The primary sounds emitted by Wendy Eisenberg’s guitar on Editrix’s second album are screeching arcs of noise. These parabolas of dissonance ricochet for over a minute earlier than devolving into scattered jabs that twitch with anxious power. Eisenberg revels within the friction of those sorts of uncomfortable tones, ceaselessly pairing discordant harmonies with lyrics that hit in an identical manner. Typically they sing of the awkward, bitter feeling of being thrown right into a world that twists us into shapes that really feel unnatural—the cognitive dissonance of residing in a society that insists you act in methods which might be in opposition to your core values. However whilst Eisenberg exploits the expressive potential of discord, they body these private and philosophical crises with a disarming combination of sincerity and irony that’s each humorous and profound.
Eisenberg’s music takes a number of varieties, together with avant-garde jazz and tender folk-like songs they sing by themself, however the bludgenoning post-hardcore of Editrix is their bluntest, most provocative outlet for this discontent. The trio, which incorporates Steve Cameron on bass and Josh Daniel on drums, kilos its manner by Editrix II: Editrix Goes to Hell’s 12 songs. Every band member bears down on their instrument, and so they bolster the depth with complexity of their interlocking riffs and rhythms, that are ceaselessly disrupted by off-kilter runs and sharp left turns. These tight hairpins, dextrous in ways in which allude to Eisenberg’s in depth jazz coaching, foster a gripping unpredictability because the band cycles by a number of tempos and melodic passages. Spindly guitars get tangled round beats so heavy with syncopation they make 4/4 really feel oddly metered, however Editrix playfully trip these unpredictable waves. It’s clear they’re having enjoyable.
One of many constant parts between Eisenberg’s solo work and Editrix is their capacity to put in writing sticky melodies that match neatly into knotty chords and chromatic riffs that solely sometimes resolve. They constantly discover the sq. pegs that can miraculously match a spherical gap, and their nonchalant, intimate type of singing makes the juxtaposition really feel pure. Not often do they shriek, growl, or moan the way in which a typical punk singer may, and so they don’t pressure their voice to be heard above the instrumental maelstrom. As a substitute they sing as they may if accompanied solely by a single guitar, their voice perched excessive atop the combo so every lyric could be deciphered and absorbed.
Abrupt shifts in tone are typical of the album’s lyrics as properly, that are peppered with tongue-in-cheek strains that swerve into extra extreme territory. “The anthropocene means people are profitable,” sings Eisenberg on “Queering Ska” earlier than admitting dire acceptance—“I do know that it’ll finish/That it’s ending.” Once they sing, “It’s 2019, who’s queering ska?” gleeful upstrokes appear to reply their very own query, however within the subsequent breath, whimsy offers method to the trauma of the next yr: “It’s 2020, who isn’t on Earth?” On “Time Can’t Be Redeemed,” they discover a witty method to categorical darkish ruminations: “With regards to whether or not or to not stay, I’m undecided and may’t be swayed.” It’s not that they use humor as a coping mechanism, however that they perceive the absurdity buried deep within the hellish circumstances of life beneath capitalism. Somewhat than succumb to it, they snicker in its face.