"Love is a disgusting thing," yowls Alexis Marshall on "Hyperven Tilationsystem", off Daughters' second full-length, Hell Songs. The metal outcasts of the Providence scene, some of these guys were formerly behind the grind'n'grab As the Sun Sets, a band I once saw hit a girl in the face with a guitar. And having gone the 10 songs in 11 minutes route on 2003's Canada Songs, they've found a new way to alienate their audience: a brand new, Beefheart-by-way-of-Mike Anderson gurgle, a gaspy moan of dissatisfaction in place of shredding vocals.
Daughters still play techy grindcore, but they're clearly listening to better records now: Birthday Party, who they covered recently; late-period Orchid; Racebannon and Rapider Than Horsepower. From the sound of things, they've even rediscovered the old Nation of Ulysses and Make Up records stashed between their couch cushions. And though the assumption that they're actually going to offend somebody is as infuriating as that kind of thing always is-- "Boner X-Ray", "The Fuck Whisperer", har har-- their new gothic grind is, insofar as they've finally copped a great rhythm section to hold up their guitars, undeniably a good idea.
Bands like the Locust or Discordance Axis made a mid-1990s routine of throwing dozens of different riffs into one-minute-or-less songs; Daughters, to their credit, have realized that making actual songs involves returning to the stuff that works, if only for a few bars. "Providence by Gaslight", for instance, alternates high-pitched, vibrating chords with double-bass and blast-beats, back and forth as both parts build, then slams ‘em together on the trumpet (played by Kayo Dot's Forbes Graham) punctured finale.
Like lots of the post-punk and art-rock they're raiding to make their robotic metal, Daughters have freed their guitars to explore and go fucking nuts by designating the melodic leads to their bass and bass drum. "Daughters Spelled Wrong" is a queasy, angled-lightning riff with what sounds like Marshall trying to speak even as he throws up; "Fiery" is almost pure drum solo, even as it has a kind of narrative arc; "Cheers, Pricks"-- at six minutes, presumably the longest song Daughters have ever written-- coasts off a lazily bright bass riff that descends even as the track collapses on itself.
Daughters' uneasy marriage of Pussy Galore-cum-Locust attitude mirrors what they're attempting on Hell Songs: A unity of two different avant-gardes united mostly by a desire for shock and aural awe. The resulting songs might even work too well-- together, the disparate elements of grind and trashcan-rock come together so naturally that the result is almost conventional, which one has to think isn't really their intent. Forgive them for trying to freak us out: In the process, they've stumbled on to something.
