Hardcore
fans of veteran art-punk kingpins Wire harp on and on about the bandÕs
first album, Pink Flag, how itÕs the only real true Wire sound anybody really
needs to hear, etc., etc. A searing, blasting 21-song suite of rude, raw
aggression and an odd simultaneous cool detachment, the critically hailed
(and low-selling) 1977 record was enormously influential, most every punk
band in the Minor Threat/Minutemen/Black Flag mold lifting at least a
little something off it, and it was listed at number 410 on Rolling
Stone's 500
Greatest Albums of All Time in 2003. But WireÕs core quartet of
guitarist/singer Colin Newman, bassist/singer Graham Lewis,
guitarist/noisemaker Bruce Gilbert and drummer Robert Grey (a.k.a. Robert
Gotobed) changed direction following Pink FlagÕs release, their subsequent Chairs
Missing and 154 albums departing punkÕs
rigid formats in complexly structured and synth-/effects-laden explorations
that, while turning off the literal-minded leather-jacket-and-Mohawk set,
did almost singlehandedly create the Òpost-punkÓ genre and beyond. The band
has evolved in stages since then, disbanding and regrouping sporadically to
issue records further exploring electronics and a rock-bound sound-art, or
in their most recent phase, a very brutal guitar/bass/drums minimalism
seemingly designed to burn off the flab of their own middle age.
The new Red Barked Tree sort of flicks about among
the varied range of
Wire's early punkish-unto-arty endeavors, while dishing a bit less of the inferred violence of their last trio of albums. That could owe to the
bandÕs advancing years, of course, but in any case thereÕs a wispy,
gazing-grimly-at-the-setting-son vibe in this new Wire mode; the
short-sharp-shock punky pop tunes are juxtaposed with more blatantly
ominous and artily-veneered shades of song, such as the opening ÒPlease Take,Ó
whose (un)easy midtempo singsong guitar riffing rides Grey-GotobedÕs
classic simpleness-defined drum-thwack mixed way up front; ÒPlease take
your knife out of my back,Ó requests Lewis calmly. ÒNow WasÓ boasts
NewmanÕs trademarked Cockney choirboy irony on a ÒpeppyÓ beat tune where
the guitars are mixed light, airy and wiry Ð and it comes off ruminative;
LewisÕ ÒTwo MinutesÓÕ sludge-guitar segues into a mekanik-guitar & bass
two-note riff-march atop an insistent snare thump that seeks to punish; Newman
rants/invocates/confesses about something or other, or nothing at all.
ÒMoreoverÓ lifts its riff offa ÒMap ReferenceÓ from Chairs Missing; itÕs all strident guitars, remorseless
drum strikes, relentless bass throb and vocals barked as if through a
megaphone or tin-can-string thingie; squeaks, squawks and cross-wired aural
scratchy-scratch in the mix add to the general anxiety. ÒClay,Ó another
ÒaccessibleÓ Newman tune, is slowish midtempo eighth-note minimalism with
one-note ringing guitars like an unattended-to car alarm. Things get
tougher on ÒBad Worn Thing,Ó a hellishly disco-thumping thing where Lewis
gives us that sort of lecturing/censuring tone about Ð well, about
unchecked growth without a sense of history, could be the gist: ÒThey clip
their speech, they clip your wings.Ó The album alternates between these
rudely matter-of-fact head-slaps and melodic sweet-sourness, back and forth;
the slow, orchestral intertwine of simple guitar squawk and stately
single-note keyboard tones in ÒDown to ThisÓ give the obscure lyrics a feel
of wary resignation. The final, title track is longish, just choochoos on
through the forest; itÕs a misty day, maybe, itÕs a train ride to who knows
where?