Drama kids can confirm: The secret to a successful theater production is amplifying everything. From makeup to body movements, all elements must be exaggerated so that the last row sees every detail. In the world of hushed indie rock and disjointed pop, A Giant Dog of Austin, Tx. push themselves to expand upon that rule until they’re faulted for going too hard, too fast, too often. With Toy, their anthemic fourth album, A Giant Dog once again rob the 1970s of its garish delivery and refashions it within the pillars of modern punk, stretching farther than they ever have before.
While last year’s Pile dirtied itself in death themes, Toy tackles sex, and it jumps into the language of softcore porn after a well-timed countdown preps anticipation in “Get Away.” A Giant Dog aren’t concerned with typical depictions of love or relationships: Their gaudy, self-aware songs contain mounds of horny phrases so racy that frontwoman Sabrina Ellis was originally too embarrassed to read them out loud after penning them. “My vagina made of glass/But if you talk sweet/I’ll let you stick it in my past” is less about shock value for raunchinesses sake than it is punk (which itself began as an essentially asexual form) meant to normalize sexual desires. With an updated cover of Sparks’ “Angst in My Pants” or a line in “Bendover” like "I'm not a lover/I am a fight," A Giant Dog aim to dismantle the misogyny of rock’n’roll sex tropes. They reclaim S&M as a way to embrace the vulnerability that comes with power transferral, even if the lyrics could scan as reworked idioms dressed in makeup thanks to Ellis’ voice. There’s an earnesty to her brand of camp, and that juxtaposition turns her into a kind of Iggy Pop figure.
It’d be unfair to say A Giant Dog prioritize lyrics above all else. Musically, Toy is their most experimental and varied album. “Hero for the Weekend” segues from heavy ’70s guitar to a prog breakdown. The organ burning slowly in the background of “Roller Coaster” is miles away from the taut, power pop guitar on “Making Movies.” Even “Lucky Ponderosa,” a Western-tinged rock song that crashes down on the drums with every downbeat, sneaks orchestral strings into the mix. A Giant Dog teem with palpable energy—the benefit of recording live—which gives their music its legs. It’s the propelling speed of “Photograph” and joint harmonies, not just the words, that make an audience want to sing blunt lines (say, “I wanna make you cum/If you can make me laugh”) back at the band. A Giant Dog talk the talk and walk an equally impressive walk.
Yet for all of the fun they offer on Toy, A Giant Dog aren’t oblivious to the wear of life. Joy sounds like it is a part of their survival. That’s clear in their flashy performances and videos, but they go twice as hard in their music in hopes that listeners will pocket an ounce of it for themselves. They leave jokes unexplained—song titles like “Fake Plastic Trees” and last year’s “Creep” are best left as unacknowledged Radiohead nods—and swap innuendos for straightforward slang. After all, when you own it, gaudy details and theatrical crassness become a welcome overindulgence. (Just look at the ribald eroticism of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.) This allows Toy’s concluding song, a quiet number about suicide ideation and cheating partners, to hit hard. It’s as if, after all of this, they need to remind listeners one last time: no matter how low life swings, there’s always pleasure worth relishing in.
