Pitchfork

Replay value is commonly accepted by music critics to be one of the primary qualities of a great record. By this logic, if you can't see yourself listening to an album, say, six months down the line, it may be a 'good' album you have on your hands, but not a great one, not transcendent, not a classic.

I have a problem with this yardstick because many of my favorite works of non-musical art have little 'replay value,' so to speak. Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev is probably my all-time favorite film, but I just don't have what it takes to watch it more than maybe once or twice a year. Likewise, Hans Holbein's painting The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb is one of the most affecting works of art I've ever seen. I have no doubt of its greatness, but it's not something I'd want hanging in my living room. I'm not saying that all art forms should be judged by the exact same criteria-- but why should replay value be so important when it comes to music? Sure, everyone wants the most mileage for their money, but isn't there something to be said for one-time-only (or so) art kicks?

With this question in mind, consider The Wigmaker in Eighteenth-Century Williamsburg from Miami-based sound-rapists To Live and Shave in L.A., a truly great album that, quite possibly, has less replay value than anything since Metal Machine Music, though the stakes with this release are considerably lower. If I ever put this double-disc set on again it's because I'm playing it for a curious friend, or I've sunk so deep into a bout with self-loathing that I want to cause irreparable damage to my nervous system.

The Wigmaker sounds as if, somehow, your stereo was broken in such a way that all the radio stations on the dial jumped through the speakers all at once. Jarring electronic squalls, squealing oscillators, bass rumbling like the earth shifting underfoot, and all imaginable sorts of computer-generated sound, found sound, and salvaged radio snippets pile up and stumble over each other, stopping and starting (nearly) at random.

Still, there are songs here, of sorts, albeit buried under a mountain of sonic debris. They bear brilliantly ridiculous titles like "Nor Swollen-Bellied Comet Blown", "New Poem Dramatized for Lux Cudgel", and "Is This Good for Vulva?". The lyrics, meanwhile, deal in psycho-sexuality, religious hallucinations and nightmarish flashbacks to A.P. American History class. Employing language that is purposefully stylized and mannered, it reads something like a perverse Lewis Carroll. Here's a sampling from "When My Rifle Went Sour with Preposterous Headdress": "Shit, the house was always Nazarin vibe, cuffs/ An unknown pinfold, fringe whore, licking its lips." Yeah, I'm mystified, too. But it makes no difference because you can't make out the words, anyway, what with all the racket going on and a vocal style that sounds like a deadpan version of Prince. All you know for sure is that whatever this guy is saying (his name is Tom Smith, by the way), he really, really means it, and this is his only way of saying it.

Which is exactly why The Wigmaker is a great album. It is totally convinced of its own necessity and is complete in its absurdity. From the perplexing cover art to its utterly indigestible length, there is no wink or nudge to suggest this is an elaborate put-on, no window left open to the real world. To Live and Shave in L.A., however, does declare this album "pre-"music, as distinguished from "post"-this-and-that subgenre classifications. And yes, it is an absolutely pretentious concept, but I admire Smith for making a bold claim and not pussyfooting around. Plus, true or not, it adds to his completeness and conviction. In a way, he's right: once you get past its admittedly high threshold (it took me about three or four attempts to build up the fortitude to make it through more than a few songs in a row), The Wigmaker does seem to take on a certain quality of necessity and "pre"-ness, though I'm not sure where one goes from there. Surely not back.