I knew I was going to fall in love with Curse Purse’s self-titled effort, but I’ve felt that way about a lot of so-called ‘super groups’ and been left wanting and wasted (remember Swan Lake? Metallic Falcons were good though). But man as soon as the needle hit the one-sided wax, BOOM MOTHA FUCKA, I knew I was in good hands, my brains being mangled by human-sized maggots named Ted Lee, Miss Olivia Kennett, and Matt Robidoux. My vote for Best Cut comes courtesy opening track “Message CP,” a SICK rendering of what sounds like strings mauling AIDS-stricken guitars (too soon?) in a depraved update on the Rapider Than Horsepower/early-mid-period Beefheart tip (or beeftip, if you will), with a sheet of noise plopped on top like a corroded cloud cover. I hear this track and instantly want to fuck something. It could take me years to fully figure out this message, sort of like Tim Buckley’s “Lorca” or somethin’, but somehow the immediate appeal missing from the former is here in spades. Maybe I’m just fucked up? Moving on, “Crepe Paper” has convinced me that there are no strings involved in this music massacre, and it’s also persuaded me to believe in Curse Purse as more than a post-no wave noise-squelch outfit, as this song is quite lovely in an Amps Of Christ fashion before (d)evolving into more of the scree I’ve been warning you about. For the record (and this IS a record), I’d love it if they’d explore trading off vocals, as they do on “Stare,” more in the future. I’m going to level with you: There are a lot of ways to spend your music dollar these days. Avoid the expensive reissues of the older stuff; you can find old Stones LPs (scuffed, but all the better) for cheap at garage sales and antique shops (though the latter now know vinyl is ‘in’ and will gouge you). Instead, focus on getting audio you can’t find anywhere else whose limited quantities you soon will miss out on forever. Get it? This is Doctor Gumshoe, signing off.
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