in numbers written on a page) they might be getting on a bit, but if you see them coming it would still be advisable to get the merry hell out of the way. And that includes you, Karen O.