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Free Kitten
Inherit
(Ecstatic Peace, 2008)
If the average lifespan of a cat in the US is 15-17 years, then this Kitten is roughly a Golden Girl. Although, as felines tend to spend roughly two-thirds of their lives sleeping, it’s just as true to form that the indie art-punk supergroup hasn’t put out an album in nearly 11 years. That aside, Kim Gordon, Pussy Galore’s Julie Cafritz, and Yoshimi of the Boredoms are obviously busy people. We’re lucky that they were able to collaborate and create this album, or any album at all, which is not just an expression; truly, we are lucky.
Or damned, depending on how you look at it. It takes some serious qualms and negative truths to fuel a Free Kitten record. Not that their records only come about when these things are in abundance, as if they simply cease to be in the interim; it’s just that nobody chooses and channels their gnashed teeth quite like Free Kitten. Their music is dissonant, often angry, and always point blank in its expression of certain menacing undercurrents in the modern experience, especially that of women. Yet they’re also far too adroit, assertive, and at times esoteric to be pigeonholed as tapping into any particular or even generalized “plight,” as not only is there plenty of real beauty and concord, but that word has been subjugated into any number of platitudes regarding our dominant (male) society’s malevolent habit of suppressing anything other than itself. Rather, Free Kitten rock more as an objective matter of fact. Objective, in that there’s a wall between it and you, but only if and when their passion sees fit to have it there. Fact, because their expression doesn’t seem to be about wielding influence or exacting change. It’s retributive at times, though at other times just an aesthetically entrenched and knotted observation. Free Kitten shines their UVs, as it were, to expose the invisible ink of our subconscious societal prison tattoos, among other unfortunate stains.
Inherit is both aggressive and aloof. It’s neither the most congenial listening experience, nor is it constantly an affront, nor does it care. Rhythms are unhurried and sometimes welcomingly imperfect, and though songs drift frequently into exploratory sonic meditations that would deter the average pop listener, they generally remain more “rock” than “experimental.” Its most confrontational moments are also among its most forcefully melodic, such as the rewardingly belligerent punk march of “Bananas”, which stomps like an elephant, spits like a camel, and cuts like a knife (and features auxiliary drums by J. Mascis). The schizo-claustrophobic “Help Me” serves as well to amp up a shade of barrier anxiety/gridlock hostility in a context that functions both literally and metaphorically, either way rippling the entire running order with its threat of meltdown. These two numbers tower poignantly enough as to underscore the album’s more peaceful moments with a latency of potential aggression, yet those peaceful moments do exist, and do succeed in tempering the stew with their greater depth and/or detachment, and even prettiness.
The cartographic, 11-and-a-half minute “Monster Eye” plots a mostly delicious noisescape, for example, drifting in and out of structure and eventually settling into focus on a Kim Gordon oration describing an on-stage performance of noise-rock guitar lust. The verbal, literary treatment of a noise-rock scene delivered in the midst of an actual exploratory noise-rock song is likely directly correlative to Gordon’s appreciation of Jonathon Lethem’s indie rock novel
You Don’t Love Me Yet, in which a fictitious rock band, poised for fame in the early ‘90s, writes a song called “Monster Eyes.” Lethem publicly invited any actual band to spin the snippets of lyrics in the book and on his website into actual songs, free of licensing fees (Lethem is an outspoken critic of our problematic copyright laws). Gordon’s vocals for the first eight minutes are so bathed in reverb and buried by guitars that it’s impossible to determine if this extended feedback whirlpool is Free Kitten’s take on the fictional hit, though the album credits make no mention of Lethem at all, so it’s probably just a nod. Either way, it’s an effective example of Free Kitten’s loaded art. Without knowing Gordon’s tastes or being a Lethem reader yourself, the most obvious assumption is that her narration is some kind of sweet celebration of the work of her hubby Thurston Moore, though really it’s an art containing an art that imitates art that imitates life—Kim Gordon’s life, of creating such art, as it happens.
“Uh… Yeah!,” we might be tempted then to say, “And besides, Free Kitten’s never sweet!” But that, too, would be a bit wrong. “Seasick” is a love song, full of strong characters and melodic, fuzz-laden guitars, and it is sweet. It winds down with heartbreak, spurn, and sour grapes, so maybe it’s only bittersweet, but there’s still that element of sweetness. Regardless, whether in acrimony or in defense of tenderness, the fists of
Inherit are balled with complexity and hang poised at the ready to smash one sheet of glass or another. It’s up to the listener to determine if that glass is a window or a mirror, though either way, it’s definitely worth looking into.
Listen: Various Tracks [at ecstaticpeace.com]