Pitchfork

In an attempt to break away from the longish, often epic Pitchfork review, I believe I've come upon a technical solution. See, we Pitchforkians aim to please everyone-- especially the Attention Deficit Disordered types that have trouble reading anything longer a want-ad. So, since writing short, concise reviews is virtually impossible for me, I've been experimenting with a new word/idea condensation computer program, wherein the average 600-word Pitchfork review can be, with the touch of a button, automatically condensed into a single paragraph. In fact, I experimented with this program on my original 3,300-word review of H. Chinaski's Smaller Sized Jar with an Idea, and came up with this result:

"Drums, drums, drums. Stormy ride cymbal wash with occasional mighty crashes. Stop. Start. Stop. Lurch. David Pajo playing angular air guitar in 8th grade algebra class. Time signatures shift, pants drop, no underwear. Verse vocals soft. Chorus hellish screams. Ouch. Angry humorless vocals go 'Grrraaahrrr!' Rhythm guitar. Rhythm guitar. Quiet, loud, quiet, loud. Meet the Slintstones, Rodan vs. Son of Rodan. Lead singer with gravely Kurt Cobain rasp. Nirvana meets June of 44-- genius marketing concept. Song "Jary" possibly math-rock version of "Rocky Mountain High." CD good? Kind of. Don't buy, except maybe used. Or if CD given out free for promotional purposes, gladly accept. Thanks, buh-bye."

Okay, well, that review condenser is still in the works. Eventually, I'd like it to whittle each review down to only one or two syllables. If that doesn't cut it, then it's on to reviewing CDs in nautical semaphore.

Meanwhile, back to the traditional tried-and-true "song highlight" reviewing method. "Red Cars," I'd say, is your typical H. Chinaski song. It tackles the urgent subject of suburban conformity. The song is swept along by a nervous, jittery rhythm guitar figure during the verse, with the portentous rumble of diminished doom-chords signaling the imminence of the chorus and frontman Andrew Johnston's marrow-freezing screams: "Everybody's driving red cars!" he yells, in a voice wracked with existential pain and suburban suffering. Why not just change those lyrics to, "Here's your freakin' chorus, maaaaan!"

H. Chinaski does have the ability to make noticeable augmentations, however small, on an otherwise all-too-familiar sound. Sure, they're obvious and derivative, too. But these guys at least distinguish themselves, to some degree, from the scads of other indie bands trying in vain to build upon the influence of Slint, June of 44 and Rodan. Nevertheless, I think you have a good idea as to what this band sounds like.

But, hey, why not tone down all that gratuitous fucking screeching? Just because your heroes did it doesn't mean you have to. Getting your point across doesn't have to mean defaulting to predictable formulae (i.e., the low-key verse trundling along, segueing into the same crashing, headache- inducing chorus). This approach has been abused by too many a green indie rocker still reeling from Rodan's Rusty, and Lou Barlow on Sebadoh III screaming, "Blood on the walls! Blood on the walls!" Decent album overall, but it certainly has its problems. Penalized 1.0 for lack of voice-control.