Electroclash was preoccupied with its own brevity. Genre figurehead Larry Tee and his people spent lots of money and column inches convincing a percentage of articulated punters in urban centers that this hiccup of electro, techno, and lipstick-punk ethos would be vital for the next three minutes, or at least cooler to namedrop than Digital Hardcore. The tarted-up viral marketing campaign worked-- did the "Electroclash Tour" roll through your town?-- but the artfully coifed style union ran into some trouble when its various entities started trying to capitalize: The brightest sparks of a hipster movement aren't supposed to simmer; they should flare up nicely, but then explode into pretty slow-motion confetti, as final proof of the fad's premeditative, finite life. Crashing and burning, though, doesn't get you paid, and that's where Electroclash finds itself faltering.
Spalding Rockwell consists of ML and Nikki, two leggy gamines with a knack for Nagel and cheeky sleaze electro ditties like 2002's "White Cotton Panties". The band's singles had their bits of good-natured debauchery, no question-- and Kate, the duo's dull cash-in full-length, makes electroclash's furious endorsement of the moment seem like pure genius. Unfortunately, when confronted with manufacturing a body for their inflated pretty heads, Spalding Rockwell stumble badly on their 10-foot stilettos.
Kate is astoundingly vacuous as a standalone album. When it's not blatantly reconstituting the stippled rhythms and brazen, sex-fueled vocal chants of electroclash, it gathers from a musical gene pool that seems pretty typical. There are tepid My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult rampage yammers ("Masha"), melodic references to Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" ("Nina"), and retreads of Fannypack-style neo-electro ("Naughty"); "Boy" sounds like Peaches covering a Raveonettes song. Over "Karahi"'s introductory beats, either ML or Nikki blurts, "You should give me everything that I want in this life, because I'm that good looking." The song then unfolds around a sleazy, distorted drum track, sinister synth figure, and the repeated lyric, "Pills, pills, pills, pills." Taken with the opening declaration, we're probably supposed to consider "Karahi"-- all two minutes of it-- as a jaded meditation on the dangers and decadence of the glitterati lifestyle. Instead, it just suggests Murray Head as a horny recreational drug user. A little flesh, a little history, and suddenly you're working at a Quizno's.
In its fleeting moments of resonance, Kate might pass as background ambience for after-hours meat-packing facilities, or as music for the Derelicte campaign-- rock guitar-addled opener "Ingrid" is a passable sister to Miss Kittin's totally shit-hot "Professional Distortion", and "Bad Bad Thing", a fully realized version of Spalding Rockwell's normally sputtering come-on does give off a haughty coolness. Just like the scene that birthed them, ML and Nikki love coasting on horizontal action and druggy naughtiness. But while stink-puddle sex on a chainlink fence has its place, it's definitely not gonna last all night. (These are Manolo Blahniks, after all.) And Spalding Rockwell never give us anything besides a bump (see: "Cocaine"), which means Kate's highs are momentary at best. Like licking an East Village toilet seat, the whole thing just seems like a dumb idea in the morning.
