Punching up from the dumpster of Canadian art-damaged punks CPC Gangbangs, Red Mass and Duchess Says, PYPY looks like a formidable fighter in the spazz-punk gutter battles. Considering the members have already fought the bad fight at dives throughout North America since their various pre-PYPY bands played through the 2000s, and given those band’s nasty noise explorations, this could’ve easily been either a beaten-down, tired stoner-metal romp (read: energy-sapped), or just more super-spazzy come lately. Instead, led mainly by co-yalper Annie-Claude Deschênes’s crazily bent vocals and guitar lines that hold back and attack in spurts, there’s a fresh energy through every tune.
The songs veer between sullied 1960s go-go rhythm decimations and skritzier 2010s guitar blowouts. Deschenes herself can go from sounding like a cooing French tweener to a screeching rubber room resident within verses, or whatever PYPY call their song chunks. New York is the most representative track, stumbling with razor-slash guitar bits while Deschenes sings like she’s bleeding from said slashes, the drums shockingly tumble forward for a second right in the middle, and then the whole cranky thing paces-up into a nightmare notion of what being trampled in a NYC mad rush might sound like. Too Much Cocaine surely replicates its title’s mania, though it’s an obvious topic here, humorous blacksploitation mimicking or no. At this point, there’s got to be more diverse lyrical terrain for art-punks. And one can only hope Molly isn’t another reference to molly, but in any event is another highpoint—a slinky, guy/gal call ‘n’ response like a Gainsbourg duet gone squawk-garage freakout by the end. Daffodils and She’s Gone too go groovy slinking, but whose fadingly suave aims are soon decimated by harsh psych-garage guitar squalls.
Not unlike Human Eye’s outer space Martian battle soundtracks, PYPY appears like a lost dispatch from the original No Wave era that went off track, floated through some space-time continuum stardust, then got burned up a bit upon re-entry until it landed in the basement of a gas-huffed garage group waiting for inspiration, pizza, or a way out of Canada. In She’s Gone Deschênes claims, “Everything is turning obsolete.” Well, if she’s speaking of this mode of crank-punk, it ain’t just yet.