Dusted Reviews Artist: Controller.Controller Album: History Label: Paper Bag Review date: Aug. 24, 2004

I’ve figured out what’s wrong with most of these new wave throwbacks littering the bins nowadays, and it’s not good. They’re missing the desperation, the rage, the raw mortality that inebriated the music back when it still huffed the fumes of punk. What’s left is a fashionably icy booty call, and as the final revenge of the forebears, the sex is usually awful.

Controller.Controller’s version might be fuzzed out and lacquered down in a way that couldn’t have happened before the rise of Nirvana, but they’ve got the anger down cold, so to speak. When the singer snarls “let’s rewrite your history” by way of flirtation, you know fucking well what you’re getting into. And when you’re looking for anxiety as an elixir for toenail-filing ennui, you might as well get it undiluted. And as Carter’s malaise survived, in some quarters, even after Reagan’s shallow cosmetology was in full effect, that was the order of the day. And, considering the world situation and the batting averages of the Rapture and Co., it merits reinvestigation. Some people have more era-specific personal shit to plow through before they can qualify as hedonists.

“If we accept it,” poses the claustrophobic stomper “Silent Seven,” “does that make it all right?” Well, no, but it’s painfully sincere of you to say so. When you toss in “I always feel like / Somebody’s waatchin’ meee,” I hope it’s not supposed to be cute, 'cause it ain’t. Pour me another shot of rage-o-haul, babe.

History’s stronger material (which is, perhaps coincidentally, its most unashamedly retro) appears near the beginning of this seven-track EP. Things get less intense near the end. “Bruised Broken Beaten” undergoes enough stadium-rock shading to sound like a Veruca Salt detour. “Watch” retains the dour lyrical POV but loses the groove, coming out like a bad, fussy Blondie outtake.

Still, C.C deserves attention for resurrecting the only facet of new wave that hasn’t yet been chained to a muscle-car doing donuts around Williamsburg and Wicker Park parking lots: Its sad, confrontational, abysmally fucked up soul. Ignore at your own risk.

By Emerson Dameron

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