Pitchfork

Critics sometimes share a form of bloodlust. They relish tossing off stock terms like 'sophomoric' or 'infantile'-- they're after the amateur for whom all output is 'art,' little more than a child proud of its own shit. If that's the case, then Xiu Xiu have produced one of the most inviting piles of it I've ever heard-- a profusion of all things twisted, wrecked, corrupt and sour and terrified. All I want to do is dive in and roll around in its richness. Each track or Knife Play is like a rock song captured in a photo negative, with all the hidden details brought frighteningly to the fore. It's a debut clearly in the debt of post-punk, one that has cut up and contorted itself to fit into the few cracks that albums in the past haven't reached.

All this may be guessed from the infamous cover sticker, which reads: "When my mom died I listened to Henry Cowell, Joy Division, Detroit techno, the Smiths, Takemitsu, Sabbath, Gamelan, 'Black Angels' and Cecil Taylor." The quote comes from the group's enfant terrible, Jamie Stewart, and many who've bought the album for its influences aren't prepared for his tantrums. Though he cools down to a whisper later on, the first few songs shift without warning into strained cries, yelps and howls. I'll make my warning very clear: there will be hordes of people who will absolutely hate this album. They'll diss it for being too histrionic and pretentious, and maybe they'll even be right.

Stewart wants to shock you, of course. His vocals stage guerilla skirmishes, cowering back in thickets of sound before pelting out a wild yell. Admittedly, at times he reaches a level of unintentional self-parody. "Hives Hives" opens with an awesome squall of feedback, but soon the tense, rumbling drum crashes peak with Stewart pining, "A-I-D-S/ H-I-V/ I cannot wait to die, can't you tell, can't you tell, can't you tell?" It's pathetic to the point of banality, the height of clichéd angst. Hope comes only in sonic bombast-- one of the most gloriously nihilistic guitar solos I've heard in a while, a solid screed of stupid feedback firing measure after measure into nothingness.

Stewart is more than just a Reznorian miserabilist, though. In taking Xiu Xiu absolutely literally, people will miss their sense of humor. The drum machine on "I Broke Up (SJ)" patters manically forward until the rhythm splits in a hopeful burst: the keyboards swell like a Peter Gabriel ballad, then just as soon wilt and reveal some psychotic twin. Then the sudden scream: "THIS IS THE WORST VACATION EVER-- I'M GOING TO CUT OPEN YOUR FOREHEAD WITH A ROOFING SHINGLE!" "Anne Dong\xEE" proceeds with more subtlety: solemn, almost religious bells and other clanging sounds set the rhythm amid the soft drone of a saxophone. This long, slow dirge is capped off nonchalantly with a deadpan impression of a young Jarvis Cocker: "You're not coming to my birthday. Ohh, I know."

Despite these moments, Knife Play is deadly serious, an album for the mad and the ill, the suicidal and those near death. As such, with Xiu Xiu form fits function-- the songs warp aurally to match the anguish in the lyrics, drudge on in approximation of the doldrums, or just fizzle out in aborted contempt. "Don Diasco" opens with ar ornate gong pattern, signaling the band's classical ambitions. New Order synth-pads thump for a second and then cease, and Stewart's passionate breathiness reminds a little of Talk Talk's Mark Hollis. The brass figures at the beginning of "Luber" seem to have drifted away from Björk's "Aeroplane," but then the trumpet bleeds into aquatic synthesizers, leaving an aching feeling instead of the former's contentment.

I'm tempted to favor the strangest turns, as on the Thighpaulsandra-esque "Homonculus," where dissonant piano figures are obliterated by crunchy bass bombs. But the piece that seems to resonate with everyone the most is "Suha," a relatively straightforward ballad about a mother who is going to hang herself; it's stark enough to make you start eyeing your own wrists. The band admits that most of their material is directly autobiographical, and a dark, voyeuristic pleasure enters play when you realize that Stewart's addressing other band members in a few of the songs. That ability to marry oblique sounds and a sense of mystery to a sentimental, personal narrative makes these patchwork vignettes incredibly affecting, and it's no wonder that the disc scans as a bizarre love child of synth-pop, no wave and goth. So fuck your 'art damage' and your 'pathetic self-pity.' Intensity this overwhelming makes you reevaluate your opinion on what emotions music has the right to explore. Knife Play may have its weaknesses, but it's oddly cathartic to immerse yourself in, peeling back layer after layer.