Companion tracks “Camcorder” and “Tape” give a distant and grainy impression of violence. The former is cold and removed, trudging along with the sinister pace of Michael Myers. Busch sings of a shadowy evil whose shape isn’t totally clear, something that might have been finely fleshed-out on God’s Country. But his final reaction to this nebulous malignancy, “let’s watch it again,” is efficient in its brevity. This simple, open-ended phrase, sung with Busch’s trademark dread, suggests a sick delight in voyeurism—that what we are willfully watching is too sick to describe, but too intriguing to ignore. “Tape” is more formally and texturally rich, with a pulsing, choppy beat and a bassline that nods to Metallica’s indelible “Enter Sandman” riff. Busch screams tightly-worded verses, the flesh from his throat shredding off the muscle. “They made tapes!” he shouts. “It was the worst I ever saw.” Here, the song’s omitted details are doing the heavy lifting; you might picture some hideous snuff film, or news clips from Cambodia circa 1973.
Although Cool World doesn’t stomp with the same weight of God’s Country, Chat Pile’s stylistic experiments pay off. “Funny Man,” for example, opens with a storm of mine-blasting drums and leaded bass that could rip through a Glenn Branca piece. Then, as if bursting from the Trojan Horse, it morphs into articulate, melodic rock; Busch sings with a sharp and breathless cadence that trips along like certain strains of Modest Mouse. Busch dealt in concise brutality on God’s Country, but on “Funny Man” he flexes a more poetic and abstract grasp on language:
I broke my knees upon the pearl and onyx
In the hall of trophies built to honor my father
Spilled the blood, gave ’em as much as they wanted
Still had to dance for my supper
Still had to give them my body
With its cinematic verses and high-wire leaps from no-wave to tweaked-out indie to hardcore, “Funny Man” represents the pinnacle of Chat Pile’s explorative potential. Busch has explained that the song is about “being a servant, indentured or otherwise,” but it also suggests the corporeal price of wealth, and the generational trauma of those who bled for it. Chat Pile know that no matter where you’re from, all blood leaves the same stain.
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