I’m convinced that Washington’s The Trucks strive to be compared to Peaches. They’ve got the eyebrow-raising dance jams concerning oral sex complete with groans, barks and spittled screeching and they are unabashed about their right to receive good head. But I listened to Impeach My Bush—it was stale and I just felt tired afterward, but not in the way that you might think. So when I dig in to an album boasting a single named “Titties” and am met with the lines “what makes you think we can fuck just because you put your tongue in my mouth and twisted my titties, baby?“, I smirk at the influence of the Grand Fraulein of Bikini Lines and my eyes roll lavishly. If this crass business is sexual empowerment then, oh my God, how boring.
The lyrical content, the absorption of what The Trucks are saying on their self-titled debut, is key to identifying the hits and misses of the album and, by extension, the band. The technical construction of the music is not exactly dense, where twirling, tinny xylophone, stiff drum cadence and Casios reign with bratty choruses and girlish harmonies from singers Kristin Allen-Zito, Faith Reichel, and Marissa Moore. Some of their lyrical confession plays well; over an opening synthesizer jet stream Allen-Zito deadpans “I’ve been in therapy for five years, I’ll be in therapy for five more,” after which the rest of the ladies chime in with an escalating chant of “I like it, I love it!” that drips deliciously with candid sarcasm. But in other moments, of the very same track(!), their savage retorts become dreadfully obnoxious, as much as the aforementioned “Titties,” which is unfortunate because the flippancy obscures the remaining fun of the album’s palatable electro-pop and whip-smarts.
The Trucks is best when the songs swoon with a kind of violent love or cartwheel from carnival absurdity to pure punk sprawl, heard midway through on “Man Voice,” the most out of place but interesting track on the album. Highlighting where they do succeed, I think these ladies can do way better than the whole hate-fuck drollery they fall prey to. They have the beats and the “no, I won’t sit nice and be quiet!” hooks, the tight musicianship when the electro, waltz and rock mash together infectiously and a sharp sense of feminist humor at times. But I think it’s time to put down The Teaches of Peaches because the bawdiness is no longer progressive or riveting.
Gram Rabbit – Cultivation
The Capricorns – In the Zone
Knodel – The White Hole