Posts Tagged ‘Erica Dunn’

Palm Springs

After already laying down a scathing record of post-punk with her band Mod Con and giving some heft to the guitar chaos in Tropical Fuck Storm, Melbourne’s Erica Dunn cuts the volume and sweeps out the quiet corners of the home recorded hearth for this low-key EP. Her cassette Palm Springs & Friends is calm and crackling, evoking the kind of private issue and margin-walking folk that birthed albums from Elyse, Dave Bixby, Susan Christie, or Chuck and Mary Perrin. Dunn nails the wet wool sound of intimacy that made those obscurities into the sort of records that were sought out with blood, sweat and black lung as collectors rifled through basements and boot sales. The record takes a high contrast approach to the bulk of what I’ve heard from Dunn and proves that she’s got equal options for careers on both sides of the volume knob.

Not only is the record tender in its trappings, but lyrically this is a far cry from Mod Con’s fang-toothed tumult. Dunn is wistful and warm, opening the record to an autumnal ennui that’s surprising but infinitely listenable. While the faint fluff of tape hum might frame this collection perfectly, there’s also a feeling that Dunn could take this to a larger life with ease. Much like this year’s jump by Anna St. Louis to a full spectrum sound, its easy to see how the songs on & Friends could find purchase in lush production. Then again, if this is just meant to be a hand-crafted curio of folk, far be it from me to make any assumptions. Whatever her ambitions under the Palm Springs header, Dunn’s captured some sort of magic that’s hard to shake.





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Mod Con

After being charmed and invigorated last week by Mod Con’s “Kidney Auction Blues” its nice to put the song in context alongside the rest of their debut long player for Poison City. Mod Con actually boasts the same lineup of players that grace songwriter Erica Dunn’s previous work as Palm Springs, but they leave their previous shell’s dusty Americana far behind in the rearview. Scratching at a discontented form of post-punk, Dunn and her compatriots use their platform on Modern Convenience to pick at the scars of consumerism, complacency and disillusionment. In the tangles of twine-bound guitar that pump this record along, the band spends their energy wrestling twang into muscular, yet rubbery explosions of tension. Almost every song is hanging on the edge and waiting to tip.

Then there’s Dunn’s voice. Unlike the sonic shock precision of some of her post-punk contemporaries, she seems to be reaching her wit’s end at some point in most every track. She breaks and strains against the mounting pressures she sings about like a hammer on glass. It feels like one more push might just break her, but the heroic act of throttling out one more bone crunching number is worth her pain. The band is taught and at times even tender (“Bad Time At The Hilton”), but whatever the tempo the Dunn’s urgency remains the catalyst that drives Mod Con far past lesser contenders. It’s a crackling debut that puts them forward as key players in not only the Aussie scene, but post-punk at large.




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