Patrick, playing the role of the contrarian…
[Video][Website]
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Edward Okulicz: Years ago, Alan McGee described the then-in-progress Courtney Love album as being something like PJ Harvey-esque heavy blues rock on an acoustic, and I got this lovely sound picture in my head of what that would sound like, and then obvious disappointment when the results were generally not that at all. Not for too long, because here is a wonderfully coincidental realisation of that idealised sound in my head, and it’s a Throwing Muses song. It’s definitely got a blues strut to it, but with more intensity than that would imply. It’s mostly in the swaggering drums, but not entirely; the song itself is all focused brooding and a masterclass in tension (other than the disarmingly catchy, ragged chorus) and Kristin Hersh has a voice that would basically fit any kind of modern rock she chose to throw it at.
[8]
Mallory O’Donnell: It’s no surprise that Throwing Muses would come back strong — what’s most pleasing is they’ve come back so hard. “Sunray Venus” seems lyrically to be about some sort of mystery cult, but the music is an evocation of sunrise itself, brittle-edged propulsive drumming and rhythm guitar backed by a drone as warming as the first precious rays of morning. As always, Kristin’s anger is a gift, whatever its object. As always, it’s sung like absolutely no one else would sing it. “Blessed for the moment,” we are.
[8]
Alfred Soto: Kristin Hersh sounds great. She sings like she plays guitar: choked and sharp, with unexpected bursts and ejaculations. Both mitigate her usual metaphorical opacity. Trust me, though: I hear nothing opaque about “no one remembers your name.”
[8]
Patrick St. Michel: Keep the kisses, just turn this off.
[2]
Brad Shoup: No way this would have shared anything with P.M. Dawn’s immortal “Downtown Venus“. It’s more like PJ Harvey, or maybe “Immigrant Song”: sails beating at the winds, prowling for uncharted islands. Could’ve definitely used more guitar sparks, but as a sustained mood this is great.
[7]
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Musically and attitude-wise, “Sunray Venus” is all snarl and shake – lumbering, threatening, deep in its own groove. Atop swirling guitar overlays that rumble as much as they ramble, Kristin Hersh lays down a crackled paean to collapsing mortality. She is equal turns bitter (“That’s some disease you got there / my lousy friend… fall through the cracks”) and ready to surrender (“hell – I remember you”).
[7]
Katherine St Asaph: The book that accompanies Purgatory/Paradise, which I’ve spent hours with, mentions this about “Sunray Venus,” one of the album’s few tracks unbroken enough to qualify as a single: “the startling loneliness of falling in love again and again and never settling down that is touring.” (It also mentions “the manly lingerie store, the manly children’s choir, the manly wedding dress shop and the manly baby shower boutique,” but I can’t quote this entire thing.) “Sunray Venus” is fittingly part alienated and part joyous along the lines of Wild Flag’s “Romance”: a love song to making music. (“Something to be said for falling in love.” Fine, fine, I’ll stop.) The track sounds it; compare the demo and hear how empty it sounds without Bernard Georges and David Narcizo setting spark to every line, or watch the video by longtime director Orrin Anderson, which fucks with the whole concept of lyrics videos and throws in little Muses catalog in-jokes strewn like shells (that there, that’s one) for longterm fans. It’s as sure-helmed as the 1986 album was mercurial: the sound of a band that knows by now it contains multitudes.
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