NOTE: this was originally written for a lady friend of mine who kept asking me to listen to the new Sleigh Bells album. I replied in kind. Enjoy.
You previously pestered me without end about a recent collection of songs which you described as “awesome.” Not fond of items regarded with absolutes, I made an attempt to refrain from testing these uncharted waters, yet your persistence has been fruitful.
I acquired the album, titled with questionable taste as “Reign of Terror,” through rather ill-advised means and shan’t delve into them for fear of an ASBO. Nevertheless, I placed the vinyl upon my phonograph machine and hoped to become bathed in wondrous and marvelous sounds- a peculiar ensemble of violin and harpsichord perhaps, or a interesting song cycle of foreign descent. I topped off my pipe with the finest tobacco, slipped into my resting robes, and sat comfortably in my rouge lounge chair as the record began to oscillate.
Little did I know that what lay in each crisp groove was such a horrific and thrashing assault of pugnacious sounds and moral bankruptcy. Dear woman, what hath you wrought upon my faculties? Certainly not something my mother shall allow in her home, rest her nerves. She shall send me off to a strict finishing school if her tender ears cautch the slightest waft of this Satanic belch!
Or maybe you are unaware as to my seemingly hyperbolic attrition. Hear ye, I shall lay bare the various demerits I hold against these Sleighing Belles, whatever they may be.
Primarily, the musical components in which they commit their atrocities. The Belles evidently chose the long-gone era of the nineteen-eighties to base their music upon. In their defence, that is one of my fondest periods in terms of sonic archaeology, however they rest a bit much on the excessive tendencies of the decade and less on the musicianship. The guitarres, drummes, and voice of the chanteuse are certainly clear and in triumphant force, but the mixing of each together proves sloppy and overbearing. Her voice feels garbled by the heavy and metallic strings, and the strings flattened by that inexplicably loud percussion which pummeled my eardrums into oblivion. What sort of steampunk engineering produced such a noise?
Secondly, the puerile and anarchistic lyrics. Mind you, I am attune to the fact that many in these common times lead alternative lifestyles compared to the one of austerity and proper values that befits my own. However, the mere sliver of vapidity and moral rot that was previewed is enough for me to lead an urgent plea for the swift demolition of Whitechapel. What makes the chanteuse believe she was “Born to Lose,” and what reprehensible communion with “Demons” has she entered? And doth she sing sweetly of a thoroughfare into the damned pit of death and bloodlust which beckons horrid men without cease? Pray, I shall purge these hymns from my thoughts for fear of excommunication!
The only singularity of relative interest to my person lay only in the ninth song, titled “You Lost Me.” Nay Belles, I found my way around this melody quite nicely. It had the heavy and metallic guitarre and in equal measure the chanteuse’s musings of truthful vicissitude, yet by good grace, the percussion had been tuned down! Huzzah! Perchance by a thoughtful sound engineer, the artillery begins at a much later interval, and as such, comes off rather fitting.
Forgive me milady, for I am set in my ways, but your taste in musical entertainment bewilders me. Do you take delight in the macabre and vulgar side of society? Humor my inquiry, for my earnest aversion to such swill may be of great misunderstanding. In the meantime, I shall suggest that these Sleigh Belles address my vicar for exorcism and recanting.
My Greatest Regards,