Sightings - s/t
(Load)
Many attempts of questionable accuracy have been made to establish the musical progeny of New York City's late 70's no wave scene, and regardless of whether or not these claims ring true, it's interesting that of the cities these newer scenes center around (Chicago, Providence, San Diego, and Miami, for example), New York is rarely even mentioned. Since at least the mid-80's, the Big Apple hasn't had too much to offer in the way of no wave in either the revivalist poseur or aesthetically authentic variety, but Sightings, more than many bands who've worn "no wave" proudly on their sleeves, at least manages to evoke the feeling of NYC that No New York depicts.
Being a fairly strict critic of what truly deserves the no wave tag, I'm not going to go out on a limb and crown Sightings with the label, which they'd most likely refute, anyway. Sightings are all muscle, dispersing with the intellect that fueled the original no wave and the detached coolness that even a howling James Chance exuded. Instead, they erupt forth with a sound straight out of the garbage disposal, dripping with liquids of questionable origin, encrusted with week-old coffee grounds, and smelling like the sewers of their hometown on a hot August day. Injecting the searing electrical current of a guitar tone utilized by Mars with a shot of hairy-chested testosterone, Sightings wouldn't play Sumner Crane & Co. in a broadway musical based on the scene. Instead, they'd be the hooligans jeering at the musicians on the city's less reputable street corners, only with surprising experimental rock leanings.
After a 7" on Freedom From, Sightings' self-titled debut showcases a more centered focus and, though it seems like an oxymoron with their brutal yet simple songwriting, more thoughtful composition. Caterwauling sheets of guitar sizzle through the muck of the subsonic bass and drums while the unintelligibly screamed vocals flesh out the assault, which, unlike many albums that make the claim, is mastered at an excruciatingly high level. Predictably, the songs (and album) are short, and though anything more would surely be overkill, it's hard not to finish "Waiting at the Steakhouse," the album's closer, without a feeling of wanting something a bit more substantial to sink your teeth into. For all the well-crafted cacophony on the album (and the best parts of the album are well-crafted, regardless of what Sightings might say to preserve their primal, nihilistic reputations), there's a feeling that Sightings are still two parts brawn and one part brain. Sightings are getting closer to finding a superb synthesis between their uncouth noise barbarism and an underlying, crafty conceptualism, they might just get to wear that satin sash that says "no wave," as presented by yours truly. Until then, they've given us an album of sinus-clearing rock music that's still a hard-nosed kick in the pants.
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