One hot minute, it’s incantantory punk and Kate Pierson (or Cindy Wilson) the next, it’s string-mopped U.K. hee-hey with a sickly-sweet Pixie-sticky bassline.
Underground rock’s greatest shame is its perennial neglect of Britain’s Jazz Butcher, Patrick Fish, a remarkable songwriter who deserves a far better fate.
It kicks off with a suite of five pretty impressive songs. The stop-start rhythms and kitchen-sink arrangement of “Novocaine For the Soul” are entertaining.