Pitchfork

With Pitchfork, as with any other cooperative effort, there's a general trust that each writer will do his or her best to act for the benefit of the others, in order to promote our continued, collective well-being. Just like baseball, or an orgy, or the army. Usually, it doesn't require much more than watching each other's backs and covering the music about which enquiring minds want to know. But sometimes, for the greater good, one of us has to take a hit for the team.

So...

Did you guys and gals like Elephant? Didja? I did, as I have most of the Stripes' albums, and I'll bet a lot of you share that sentiment-- Whirlwind Heat are counting on it. If it weren't for Jack White's perplexing cachet as crossover-darling-of-the-moment, I doubt anyone could've voodooed V2 into spewing forth Do Rabbits Wonder?. In a just world, the dismal aggregation of Moog-funk chaos collected on the debut LP of White's fellow Michiganites couldn't see rotation in a trash heap, let alone airtime on M2 (I'll leave it on you to decide the degree of separation there). But everyday, something-- be it venereal disease, or Republicans, or Nelly-- goes out of its way to prove once again that life ain't fair, and it ain't getting any fairer. Consequently, as the debut signees for Jack's Third Man imprint, and with V2's backing, and if everyone takes leave of their senses long enough to buy just one more album... well, it's all too easy to see how Whirlwind Heat is poised as a Next Big Thing on the cusp of the burgeoning art-punk uprising.

It's mind-boggling that such sloppily arranged, barely listenable stuff is getting this kind of attention, but that's celebrity for you. In fact, Rolling Stone, as part of their apparent ongoing crusade to devour the public's collective sensibilities from the inside-out, has called Whirlwind Heat this generation's Devo. Did I miss some kind of election? Forget for a moment that a 'Stone endorsement seems more like sloppy seconds for anything that has the name "Jack White" stapled to it-- it's statements like this that cause brain hemorrhages. Is this supposed to be a good thing? To paraphrase Moses Hadas, the demise of Devo left a much-needed gap; even if painfully affected vocals, incompetent Moogery, and excruciating "quirkiness" are all it takes to fill that void, Whirlwind Heat are still nothing but an unfunny punchline to the joke Devo started back in '72.

But they can't even hope for that much; Devo at least had a brain. Instead, Heat follows thoughtlessly in the footsteps of their betters on the dancepunk gravy train, piecing together similar fragments left in the ruinous wake of the post-punk/no wave aftermath. Erratic, bass-dominated rock with an ear toward shaking your ass (sometimes), punctuated with a little electronic dissonance to complete the outfit-- everything's in its proper place, but somehow it goes horribly awry. The Rapture, Giddy Motors, or the tragic brilliance of Brainiac-- the modern masters of the form know how to unveil cohesion, complexity, and even the odd melody out of apparent cacophony; meanwhile, David Swanson is so helpless with his keyboard I'm curious why he even bothers plugging it in. He caterwauls away, stabbing keys on a whim, presumably counting on some magical melody fairy to come save him. (She refuses.)

Worst of all-- I mean, aside from the extra-strength dumb of this record's koan-esque title-- Swanson's spasmodic Moog is the album's attempted "hook." Oh my. Along with his yelping falsetto, the two most notable elements of Whirlwind Heat do nothing but smash anything that resembles a song, or organization, or the happiness of the listener. On "Brown" or "Black", Swanson is in a tolerable speak'n'sing mode, but can't go a full sentence without nastily spiking his voice into a range that shoots for "tenor" and hits "what the fuck was that"; elsewhere, on cuts like "Pink", he never shuts up. He warbles through lines as laughable as, "Like a trash bag helmet," operating in some sort of alien pseudo-rhythm that's nine-times-out-of-ten totally oblivious to the rest of the song. But, hey, y'know, it's quirky! Yeah, quirky like a seizure. That, and the gimmicky electronic squalls (see "Blue"), are damaging enough to turn even the most intriguing bass/drum dynamics into soup.

And that's no mean feat, either, since the carefully hidden strength of Whirlwind Heat is that they possess some of the filthiest, sleaziest basslines in town. When Brad Holland uses his percussive powers for good (instead of making his kickdrum the object of random violence) and falls in sync with the amped-up raunch of Steve Damstra's fuzz bass, the two can lay down quite an onslaught. Damstra's bass even pulls double-duty, carrying what little melody exists in the album in the absence of guitars. But it doesn't make any difference; pointless fills and caught-in-a-bear-trap howling create an untenable schism between spine-cracking intensity and atonal mess.

If nothing else can be said in its favor, this is music that will instantly, violently polarize people: some folks' inner masochists may welcome it as an alternative to self-flagellation; personally, I'd rather take sandpaper across my corneas than sit through this thing again. As Swanson "sings" on "Orange", "This is a good day to die/ And this is a good day to whine/ And this is a good day to cry"; listen to Whirlwind Heat long enough, and I think you'll agree.