A posthumous debut is a strange thing. If it stinks, then good riddance. But if it is great, as is WALL’s Untitled, then fans are left with a craving that is insatiable. Like many bands formed in the underground of constantly mutating metropolises, WALL began as casually as it ended. Upon moving to New York City after three years in Berlin, bassist Elizabeth Skadden reunited with her childhood friend from Texas, vocalist and guitarist Sam York. The pair were joined by guitarist Vince McClelland and drummer Vanessa Gomez and WALL was born. In early 2016, the Brooklyn quartet released a self-titled EP of breakneck, agitated songs, and they concurrently developed a reputation for thrashing concerts (that their recordings were all produced by Parquet Courts’ Austin Brown also helped). Then, in summer ’16, WALL quietly called it quits.
Unlike Skadden’s work in feminist garage outfit Finally Punk, and McClelland’s in the 1960s pop throwback group the Keepsies, WALL conjures the desperation and immediacy of post-punk and no wave bands like Pylon, Au Pairs, and Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. “I’m supposed to be fucking positive? Fuck you!,” Lydia Lunch once said. “You want positive, go elsewhere. Go find a different lie.” WALL, like their contemporaries Priests, take the pragmatic spirit of Lunch and apply it to critically examining the pains of modern society and the failures of fleeting pleasures.
The city reflected in Untitled is dystopian, numb, a metallic wasteland. Sound familiar? “Validate me/Validate me/Competition, self promotion/Oh we’re all guilty,” York jeers on “High Ratings.” York’s voice is rightfully steely and sardonic as her bandmates create a combative frenzy behind her. “Wounded at War” is a desolate tale about how America glamorizes war and valorizes soldiers before abandoning them. “There’s no thrill in actualities/Sensationalize the truth and/Feed it to me,” York sings before the band flicks from a claustrophobic chug into into a surfy, slippery break. While WALL’s cover of Half Japanese’s “Charmed Life” shares the original’s skronking saxophones, in the context of Untitled it feels relentlessly cynical.
One of WALL’s great strengths is their ability to sound cohesive amid their rapidly descending chaos. “Save Me” witnesses a man and a woman, both voiced by Skadden, separately jumping to their presumed deaths from perilous heights. “See I’ve got the compulsion,” the male character explains over churning guitars and steady drums. “I like how danger feels/I’ve tried to best it, but human nature always wins.” As she recounts these stories, Skadden sounds more jaded than traumatized (“It really freaked me out,” she deadpans later), as if horror and helplessness are parts of daily life. The song only falls into a nightmare at the chorus, as the guitars reach their shrillest peaks and Skadden and York chant Ramones-style, “Save me from myself/Help help!” “Turn Around” remains cool and collected, as York recalls an encounter with a scary man “just dripping with confidence.” But once she confronts him, the song boils over into bellowing feedback.
Untitled concludes with “River Mansion,” which wraps up all of the record’s pummel into one grave, ghostly song. “River Mansion” is by no means cheery—“Lost in the dream,” York sings, “And we’re lying through our teeth when/Our eyes meet”—but Untitled is, crucially, not nihilistic. WALL point out the state of reality and attempt to exist within the never-ending nightmare. Together, the songs on Untitled paint a picture of a city in a time of uncertainty. The vague collapse of WALL reflects this as well; the band has yet to make a statement regarding their dissolution and have moved on to other other projects. Untitled doesn’t answer whether or not it’s best to burn out or fade away, but it suggests how to do the former quite well.
