Out of Order’s New Album Kicks Ass
In one way, Caitlin Millerick’s Russ Meyer-style graphics on the cover of Out of Order’s second album, Hey Pussycat! are a dead giveaway to what’s on the record: these three women don’t mess around, going for the jugular every time, ten songs in just over 28 minutes. But their music isn’t the least bit retro: guitarist/singer Lydia Lucy Lane, bassist Gilliey DeSilva and drummer Erin Millerick have a sound that’s completely their own. Raw, slyly assaultive and unselfconsciously defiant, their noise-punk blends unbridled Distillers-style vocals, searing, occasionally feedback-drenched guitar and a supertight, nimble rhythm section. John Sharples’ rich production looks back to the 80s in the best possible way, heavy on the high midrange, drums up just enough in the mix to showcase Millerick’s powerful chops without drowning out the rest of the band.
The opening track Impossible balances Motorhead stomp, classic punk riffage, ringing dreampop echoes and an absolutely corrosive, jagged guitar solo: “I am impossible to please” is Lane’s uneasy mantra. The second track, a whoah-oh step toward emo-punk is followed by the absolutely scorching Dirty Love, which is catchy as hell, like Shellac set to a punk beat, with a deliciously murky outro. Don’t Do That Baby takes a bluesy oldtime rock tune, gives it a crunchy punk bounce and just enough menace in the vocals to add a scary edge. The acidic Rosy builds from an abrasive verse to another catchy-as-hell punk chorus, Lane’s half-spoken vocals underscoring the song’s bludgeoning sarcasm.
There are a couple of lickety-split hardcore tracks here: Gimme Noise, with its wicked minor-key riffage and Horror Show, a pretty irresistible invitation to join the party. Teddy Homewrecker (NYC) works a midtempo Sham 69-ish vibe, a cautionary tale about a male slut: “You’ll need rehab when he’s through,” Lane warns. “He kissed you, he kissed me too.” The album ends with two killer tracks. The deliciously harsh Nobody Cares scorches from catchy punk chromatics to ominously echoing atonalities on the chorus, while the equally caustic Therapy builds to a literally screaming pitch out of noisy hardcore. Where should this great band be headed? To the Warped Tour, for starters. But not at some cheesy side stage next to the nacho concession at the edge of some Walmart parking lot: they need to be front and center where they can get the entire crowd to go nuts. They’re at Local 269 on July 19 at around 10: onstage, they add seriously evil guitar feedback, give DeSilva extra space to show off her supersonic fingers and let the drums go completely wild.