If rock 'n' roll had nothing to do with music and everything to do with attitude, the Icarus Line would be the greatest fucking band. Oh wait, rock 'n' roll does have everything to with attitude, and the Icarus Line are the greatest fucking band. Sure, there are thousands of bands who are wittier, louder, more sophisticated, and in general, more musically rewarding. But if you want obstinance, irreverence and depravity, I dare you to find a band that offers it in such gratuity. Too late: You see, after six years of infamous live shows and a scant yield of exactly one EP and one full-length, the Icarus Line have finally gotten serious, which means the derisive West Coast braggarts have sacrificed their reputation. This, of course, means they're no longer the greatest fucking band. They're better.
Call it a fair trade off: By simply playing by the rock 'n' roll rulebook-- whose article 17, section 4 strictly dictates that ego, excess and publicity stunts are to take complete precedence over, you know, songs-- Penance Soiree is one of the better straight-up records you're bound to hear from the genre all year. Known for their manic behavior onstage and scuzzy surfeit off, the Icarus Line could win over scores of fans without even playing a note. But who cares that the band wear moddish black-and-red uniforms when they sound red and black? Unlike most groups who arch back to rock 'n roll's premillennial salad days, the Icarus Line are visceral enough in their music alone, and Penance Soiree proves it before even the chorus of its opening track.
Of course, this isn't anything you haven't heard before. All the requisite pieces are in place: scalding guitars, amply flanged vocals, bombastic drums, and a bassline that sounds like nothing so much as running sewage. But while a track like "Up Against the Wall" may not be aching to raze any monuments, it forcefully achieves all that it sets out to accomplish: Dubiously recorded to be difficult to hear unless played at a high volume, the song leaves the listener itching for a bath. In fact, one would be wise to come prepared for this record with plenty of sweat rags and water bottles: Like a good workout, Penance Soiree pushes you until you're red-cheeked, wet-faced and utterly exhausted.
Hearteningly, the album loses hardly a step in its finery. Joe Cardamone's vocals are properly wanton throughout this rabble-rousing tour de force, and while it's all too easy for lyrics about sex to succumb to sleaze, on "Party the Baby Off", it's all too tempting to oblige Cardamone's cries of "Take off all your clothes!" Carnal and prurient throughout, Penance Soiree is absorbing in its decadence and rarely alienating in its ferocity. Technically, the music is necessarily indestructible; sloppy performances would allow these reckless tunes to spiral out of control, but the compositions are unerringly tight, nailing unison figures and hopping meter with insane dexterity.
But alas, the well of ideas from which the Icarus Line draw is limited, and while all their efforts are deftly executed, a handful of the tracks fall flat. While most records of its kind are precariously frontloaded, Penance Soiree lags only in its third quarter. Earlier on, the album's repetitive helps impede the galvanizing (if static) riffs, but later, the songs move from a torrid gallop to a haggard chug, as Cardamone's libidinous wails peter out into a bluesy drawl. "Big Sleep"'s title is particularly apt: The song is full of razoring kicks, but pitifully low on hooks. Elsewhere, "White Devil" and "Meatmaker" are mercifully fast-paced, but nevertheless somewhat cloying melodically.
Thankfully, the two closing tracks redeem the missteps of the preceding numbers. "Seasick" provides Penance Soiree's most interesting textural moment in its icy two minute decline, an arrhythmic descent into a howling ocean of feedback. And then, just as the album has seemingly crashed from its meteoric highs, the band sign off with "Party the Baby Off", a bouncy rocker that may well inaugurate its own British-style Invasion from the snowy peaks of Sierra Nevada. They may not be the wittiest or most erudite band around, but the Icarus Line pummel with an intentness and honesty that trumps the best of their contemporaries.
