Where Bikini Kill had a crazed humor for all its man-eating madness, Manda’s yelps are just irritating. Memorable only for their small bird-killing frequency.
The record refuses to linger, spinning from psychotrope to meditative musical montage, from brilliant electric brain impulses to blue-purple aural tears.
Far from being bleak and forbidding, Bauhaus was inclusive, their cold blood a warm sacrament for the scrabbling weevils crawling over the teenage underbelly.