Rollin' in the Ruins recreates the sleazy skronk Get Hustle became known for on previous singles and the Earth Odyssey LP, but with one exception: no guitars. Guitarist Dave Stone left shortly after the band's first full length and they've decided not to replace him, raising their own sonic hell with bass, keyboards, and vocals alone.
The band do a thorough job of exploring the outermost edges of its new limitations, and is perhaps even more abrasive here than on its previous LP. The first half of Ruins consists of brief, cacophonous pieces of avant-garde soul-pop reeking of poverty and madness; the second half is an extended jam, testing the limits of the band's ability and the listener's patience as singer Valentine Hussar warns and begs for the "revolution van" to come.
The band has the instrumental prowess to back up the noise. The electric piano fills every possbile open space, complementing the rhythm while acting as a divining rod for dissonant incidental noise. Drummer Ron Avila flips tempos with ease and lays down sophisticated polyrhythms, though he's just as adept at locking into a primal groove. "Brothers and Others" is a concentrated taste of what they're capable of, moving fluidly from unpredicitable noise to headbang-worthy ryhthms without warning.
Valentine's lyrics are like the babbling of a coma victim who woke up after 30 years and just cracked: easy riders, black cobras, Wattstax, Evel Knievel, towels with Elvis' name, and Jesus Christ Superstar flood her waking nightmares. Per "Revolution Van", she's self-admittedly "full moon crazy." She's a strong vocalist who ends up being the weak link here, with a wildly exaggerated diva act that doesn't quite cement the apocalyptic soul aesthetic her lyrics suggest, but is far too strong to idly complement these free-wheeling compositions. It's a distraction, a fight between musicianship and showmanship that Rollin' in the Ruins never resolves.
There are only fleeting moments, like the first half of "W.S.T.P", when the band slows down and follows Valentine's lead, with a lurching understated beat that's gradually, systematically dismantled. The 14-minute closer, "Don Quixote & I", is the record's most minimal moment, anchored by a throbbing drum loop while reprising "Revolution Van" in it's lyrics (and pretty thoroughly at that-- I got tired of hearing the titular phrase around the ninth minute.) While the first nine or 10 minutes almost qualify as cabaret, an instrumental version would be even better: After hypnotically hammering past the point where most listeners would get restless, the drum pattern variates, revealing that maybe they were live all along.
If you're a listener who thrives on this kind of orchestrated chaos, maybe you'll have the taste for this discordant vocalist/band conflict; to me, it sounds a like-minded trio rushing towards the same end without waiting up for one another.
