| Hissing Prigs in Static Couture | 
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Avg. Customer Rating:   (based on 14 reviews)
Sales Rank: 510989
Category: Music
Artist: Brainiac
Publisher: Touch & Go Records
Studio: Touch & Go Records
Manufacturer: Touch & Go Records
Label: Touch & Go Records
Media: LP Record
Discs: 1
Shipping Weight (lbs): 0.5
Dimensions (in): 12 x 12 x 0.2
UPC: 036172085514
EAN: 0036172085514
ASIN: B0000019LD
Release Date: August 19, 2008
Availability: Usually ships in 1-2 business days
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| Tracks:
| • | Indian Poker, Pt. 3 - Brainiac, Taylor, Tim | | • | Pussyfootin' | | • | Vincent Come on Down | | • | This Little Piggy | | • | Strung | | • | Hot Seat Can't Sit Down | | • | The Vulgar Trade | | • | Beekeepers Maxim | | • | Kiss Me U Jacked up Jerk | | • | 70 KG Man | | • | Indian Poker, Pt. 2 - Brainiac, Taylor, Tim | | • | Nothing Ever Changes | | • | I Am a Cracked Machine |
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Product Description
Brainiac's final album is their definitive statement of intent. Coming out of the rich Ohio tradition of freewheeling, noisy punk, the band fused new wave keyboards with a spacey, inhuman aesthetic.
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| Customer Reviews: Read 9 more reviews...
Gorgeous September 29, 2007
2 out of 2 found this review helpful
It is hard to explain the appeal of this record but it is brilliantly ferocious, a glorious assault that has rarely been equalled in my experience.... what many aspire to but almost none achieve. Like being knifed and loving every stab...And who can resist the name? I mean, "Hissing Prigs in Static Couture"? This is the real deal.
Nothing ever changes!!!! February 15, 2005
1 out of 5 found this review helpful
I remember went i was about 13 and seeing this band's video Vicent Come on Down, this band has always been my personal favorite. It's sad how a band this good with so much weird talent is now gone. Brainiac will always be out there! Long Live Brainiac!! R.I.P Timmy Taylor.
startlingly original stuff from the "post-grunge" trenches January 9, 2005
3 out of 3 found this review helpful
Brainiac was one of the most fascinating bands of the nineties, a band that, sooner or later, will experience some popularity due to some serious name-dropping, of course, tragically, there won't ever be another record like "Hissing Prigs" or any of the other Brainiac albums, due to Tim Taylor's tragic end, but at least we have Enon to continue flying the flag.
"Hissing Prigs" is a masterpiece, and it was with this record that Brainiac's influences became less and less apparent and the sound just hit the listener in the jaw with its originality. Sure, there are touches of some Pixies here, a little Devo there, some Sonic Youth here, etc., but Brainiac had one of the most original sounds of any group of that time. The way the guitars were approached on this album were awesome--it'd take a rocket scientist to figure out all the oddly tuned riffs at work here. The heavy grooves of songs like "Vincent Come On Dowm" and the rush of "Nothing Ever Changes" make for great rockin'-out music, but this album is great for any occasion. Highly recommended.
amazing September 12, 2004
2 out of 5 found this review helpful
Simply brilliant record. Can take a while to get into, especially if you're into heavier music, but it will grab you eventually. Trash all your Faint CDs. The Faint, Flaming Lips, TV on the Radio, in their wildest dreams, could never hope to be one tenth as good as Brainiac. Reference points include Jesus Lizard, Shellac, PIL, Devo, Stooges, Melvins, Dazzling Killmen, Melt Banana, Tomahawk, Firewater, etc. Immensely fun with a sense of attack looming just over the horizon.
Artful Noise Pop Bereft of Priggish Pretensions August 26, 2004
7 out of 26 found this review helpful
Some gaunt bespectacled nebbish type with sporadically diaphanous facial hair replied to my inquisition of Brainiac's musical sensibilities with a rather bumptious unhesitant "uh...oh yeah. They're good. NO denying it, man." Well, as I had no other distractions nor options of where to alternatively spend my meager funds, I adjudicated to amortize the chasm of my wallet and purchase the disc (having read panegyric after panegyric promoting this album as one of the great auditory experiences of a lifetime it seemed an inexcusable act of self-debasement if I did not in fact procure a copy as soon as possible). I ambled back to my dorm room with the gist of all of the positive statements corrugating back and forth in the back of my mind, and for a terse moment I felt contrite about liquifying my money for an album I had only "heard" about (and as there was an unfortunately disconcerting incident involving a !!! album - a situation where all of the effulgent things people were saying about it persuaded me to purchase it apropos of nothing really, only to be exponentially distressed by the misplacement of money - my reticence was I feel anything but picayune. However such puerile reservations were immediately vanquished when I heard the opening chords (a wonderfully cacophonous moment) to Pussyfootin' then to Vincent Come on Down. Relieved that my purchase was not in vain, I listened attentively to the sounds scattering about and bouncing off of the walls - bouyantly hopping around and swiping back and forth across my head with diving swoops and swats. Everything managed to retain an impressive innate confluence despite the ornamental noise contortion, and I must say I was completely seduced by the way melodies were violently tossed about in a verticilate eddy of distortion and atonal noise. I was enamored by the wonderful sense of joviality that was precedent from the first track on the record, the fact that Brainiac could assume a sort of artsy stature without looking like your typical Joy Division a-hole. I was devastated by the pummeling percussion, the way the drummer sounded on the verge of exhaustive collapse. But most of all I was enraptured by the idea that here, documented within my grasp was evidence of life on this planet, something that concurrently rocked with an assured traditional swagger yet also deviated from anything present on the contemporary music scene. It seemed palpable to me that the potential for Brainiac was one of the nations renewable resources. But these idle presumptions were given cessation when I read further into the history of the band and discovered that Tim Taylor had died prematurely in an auto accident (a demise eerily akin to the one that befell the grossly talented D. Boon). I had nothing to do but listen devotedly to the last testimony of a band that vanished before it had the chance to record a MASTERPIECE.
In the throes of ascetic fascination I was privy to the brief thought that Ohio must be a fecund and fertile ground for amazingly diverse and innovative bands (my state's previous record of musical progeny evokes the Holy Name of Devo, Pere Ubu, the Cramps, the Breeders, and the Waitresses)and I considered the possibility that Brainiac was a band easily amended to that sacred category. What makes this album so unique that no one can ostensibly conjure up a denigrating thing to say about it? I don't know. I don't know if anyone could competently articulate to you the imperviousness of Hissing Prigs in Static Couture, and that's precisely what verifies its manifest brilliance. I couldn't begin to limpidly describe to you the reasons why I harbor such unbridled adoration for this particular album for the exact same reasons I could not even begin to delineate my dedication to the Flaming Lips' "In a Priest Driven Ambulance" and "Transmissions from the Satellite Heart;" Lou Reed's "Transformer;" Eels' "Electro-Shock Blues;" PiL's "Second Edition;" Smiths' "Queen is Dead;" the Raincoats' self-titled album; Minutemen's "Double Nickels on the Dime;" Tom Wait's "Rain Dogs;" Pavement's "Slanted and Enchanted;" or Devo's "Are We Not Men?" I have allocated a certain portion of my being to these recordings and many more, yet when it comes to actually communicating their relevence to me personally in semantic and syllabic terms, it is as if my tongue unfurls in churlish imprudence and I am reduced to an inelegant inanimate object. Why is it that great music like Brainiac's "Hissing Prigs in Static Couture" transfixes listeners into an inarticulate stupor and leaves us hebephrenically extending our arms to a unapproachable apparition of description - confoundingly trying to grasp and express the ineffable? I don't think anyone can adequately explicate any rhyme or reason there and perhaps it's all the better. After all, doesn't the concept of music function on an initial understanding of non-traditional communication? What vengeful wrath would we incur if we ever attained the ability to put into words properly the ubiquitous connection we all have to a certain album or certain piece of music? I prognositicate that the universe would inversely fold in on itself - unintentionally destroying our pitiable existence. An existence that would be all-too dull and vapid were it not for the likes of a genuinely magnificent band like Brainiac.
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