Caught in the Carousel

The Coathangers

The Coathangers
Rob's House Records

There’s no sugar coating on this medicine, and it ain’t no cherry-flavored Ludens neither: the self-titled full-length album by experimental post-punk quartet The Coathangers is raw and throaty and above all, unabashed. The opening sound byte asks, “Why this record?” And the rest of the tracks provide the unequivocal answer: why not?! It’s no mystery why these ladies have instant appeal, and the ingredients are as blunt as the song titles. The secret sauce is as follows: sass, spunk, squeals, screams, shrieks, and most importantly, she-power. Perhaps the novelty and humor of crass cuts like “Tonya Harding” and “Shut the Fuck Up” might lure the listener in, just for kicks. But the tirade that ensues is anything but bubblegum-pop fluff. Sucks to be you if you’re a hater (“Haterade”), a botox-injector or a pill-popper (“Buckhead Betty”), a cheater (“Parcheezzi”), a boyfriend-stealer (“Don’t Touch My Shit!”), or heaven forbid, a male (take your pick). Clearly, despite the cheeky invitation of a hilariously clever track called “Nestle in My Boobies,” tools and boytoys need not apply for fear of getting slapped or having all your belongings tossed on the lawn (see “Where the Hell Were You?”). So why is it that, being a guy, I still love this record despite its not-for-the-likes-of-you attitude? Simply put, the album is equal parts feminist and fun; it punches below the belt, but this spectator-sport party-in-a-box is still undeniably infectious. Most all the tracks share a few trademarks: lo-fi, no-dub chords, toy-store synth sounds, and a call-and-response chorus that builds to a frenzy. Spliced in between a few of the songs are ironic samples about exercises for women, solidifying the album’s critique of objectification. The standout on the record is “Wreckless Boy”; with its catchy guitar riff and its cheerleader-style backup vocals, it almost sounds like Toni Basil meets Beastie Boys. Also, “Parking Lot” teases with its potentially pop-sounding and melodic strum, but at heart it’s a fist-pumping, foot-stomping challenge. What I admire most about The Coathangers is that it never apologizes. There’s no underwear and no shame in this Eve’s game, but if you’re Adam, you’d better run for cover.

—Mark Cabasino