BABES IN TOYLAND –
FONTANELLE (SOUTHERN RECORDS/REPRISE)
When it came to Riot
Grrrl Babes In Toyland were always the band for me. They were the first proper band that I ever
saw live when they played the Hippodrome on Colchester High Street and when I
borrowed this album from my friend and put it on a cassette
with Meantime
by Helmet on the other side. This was a
tape that I wore out.
Babes In Toyland were
always a brutal proposition. At a time
when so many Riot Grrrl acts were posturing, they just did it. And for that, for the longest time they were
my favourite female band who I would defend to endless degrees while my
apparently more knowing (more snobby) friends would tend to dismiss them. Indeed when Sleater-Kinney arrived on our
stereos I was heard to complain that they didn’t sound like Babes In Toyland.
In many ways
Fontanelle was the album we wanted Hole to make. And perhaps it was the one they could/would
have made had Courtney not been so distracted (although she was certainly
present her playing on the mind in “Bruise
Violet”). Also it never really sat
completely comfortable with Bikini Kill and Huggy Bear, there was just
something slightly masculine about the Babes In Toyland sound which felt
thicker than the punky, hardcore, lo-fi offerings of the militant Riot Grrrl
acts. Plus they were on a major label
(well, in the U.S.
Wow, I have used the
term Riot Grrrl in every paragraph of this review so far.
Co-produced by
Bjelland and Lee Ranaldo this record is a blast, a force of nature from the
off. Very few ladies in rock have ever
held a set of lungs akin to Bjelland and therein lay the band’s strength as her
guitar playing, despite being ferocious and effective, was somewhat one dimensional. Elsewhere in the mix the drumming of Lori
Barbero serves as a strong weapon with its thumping and tribal take on
percussion. Barbero was always a wonder.
Coupled with the
broken ragdoll cover art, there is something very bratty about this
offering. Bjelland always felt like a
feisty little sister that could beat you up and with her came a brutal gang
backing her up. And with a guitar
sounding like a motorbike it came with a raucous soundtrack.
As with all great
albums it begins with a rocket, the star song and explosive entry. “Bruise
Violet” is a driven and disarming track.
From the off something does not sound right as the drums and guitar
tangle together thumping ahead of the air raid siren arrival of Bjelland and
her verbal assault aimed at what it would seem is Courtney Love. As it all ends with accusation “Liar! Liar!
Liar!” emerging from this track I find that my sinuses have been cleared. Seldom has anger ever been so sincerely
captured on record.
From here the
screaming toddler cum psychopath act continues/persists as the bubbling
anti-lullaby “Right Now” exudes an earnest explosion and “Bluebell” offers
raucous stabs with Kat still playing the part of a little girl having a
demented breakdown.
At this point I fear
from a male perspective I am being somewhat patronising and condescending
towards Bjelland’s plight. As a method
of expressing and intimidating there is something slightly cartoonish about the
execution, one that may not necessarily be taken too seriously in an adult
world. On that note it seems essential
that all gestures be loud and hard hitting.
Here was an act more about play and proverb than explicit reference to
the corrupt world surrounding.
Always a big favourite
with crowds the uber aggressive rewrite “Handsome & Gretel” serves as both
a colourful metaphor and effective lash out at the world. In under two minutes tables were distinctly
turned with the description of “a crotch that talks” taking control and care of
business.
Having now whipped the
audience into shape (into position) a grand and varied dispatch of fizzy and
hook laden tracks push things forward expounding how it feels to be a
domineering minority. This is album
about fight and explanation.
With “Won’t Tell” we
enter tempered territory in alarming and disturbing fashion as Bjelland takes
on the role of both abuser and victor seemingly going through a session of
recovery with weird sentiment correction.
It’s a song about a bitch and a bastard.
Then immediately afterwards the side ends subjecting the listener to the
twisting and haunting instrumental “Quiet Room” that plays out in the manner of
blood splattered closing credits.
As the process
continues side 2 opens with “Spun” and things feeling confused, placed in an
aftermath of dissolution as Bjelland calmly sings towards a mood swing at which
point the band violently erupts in accusatory fashion. Does my penis make me a bad boy?
From here the record
makes confident strides to the end as Barbero continues to thump in tribal
rhythms that were never necessarily a staple of indie rock.
The eventual pair of
“Real Eyes” and “Mother” ensure the record ends on a high as Bjelland offers
awkward scenarios first via some kind of bus journey that ends in altercation
culminating in spooky vocal exploration and echo before the latter delivers a punchy
and affective explanation of personal circumstances seemingly addressing
paternal and spousal doubt in an effort to serve females all over. This anger is not just hormones, not just the
rag.
Fittingly it all ends
with “Gone” and the sound of smashing glass and high spirited exuberance that echoes
misbehaviour. Eventually the casual
strumming peters out, much like the band.
Fontanelle is a blunt
piece of work, a solid and singular succession of songs born more of passion
than performance. There have been
better, more talented and intricate female indie rock bands but for its flaws
and juvenile gestures this is a heroic handling, perhaps misguided from a
mainstream perspective but exhilarating from all other angles.
Thesaurus moment:
indelicate.
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