Pitchfork

Stockholm Syndrome-- that peculiar condition in which a captive grows to love and respect his captor-- is real, and if you're skeptical, you can experience it yourself with Oneida's Each One Teach One. A band with one the greatest, hokiest stage names in rock ties you up, stares you down, and works you over like Lennox Lewis pounding the heavy bag. After thirty minutes of tunneling, psychedelic 70s sludge (only the first of two discs), Oneida spits in your face, daring you to love them.

Each One Teach One goes right for the throat: the numbing, rusty buzz of "Sheets of Easter" is one of the least enticing ways I can imagine opening a record, yet somehow, after absorbing the full impact of this 14-minute onslaught, I realized I'd enjoyed myself. It's hard to recommend a relentlessly hypnotic slab of skull-crushing repetition, but "Sheets of Easter" is exactly the sort of ballsy move that makes so many love and respect Oneida. Churning guitars cycle a heart-stopping riff ad nauseam, but the effect is so mesmerizing, it's hard to fault the band for stealing a quarter-hour of my life away.

During "Antibiotics", the second and final track on disc one, Oneida sets the brain-blender from frappe to puree. It begins with a slick organ line courtesy of Fat Bobby, and seems to tout another sixteen minutes of intoxicating drone, but that catchy melody gives way, mutating in fractal order and deviating further and further from its set course. Guitars flare up, slightly off-cue, effects kick in unexpectedly, and the keyboard riff itself slithers into a different skin. From deep within the ever-changing swirl-- and just past the ten-minute mark-- an actual song emerges, but naturally, the shit hits the fan. What became solid for a moment soon collapses. There are no survivors.

The first disc is startlingly entertaining, given its repetitive nature, but its only real purpose is preparation-- an overblown effort to numb the listener's senses-- as without its tirades as contrast, disc two is terribly dull. Oneida has until now thrived on full-tilt sonic pandemonium, songs like "All Arounder", "Pure Light Invasion", and the hilarious, brilliant "Fat Bobby's Black Thumb", but somewhere between Anthem of the Moon and their latest, their signature aural riot has dispersed. Guitarist Papa Crazy and bassist Hanoi Jane have improved considerably, but that hurts more than it helps: they seem content to reproduce the pummeling assault of disc one, yet in their increased technical assurance, they lose the primal fury of old.

Disc two does hide a pair of choice cuts-- "Black Chamber" and "No Label"-- which benefit from Fat Bobby's swank organ and a killer bass roll. On the downside, they're stranded at the end of an otherwise monotonous set, and neither plays to the band's frantic strength. A handful of similarly decent tracks would have eliminated the need for a first disc of will-snapping indoctrination; Each One Teach One leads with a sucker-punch, and Oneida spend the rest of the album praying the superintendent breaks things up before everyone realizes they've forgotten how to fight.