Well, if you end up liking this record, it’s not going to be easy to tell your friends what you’re “into these days.” But whatever shock value or comic relief you get from Pity Sex’s name, there’s no phrase in the English language that more accurately foreshadows the concerns of this co-ed Ann Arbor quartet-- which is to say, the effect of sex on exceptionally self-pitying people. Their debut LP Feast of Love is post-coital pop-punk, far enough removed from the physical act where any intimacy or legitimate emotional connection has given way to the neediness and self-loathing that drove these poor souls to pursue their couplings in the first place. And of course, they're saddled with the additional depression of realizing that another person isn’t going to fix them; in fact, it always makes it worse. Feast of Love, sure. But the whole affair just makes Pity Sex kinda sick to their stomach.
That much is conveyed on “Wind-Up”, where Brennan Greaves demands space to nurse an incapacitating hangover or the fact that he just cannot fucking deal right now. Hell, maybe he just woke up still drunk, as there’s an illicit giddiness to “Wind-Up”; ripping through their most anthemic riffs and a righteous fuzz solo, Pity Sex are having a blast here, even though Greaves' droopy vocals try to tell a different story. His counterpart Britty Drake isn’t much better off on the subsequent “Keep”, where a surprising melodic (mis)step occurs in the tipsy chorus, possibly because she’s too despondent to reach the next higher note in the scale. The two have about equal billing here, though Feast of Love doesn’t sound like a concept album or a back and forth conversation. When Greaves and Drake trade verses on the acrid “Drown Me Out”, it's a standoff between two friends who might be getting a little sick of telling each other about their failed romances as well as hearing about them. Misery loves company on Feast of Love, but it also wants some damn space.
Which makes a lot of sense-- after all, Feast of Love is a record of limited scope, to put it lightly. It’s also limited to 10 songs and 28 minutes, so it never has the opportunity to get too oppressive. Plus, the music itself could not be more adept at channeling Pity Sex’s particular brand of hangdog horniness-- melodic and punchy enough to be attractive, rumpled and lethargic enough to let you know it's not trying too hard…which in turn makes it more attractive depending on your tastes. The distinctions are incremental on Feast of Love and even after so many listens, I’m still taken aback by how "Fold" makes no concession to being a grand finale, ending the LP with zero fanfare. Within the record's narrow musical arc, “Hollow Body” establishes itself as the “ballad” by ditching the drums and distortion, while the whammy-bar abuse on “Drawstring” sonically embodies the masochism of the lyrics-- "Your name is a a drawstring around my neck/ tighter with every breath." And while happiness appears to be comically unattainable on Feast of Love, at least there’s ownership of one’s misery on “Honey Pot”, where Greaves snarks, "I'll take what I want/ I'll concede to all my faults...I won't feel guilty when you kiss me."
Though not as lyrically sharp as either Waxahatchee or Speedy Ortiz and more affiliated with pop-punk despite its shoegazy alt-rock leanings, Feast of Love is a record that finds Pity Sex as part of an uninentional "moment" for slack, sexualized indie rock. So the initial temptation is to think of it as reactionary-- is it possible that these bands are interested in a reclamation of 90s indie rock ideals at a time when “indie rock” rarely means “guitar rock” and deals with the actual, mundane mechanics of relationships even more rarely? Doubtful. Judging from their unsurprisingly active Twitter feeds, none of the aforementioned appear the least bit interested in being scolds. Nor do I think an album like Feast of Love is a reaction to the countless thinkpieces about how the self-involvement of 20-somethings or the romantic complications caused by technology somehow didn’t exist before 2013. Nah, but it is a nice refutation of both, and though every sound on Feast of Love existed before the end of the first Clinton term, Pity Sex's tales are as timeless as the band’s name-- self-pitying people are still having sex and nothing seems to stop them.
