I'll never forget the first time I saw Don Cab. It was at North Carolina's Cat's Cradle, just before one of their many break-ups, in the year 2000. They were touring as a trio (drummer Damon Che, guitarist Ian Williams, and bassist Eric Emm) supporting American Don. I was mesmerized; it seemed impossible that so much sound was coming from three people. Williams and Emm used looping pedals to build swaying house-of-cards melodies. Che's cubist rhythms were utterly enveloping. In the moribund days of Chicago math-rock, Don Cab reviled and revivified the genre at the same time.
On the other hand, I've all but forgotten the second time I saw Don Cab. It must have been between 2003 and 2006, when Che had reformed the band with all new members. Math-rock was definitively obsolete, and Don Cab could neither escape it nor rejuvenate it. Their careening riffs and multi-jointed meters sounded directionless and uninspired. At the time, I thought maybe I'd changed. Or maybe it was the absence of those lush, swelling loops. All of that was probably true, but their latest album, Punkgasm, makes me think there was more to it.
American Don was so great because it didn't thrive on complexity alone. What awed me about that show, as much as intricacy, was the intense emotion that suffused it. The personal tension between Che and Williams created a sense of massive forces at odds. Punkgasm (which features Che, bassist Jason Jouver, and guitarist Gene Doyle) still bears the group's superficial hallmarks-- virtuosic playing, inventive drumming evocative of jazz, and absurdist songs titles like "The Irrespective Dick Area" and "Why Is the Couch Always Wet?". Yet it has a hollow ring. Absent the alchemy between Che and his contentious collaborator Williams, Punkgasm sounds like prime Don Cab the way that Nescafé tastes like coffee.
A few tracks feature inconsequential vocals from Che and Doyle, and the title track, a punky blast, finds Che on guitar and Doyle on drums. But for the most part, this is an instrumental rock album, and diehard fans of the genre-- people who read gear magazines and have a high regard for technically proficient pastiche-- will find plenty to enjoy. "Loudest Shop Vac in the World" seamlessly integrates sections of taut funk, gleaming post-rock, and blistering metal. Unfortunately, metal is Don Cab's least interesting mode, and it threatens to overtake the album entirely. "Bulk Eye" starts off promisingly, unfurling a menacing lead, but soon devolves into bludgeoning riffage; many other tracks follow suit.
The frustrating part is that you can hear snatches of inspiration getting swallowed up by the guitar heroics: The chiming home stretch of "Awe Man That's Jive Skip" sounds like a bit of Steve Reich dropped into a Slint song, and the languid strains of "Who's a Puppy Cat" provide a welcome respite from excessive gnarliness. Even "Shit Kids Galore", a deceptively simple one-minute drum solo, is more interesting than fleshed-out songs like "Pour You Into the Rug", a squealing anthem that sounds lifted from Tortoise's Standards. People who expect more than expertise and bombast from Don Cab will have to either cling to these moments of idiosyncrasy and vision, or turn back to American Don, when Che had collaborators who exasperated and inspired him in equal measure.
