NME 11/91
HOLE
London Camden Underworld


BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED COURTNEY


YOU KNOW when you're feeling elated, lost in wonder, not out of your cranium but wondering why there seem to be continents on the moon, and suddenly a dark cloud descends and you're enveloped by gloom?  Hole are those kind of party-poopers.  Their ability to depress in the name of entertainment is unrivalled. 

For some people this is a good thing; for those screwed-up souls lost in a litany of self-inflicted problems, who love nothing better than enjoying someone suffering on their behalf, these Los Angelenos are the pinnacle of cool.  I'm not begging to differ or prove anyone wrong, just stating baldly that you'd get more healing and less torture in a Tesco queue. 

Courtney Love opens her diary and proceeds to throw all the shit she's been through back in the faces of an appreciative audience, rubbing their noses in it.  And isn't it mystifying the way this 360 degree exorcism can be considered 'pop'?  There must be some serious masochists out there who get off on non-melodies, sometimes interchangeable 'songs' and sounds similar to being caught in the eye of a hurricane in impact. 

Grind.  Grind.  Splutter.  Choke.  Even Hole's touching ballads are twisted beyond belief, mis-shapen, ugly things that parade jagged guitar edges like porcupine spikes.  And when they accelerate it's all too much: like hardcore taken to its logical conclusion of bleakness, nihilism and noise so you end up feeling absolutely nothing, the blank new flesh.  There haven't been many improvements since the recent Astoria show left one somewhat psychologically impaired in the search for an exit.  Hell is being tied up in a corner being force-fed 'Pretty On The Inside' over and over.

Oh, I know you can sometimes scream along to 'Teenage Whore' - a character study in scarlet - but Courtney Love doesn't want to spin a web and keep you enthralled, she wants you alienated, examining your own worthlessness.  Her banshee wails are simply petrifying as she debunks myths that women aren't sometimes guided by aggression, but just idealised passive drones. 

Hole have come far on the strength of the Ameri-Indie underground, patronage by Nirvana and Sonic Youth, and in-your-face anti-image and a horrible squall, sorry, cute teddybear music.  But they're on their own, really.  That's the best thing I can say.  Soulfulness and warmth come high on any musical agenda and this cold, clammy overtly-nasty-emotion-filled mess drives me crazy, muttering off into the night.  I won't be back. 


Dele Fadele