The instant identifier of this Syracuse band’s bashing is singer Meredith Graves’ desperate, strangulated word-spitting. Her voice falls into the inspiring category of taking one’s limited range and making it your own style. Plus she’s already adept at casually shoving in emotionally diametric lines like “I’ve had a history of surrender” and “I’m so fucking happy now.” But the band is an equally desperate tornado of wirey guitar spasms and tumbling drums, revealing surprising shards of color amongst the blur, with lazer-eyed bass lines offering a fragment of focus.
 

 
The opening track of this debut album, Driver, is a frantic whirlwind, and Graves’ burning pinwheel of verbiage only flames up higher as the album rolls. In Big Stars, the traditional punk album third song slow-down only shifts back about one gear, but weaves in a melodic guitar line that implies this might actually be some veiled reference to that amazing ‘70s cult band. Then pull out your band career telescope to view the vaporous, melodic Interference Fits, and you might squint dolefully at a future Yeah Yeah Yeahs-like smeltdown. But for now, this band’s M.O.—Graves’ machine gun mouth racing the bands’s nerve-strung music to the finishing line of each 113 plus/minus-second blast—is welcome in the currently, often drowsy world of indie guitar music.
 
The three-minute distant hum closeout of the five-minute Advance Upon The Real points to some pretentions that hopefully do not point to where Perfect Pussy are advancing. Ditto the last track, VII, a skritzy fuzz-glitch noise rundown with Graves reading some poetry within it. Its effect is to lose the inspiration and energy built up in the previous seven songs. But that’s what post-punk bands do, try to subvert what’s perceived as the “usual.” Though guilty denial of songwriters wanting to write songs seems counterproductive. But then, productivity is so 20th century.