WALL - WALL EP

Pitchfork 69

So far, there's not much to know about New York four-piece WALL. Bassist Elizabeth Skadden was in Finally Punk, guitarist Vince McClelland in Keepsies. Singer/guitarist Sam York has modeled for Terry Richardson. Wharf Cat is releasing their self-titled debut EP, which was produced by Parquet Courts' Austin Brown. They have given no interviews and maintain no social media profiles—just a single monochrome homepage. Maybe they're being secretive in that faintly annoying blogs-circa-2010 fashion, but maybe it's just that they're brand new. May the period that they're not beholden to the Internet and being asked crap questions about being girls (and one boy) in a band last as long as possible.

The context for their music, however, suggests itself immediately—a tarnished, shouty clangor that recalls Mission of Burma, Wire circa Pink Flag, Pylon, and an extremely misanthropic B-52s, all anchored by Vanessa Gomez's brisk drumming. York's lyrics often tackle the false identities necessary to survive 21st century New York, and it's hard not to hear a new band making this kind of crucible-forged post-punk as its own kind of costume: Is slavish adherence to a 30-year-old template really the best way to rail against the expectations of the modern age? That aside, WALL are innovative students.

For one, they're funny: "Big black suits dressed as little white lies/ Fresh baked bread keeps the pigs well fed," York blares on "Cuban Cigars," a jab at the whelps of Wall Street. A few verses later, she abandons her severe incantations for a mocking sing-song that evokes Kathleen Hanna. Her delivery on closer "Milk," a smokier song than its brittle predecessors, echoes Kim Gordon's soft disaffection as she observes how, "The sky opened up/ Milk poured out." That is, until the kicker, where she sounds like Mark E. Smith after a few hours on Tumblr. "Two-thousand feline mistresses!/ Laying all over the cobblestone!"

The appearance of these insubordinate sunbathing animals in the lyrics fits the absurdist streak that gives the EP much of its appeal, though its most exciting moment comes as York succumbs to the city's pressures. "Fit the Part" finds her flitting between the different roles she plays throughout the course of the day, and as the pressure mounts, so does the pace; from a stiff, spidery lumber to a rushed run-on, and a flooring white-hot tirade of panic and empty self-assurances. "My blood's the same I know it is/ Just the exterior changes/ Shedding layers as I race to the next task/ Looking in the mirror to the face of a stranger/ Know the heart but not the face and I/ Gotta fit the part/ Gotta fit the part to get the part," York rattles off, as if trying to grab hold of a lightning bolt.

If where WALL are coming from is entirely apparent, where they're going isn't, thanks to these adrenaline surges and hectic rhythmic swerves. There's no color to their music, and little fluidity, yet in their intense fits and starts, they develop a compelling effect that has the magnetism of good melody, even in its near-total absence. "Last Date" is the simplest song here—another tirade of words so staccato that it's hard to discern the lyrics about being crushed by the weight of someone else. While the guitar is high and insistent, York and Skadden sing in sour, mismatched harmonies. Without really altering their resolutely monotone delivery, they seem to burrow deeper into the earth. In tricks like these, WALL wriggle out from the under the weight of history.