Daughters | Theater Critic's Choice | Chicago Reader

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Daughters, a gang of high-performance art scum from Rhode Island, spend all 11 minutes of their debut release, Canada Songs (Robotic Empire), thrashing away at the only speed they know--breakneck. The ten tracks are so jarringly brief and mind-fuckingly dense you're left breathless. Runaway drums come barreling through the guitars, which explode in terrifying jolts; at times the sound is a hell of a lot like the trademark panic-attack mosquito buzz of the late Arab on Radar. Meanwhile, vocalist Lex screams like someone jabbed his leather Cheerio with a hot poker, and though you can't make out any lyrics you can hear the frothing loud and clear. Yet this arty grindcore is somehow infectious--in every song there's the part where you freak out, then the part where you dance. Reportedly they're a bunch of SOBs onstage, choking ladies with mike cords and provoking fistfights, but the music punches you in the face with so much style you're happy to have the black eye. Opening the bill is Mr. California, a hilarious one-man rodeo of lo-fi glam-rock beats, garage distortion, happy-to-be-miserable beat poetry, and loose morals. Chinese Stars (see Spot Check) and Sick Lipstick play in between. Friday, March 19, 7 PM, Fireside Bowl, 2646 W. Fullerton; 773-486-2700.

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