AIDS Wolf are more annoying than I ever thought they could be, and that’s the saving grace of Cities of Glass: It impinges so thoroughly upon my sense of what’s good and bad, right and wrong, dark and light, that all I can do is sit by helplessly as their lightning bolts of fiery dissonance jolt my system completely.
This is a HEAD-RAZING record that often sounds like:
- a mangled siren sounding off while a distraught woman screams bloody murder,
- two bass guitars thrown into a trash compactor while still plugged in,
- a pack of neon-purple, pixelated mega-wolves — complete with ring-wraith shrieks — chasing down a super-squeaky mouse-of-the-future (also neon purple),
- someone smelted a dozen Melt-Banana albums together, forming a giant shard of vinyl, climbed to the top of a skyscraper, and melted it down, letting the red-hot drops of wax hit innocent bystanders and recording their aghast reactions, or
- shit.
Strangely, SHIT never sounded so good. This is the point where AIDS Wolf truly find their chicken bone instead of snapping their jaws around old, spent carcasses. Cities of Glass doesn’t have to sit on the hype of AIDS Wolf’s many connections or their many instances of album-sleeve-art nudity. It stands on its own as a document of just how fucked-up things are getting in the realm of noise-rock.
In fact, there’s always the chance that, after listening to too-too much rock music, you’ll find it tough — post-AIDS Wolf — to go back across the imaginary line dividing the flocks of standard indie-rock outfits and the true spazzoids. But don’t worry — there’s plenty of room in the margins for all of us.
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