BrainWashed.com
- October, 2003
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The Dresden Dolls Studio Debut
by
Michael Patrick Brady
It
all begins with a tinny, toy piano melody that
seems to indicate that we're entering some old,
dusty dollhouse in someone's forgotten attic,
populated by the porcelain dolls that are strewn
through the liner artwork, who alternate between
innocently angelic and eerily demonic, with
cracks in their glass and cloudy eyed glares
that warn against entering this collage of splintered
personality. Holding court in this house are
Brian Viglione and Amanda Palmer, the Dresden
Dolls, whose name simultaneously conjures up
tempting Weimar cabaret decadence and the ensuing
fiery disaster. Decked out in stark white makeup
and burlesque couture they are a visually arresting
band, but they are anything but window dressing.
The Dolls have already made lasting impressions
on legions of audiences who have experienced
their formidable live show. Even without a full
length, they play to sold out crowds that most
developing bands would kill for. The Dolls honed
their skills on stage and when it came time
to make the leap to record they did it on their
own terms and on their own label, no less. On
stage, the pair are mesmerizing, Palmer's face
wrapping around every word and giving them a
liveliness held aloft by Viglione's booming
retorts. Beneath the foundation and consignment
shop assemblage lies a vicious combination of
talent, ideas, and dramatic flair that imbues
The Dresden Dolls with a rising tension that
ultimately grasps a hold of a satisfying denouement.
The Dolls break open with the incindeary "Girl
Anachronism" which revels in its doom and
gloom stomp, Palmer's piano serving as percussion
as much as Viglione's drums. The song cuts deeply
as Palmer spits out the chronicle of someone
just out of phase with reality, haunted by instability
and just screaming to make you understand what
she's going through. On "Missed Me,"
Palmer plays the part of a coquettish little
girl turned femme fatale with remarkable presence
and poise. She paints a deeply vivid portrait
of the ill-informed dalliance with her dark,
manipulative side seeping out in every batted
eyelash and cooing come on to the mister who
should have known better. Her piano unfurls
a seductive tango melody that pops like swinging
hips in a slinky, alluring strut. With the fury
comes sighing introspection and self-examination,
and tracks like "The Perfect Fit"
delve into the psyche that emits the frenetic
static electric energy that buzzes off the band.
"Bad Habit" is tantamount to a mission
statement, roaring that "sappy songs about
sex and cheating / bland accounts of two lovers
meeting / make me want to give mankind a beating."
The Dolls' Brechtian theatrics don't hem them
in, however. They excel at dark, moody slivers
of song but at the core is still an irresistible
knack at writing compelling music and the words
to back it up. "The Jeep Song," for
example, is a comparatively straightforward
song about the anguish of being reminded of
a lost lover, with clever lyrics and positively
bright backup "ba da ba ba" singing.
On the album's closer "Truce," Palmer
plaintively declares, "I am the ground
zero." Listening to The Dresden Dolls it's
easy to interpret that lyric in a way she most
likely did not intend it. Through the craft
and style exuded by this album, it feels as
if she and Viglione are destined to be the epicenter
of a shock that will rattle the musically entrenched;
to serve as a black leather gloved slap to the
face, challenging the willing to step up and
attempt to surmount their devastating fusion
of thoughtful conception and flawless execution.
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