Pussy Galore

You either loved them or loathed them (some did both), but it was difficult to ignore the bawling, intentionally crude, anti-musicianship coughed up by Pussy Galore. A bunch of scuzzy-looking juveniles from Washington, D.C. -- their name coming from Honor Blackman's character in the James Bond film Goldfinger -- and led by a young punk rockin' bohemian hipster wannabe named Jon Spencer, Pussy Galore created an unholy metallic ruckus that was part serious avant-garde noise wail, part nonsense pose. Considering their limited skills, narcissistic tendencies, and drug-cult mythologizing, there is a sizable body of work from this band. The problem is that it's mostly hit-and-miss, which is a polite way of saying a little Pussy Galore goes a long way. A serious discussion of Pussy Galore's musical attributes must thoroughly ignore technical ability; they have none. Spencer and guitarists (no bass) Julia Cafritz and Neil Hagerty locked horns in a badly played riff-fest with ex-Sonic Youth drummer Bob Bert, sounding as if he's dropping pots and pans on the floor. Surprisingly, with all of their hip attitude and condescending, arty indifference, Pussy Galore was capable of creating some great trash rock. However, these moments were accidental, the byproduct of doing something long enough and eventually getting it right. Really the only difference between good Pussy Galore music and bad is that the latter is boring and the former is not -- that is unless you have an extremely high tolerance for low-rent nihilism. At their noisiest and most frantic (e.g., the two fine EPs, Groovy Hate Fuck and Sugarshit Sharp) there is a messy ebullience to this muck that undercuts their normal snotty, calculatedly offensive shtick. And they did have a sense of humor as they proved on their 1986...