Pitchfork

The early 1980s bore witness to the infamous "Chinese Star Epidemic": somehow, grade schoolers across the country found themselves in abundance of the deadly Asiatic projectile, and, smitten with the anger bug, threw the stars at anyone and everyone within a Trapper Keeper's reach, thereby "terrorizing the psyche of the free world." Perhaps you remember attending-- or being responsible for-- your fourth grade history teacher Mr. Colin Jost's untimely funeral. More than likely, of course, you knew neither Mr. Jost nor this epidemic which Providence rockers The Chinese Stars, formed from ex-members of Arab on Radar and Six Finger Satellite, claim as their namesake; the only documentation of either's existence is on the band's website. There legitimately was, in 1980s China, a loose collective of radical artists known as The Chinese Stars, who subverted Mao's demand for political art by breaking from Chinese art tradition entirely, embracing more abstract Western modes, and reclaiming art for art's sake. If this band takes its name from any story, it's clearly this one, and yet, the band makes nary a mention of it. Which begs the question: are these guys fucking with us?

Yes, in every respect. Without even touching upon the music, it's clear that The Chinese Stars don't take no shit. Everything from the EP's scarce 14-minute length to the extravagant Chinese-star shape of the disc itself (undoubtedly incurring quite a cost to the modest Skin Graft label) is an enormous middle finger to standard music industry convention and simple cost efficiency. Like their nominal equivalents, The Chinese Stars agree to play by the industry's most basic rules, but beneath this appeasement is the most brilliant and passionate of sedition. Simply put, the Turbo Mattress EP is one of the most enjoyable and accessible fuck-yous from any musical act this year.

Turbo Mattress is home to a relentless barrage of dark and energetic disco-punk hooks and grooves reminiscent of Brooklyn's Liars if fronted by a spacy lunatic (spacier than Angus Andrews, I mean). "Sick Machine" defines the "balls-out opener," with guitarist Paul Vieira stabbing discordant lines atop drummer Craig Kureck's no-nonsense bashing. Vocalist Eric Paul's quirky high sing/speak, meanwhile, sports all the rhythmic intensity of Hot Hot Heat's Steve Bays or Luke Jenner of The Rapture, infusing the song with convincing urgency when he spouts off such impenetrable gems as "Don't forget to put that mouth into that pocket so we can maintain the evil of your diet." The cowbells, spastic drumming, and guitar screams of "Loose Traffic" comprise the breakneck velvet backdrop for even more theatrics, and my favorite Providence anti-platitude, "Your love tastes better with food stamps."

Only twelve minutes have passed by the time The Chinese Stars close with "The Fastest Horse Yet", a vaguely bluesy downtempo number about growing up in a glue factory and, fittingly, gambling on horse races. It's here, at their quirkiest, that the band differentiates themselves from other disco-punk acts: while they take part in the scene's signature edginess and angularity, they are also, in contrast, oddly compelling lyricists. It's a sign that this chimerical genre is making progress beyond its simple conflation of two musical traditions. As critics left and right announce the death of rock, this progress is very encouraging.