Bein the peerless & classifiably unclassifiable defender of truth & justice that I am, sometimes them duties take me outta the loop as the Last Word Commander here at Siltblog. And as a consequence, a feller (that's me) get's behind on some hummers what slipped through the cracks've time. What can I say? Intelligence, deception, coercion, eradication....they's all come w/a price. While's you's is gluggin down 12$ IPA's & stuffin yer maw w/pickled pork belly confections, it's me what's out there makin sure it's gettin done w/o havin to fork over Yuans for the privilege. Do we understand each other, comrade? There was a time when the phrase 'kickin asses & takin names' was my trademark. But lately thems last parts is too hard to pronounce. So now I's just stick to the beginnin. Think of it as minimal PSYOP. And it don't never go 'out of print'.
But enough about your shortcomings. I's is happier than a Grackle w/a Cheeto to be back on the writin front again! And by the looks of this pile left for me by the ding-dong in charge, I's got some catchin up to do. But where to start? It's been damn near a yr since I took up the task & even longer since I's been here to Phila. Some've what's been shortlisted ain't in no way current, but that don't mean they ain't bearin essential whatsis. With so much cloggin up the landscape, it's easy what to get lost in the sauce ('Speak for yourself, you sotted swine'! Capt'n Siltbreeze). So's as I sit down to some mind rummagin, it only seems fair to invest two cents 'n tackle one of the lost pearls I was brayin about earlier. Cause if I's don't who will? As the old adage goes, "a locked door only hides what you truly want". Which is how I's has come to feel about this latest Little Claw lp, 'Human Taste' what's practically 3 yrs've age now.
And that's okay. It ain't like it can't be found. Or so one would assume. Sure, it may not be on any distro's shortlist no more, but records & bands like this, that's how it plays out. That part've the story is OLD. Hell, I's is reminded of a similar situation w/a band called Toiling Midgets & they's debut lp 'Sea Of Unrest'. Great lp, terrific band, pretty much zero buzz & as a result, that lp languished in bins for yrs, unheard. But the beauty of that was for those've us what knew, it made it possible to grab copies as they popped up 'n lay'em on those what was ripe but unfamiliar. Some records ain't never gonna bear the torch've the populus, but that don't mean they don't smolder ad infinitum. You know what? Forever is a long time! Which is to say like 'Sea Of Unrest', Little Claw's 'Human Taste' has that singular good-talkin-to-it allure & as such, pulses w/the flame of the eternal fire. What's even more to the core of this narrative is the perseverance of the band since inception. I weren't around for their genesis, but I's have come to corral'em in w/the lot of US bands what started rockin bones around 2005 or so & met w/a modicum of success (read; advancement to larger labels) or quixotic hype ("Shit Gaze", anyone?). Little Claw's scabrous debut landed them on a hip imprint for the followup but it weren't so easy to locate. Said imprint not only suffered from surreptitious distribution but also a seemingly aloof disdain for the band. Which is ironic as 'Spit & Squalor Swallow The Snow' notched the one, great matrix that label'd produced in the past decade. But wait, stop press! In their infinite erraticism, la label decided to pony up for a 3rd release, but only on the loathsome compact disc format. So the call went out for a vinyl midwife. And thus 'Human Taste' saw phonographic life via Not Not Fun. Say what you want (or nothing at all), but even a blind pig finds a truffle on occasion. And what a tuber this is to behold! What's immediately strikin to me on here was how the vocalist seemed possessed by the sorcery of Gerbert d'Aurallic (that's Pope Sylvester II to you), castin ragged word spells 'n lyrical malfeasance as though imbued w/a brazen head. The guitars rake 'n howl w/a certain Manchunian comeuppance that roots around in the attic of my noggin w/the same formidable swagger once reserved for God's Gift. And that batterie! It's like an army of tubbers what've clattered out a code've opaque percussive semaphores, ones what feed exclusively off've the primal dash've 'Smooth Sick Lights' 'n 'White Light, White Heat'. It ain't the feel good album of the year. Unless you didn't come for no hugs. What it is is a teemin, solid mass've unbridled catharsis, destined to be seared into the rare, dedicated margins housing only the a-list of the underground's most vexing masterworks. There, alongside such stellar tenants as (the aforementioned) 'Sea Of Unrest', 'Bad Pieces Seen Delivering the Foretold Conclusion Spin All When After Consumate Pieces Open' or 'Thirteen Thirteen' it shall exist in splendorous shadows biding it's time, waiting for the diggers've the future to mine the gems of the past. An just so's you know, right now ain't too early to start snortin. The thing one must be aware of when they's what's out in front is to bring a coat. It gets cold waitin for others to catch up. In point've this fact, 'Human Taste' is covered in fur & happy to let it fly. So what're you's waitin for? There's worse ways to waste your time than lookin here;
http://www.fusetronsound.com/
