Back in the early 90s, when the roster of the Too Pure label were the coolest new kids on the block (Moonshake, Stereolab, Pram, PJ Harvey), Th’ Faith Healers were once the flagship band, melding frenzied speedracer tempos with high-strung, hypnotic two-chord repetitions that would extend to a half hour at live shows, recalling their obsession of space rockers Neu! Their kinetic motion was interrupted when they broke up in ’94. Main songwriter and guitarist Tom Cullinan and Roxanne Stephen formed Quickspace Supersport that same year, releasing a couple EPs that turned down the garage fuzz, and increased the toy store instrumentation and experimental kosmische atmospherics in line with former labelmates Pram and Laika. They honed their sound on two EPs, dropped the “Supersport” and release two excellent albums — the self-titled in 1996 and Precious Falling in 1998 on the Kitty Kitty Corporation label. After seeing Stereolab connect with the Chicago music scene, recording an album with Tortoise’s John McEntire, and I can’t help but think Quickspace would have benefitted from taking on Chicago’s kranky label for U.S. releases, as it would have better connected them with their people than the more generic indie powerhouse Matador.
So here we are with the third album, The Death of Quickspace. The chugging rhythms retain some Faith Healers flavors, but the raw guitars are refined into a more poppy, though still distorted sound. “The Lobbalong Song” is a swirling whirlpool of pixy sticks, guitars and keyboards whose sugar rush leaves one a bit woozy. “They Shoot Horse Don’t They” builds slowly into a crescendo of mournful melodies and slashing guitars. Nina Pascale took over as second vocalist and guitarist from Wendy Harper in ’96, and the call and response vocals owe a lot to Stereolab, though they are more ethereal, embedded in the background so that the harmonizing is woven into the instrumentation rather than sitting on top. Quickspace won’t be playing stadiums anytime soon — there is still a fidgety unrest throughout the album that occasionally erupts in spiky guitar strangulations. Cullinan stubbornly adheres to his focused artistic vision on the spacey eleven minute “Climbing A Hill.” “Munchers No Munchers” starts with a series of synthesizer squirts straight out of Rush’s 2112, accompanied by a noisy circular guitar riff that spins like a top. But the time it slows and stops, you realize it was an instrumental, and a damn good one. The album evokes a vague nostalgia for great indie rock from the late eighties like Husker Du, The Pixies and bands from the Shimmy Disc label but have enough neo-futuristic tricks up their sleeves (theramin, electronics) to stay relevant through the 00s (I’ve been waiting to say that!). Let’s just hope the foreboding title doesn’t mean yet another breakup.
