Pitchfork

Is their name a play on the old scenester girl lament, "I'm not your coathanger"? This Atlanta quartet, as seen on tour with Marnie Stern and the Black Lips, is part of a proud heritage of Southern new wave like the B-52's and Pylon, with batcave keyboards, rock lobster guitars, and tons of heart-feasting vocals. The Coathangers also have a touch of early Slits' mischievous vocal interplay, as if they took "I pay fuckall," from "Shoplitfting" as a battle cry. One of their finest moments is "Don't Touch My Shit", from their just-released self-titled debut for Rob's House Records. Drums, bass, telephone, and hysterical vocals build like an internal monologue from a frustrated cube-dweller on "The Office". "I told yooou don't touch my papers, 'cause they're miiiiine," shriek the lyrics. This might be the finest (or only) use of phone banks as an instrument. Anyone who has ever been a receptionist would agree and would probably like to wear "Don't Touch My Shit" on a button or emblazoned on a coffee mug.