Sitting here, watching the clouds thicken and thinking of the poor Pitchforkers, one thinks — drought all summer, and rain today? It gets better, right? Kind of. You’ll be able to see A Place To Bury Strangers and Hollows indoors next week — when it will be ungodly tropical inside and out.
And A Place To Bury Strangers will be putting the screws to you, to boot. One man’s masochism is another man’s porn, and with Worship (Dead Oceans) — nay, the live presentaiton of Worship — the slavishly willing will convene for their collective abuse. The album does contain subtle twists and turns away from its predecessors, but at this point it’s like trying to decide which hurts least after a prison rape: your ass, your knees, or your septum. The title track and “Revenge” are worthy, ear-splitting additions to the APTBS canon, and enemies to hearing aids everywhere. (Tuesday@Empty Bottle with Hunters.)
It wasn’t terribly long ago that girl-group pop was at indie-pop’s vanguard, with a net cast wide enough to include the sweeping orchestral longing of Camera Obscura and the more plainly retro joy of The Pipettes. But something happened — maybe as a result of Phil Spector’s murder trial — and indie-rockers began hating on the sound, or at least trying to make us think that The Tammys were bigger than history recorded. Chicago-based Hollows fall on that tip, a noisy, lo-fi, unrefined punk rip on a classic style. Not that the organ-tinged Vulture doesn’t have its charms, but playing a pretty song prettily doesn’t have to mean you’re under male-dominated society’s thumb. If the Ramones could . . . (Tuesday@The Burlington with The Runnies, Running, and Potions.)
– Steve Forstneger
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