David Pajo's tenure in Slint is pretty unimpeachable. But after the tetchy brilliance of Spiderland, things get spotty. Sure, under various M banners, Pajo dabbles hush of folk to subtle effect. Albums like 2001's Whatever, Mortal were songwriting treats, music worthy of brushing elbows with the imposing stuff of his early days, no problem. But for every Live From a Shark Cage, there's a Mary Star of the Sea-- the catastrophic arena-ready byproduct of being an indie rock icon and cavorting with Billy Corgan. So it's fair to be skeptical of the metal band Pajo has scrounged up in Kentucky-- yes, Dead Child-- a cheesily reverent retread of 1980s-minded thrash, vintage hesher skuzz, yadda, yadda, yadda. And if that M.O. sounds familiar, it's because he already did it once with the initial touring incarnation of Early Man (remember them?). Just sub in an unfocused digest of Reagan-era metal in place of the downtown Matador metal dude's dead-on Metallica, and you're pretty much there.
But while Early Man 100% deserved the down-the-nose "hipster metal" tag, Dead Child 100% doesn't. This stuff is bad without being ironic. Bad without being calculated. Bad because it just isn't any good. Yes, there are chops here. But save for a few mighty moments, they never get put to any interesting use. "Twitch of the Death Nerve" is all oom-pa drumming, tablature-dumb rock guitars, and high school battle of the bands solos. And the too-long-by-four-minutes "The Coldest Hands" forgets itself three or four times during its palm-muted sneeroffs. Jukeboxes do it better.
The real issues, though, have nothing to do with the riffage. Pajo and Michael McMahan (of Slint reunion tour fame) play passably, if not inventively. Rather, it's the vocals and guitar tone that really head off Attack. Lead singer Dahm has a thin, nerve-wearing Geddy vs. Ozzy vs. Bruce tone, and the guitars have that blocky, rusted-out desert-rock tenor that works so well for Queens of the Stone Age but seems a bit lite when attempting to throw weight around like real thrash should. When you consider Slint's girth (Tweez was heavy!) and Pajo's oft-professed love of metal, the sound of this record is a real disappointment.
On occasion, though, that love shines through. "Rattlesnake Chalice" works up a nice tension with its hourglass tom rolls and simple guitar figure. And "Screaming Skull"'s tumble thunder riff is a structural beaut. Still, the fact remains: If it weren't for the famous guy in the band, we'd most likely ignore this record completely, saving space for anyone doing anything remotely creative with the same pedal-to-the-metal toolkit.
