"Saccharine
Trust Make L.A. Safe for Ugliness"
by Byron Coley
l.a. weekly April 30-May 6, 1982
There's a very persistent ugliness to
Saccharine Trust's sound. They initially displayed this surliness with a
series of cuts on three excellent local samplers (Cracks in the Sidewalk,
Chunks, and The Future Looks Bright) where their tracks stood out
due to the forceful top-end skritch of Jack Brewer's voice and the equally
high-pitched craw of Baiza's guitar. Behind this din the perceptive
listener was able to hear Earl Liberty go ape on bass (one string at a time)
while Bob Holtzman bellied around in the same kinda "flashy" tubwork that
make Maureen Tucker so rightfully famous. The overall effect was something
akin to a hyped-up South Bay Mekons and though prolonged immersion in their
collective works (collected by me, on cassette) invariably resulted in a Big
Bang style headache I eagerly awaited their official debut. The wait is
over. At most record shacks it is now possible to purchase their first EP,
Pagan Icons (SST Records).
With 8 songs on 12 inches of vinyl (3 cuts of
which were on Future), S.T. have precisely doubled their recorded
output and the world is a more anxious place for it. The band's basic sound
and personnel remain the same, but having all this material in one place at
one time (in the company of a lyric sheet par Raymond Pettibon) makes it
much easier to examine the sickness that lurks in their heart of hearts.
Anyone who's had access to the polluted acid that's been the rule for these
last ten years should have first hand knowledge of the genital constrictions
and burning nervousness associated with low level strychnine toxicity and
that particular feeling is, in many ways, the physical analog of S.T's
muse. Mr. Brewer's lyrics flip from contextually sophisticated stabs at
societal mores to wild hallucinogenic word-swarms that peck at your senses
and produce actual anxiety like a flock of Hitchcock's birds, while the band
backs him up inch after acerbic inch. Quite a diturbing listening
experience.
In summation: it's real hard to recommend a
record as thoroughly mordant as Pagan Icons, but it's equally difficult to
ignore the abrasive siren call that bellows from my speakers each time I
play it. As always, you're on your own.
