Singapore Sling

What? You've never chain-smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes, gone without seeing daylight for six weeks straight, sauntered around town with a dime-store noir in the back pocket of gasoline-soaked jeans, nodded off in the corner in a heroin stupor, or screeched through the dodgiest part of town in a...

By Michael Alan Goldberg

January 6, 2005

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What? You've never chain-smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes, gone without seeing daylight for six weeks straight, sauntered around town with a dime-store noir in the back pocket of gasoline-soaked jeans, nodded off in the corner in a heroin stupor, or screeched through the dodgiest part of town in a '68 Firebird on the way to a midnight screening of Natural Born Killers? You're in luck! All those thrills can be yours, vicariously, via Singapore Sling's stylishly scruffy and sleazy second album. This Icelandic sextet (which includes a full-time member whose only job is to shake maracas and a tambourine) chews up and spits out the Jesus and Mary Chain, Stooges, and Velvet Underground back catalogues in much the same way as Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Which means you get an even bigger wall of fuzz-drenched, reverbed riffage than you'd think the band's three guitarists could muster; deep, drawling vocals that ooze detached cool; and the occasional spike of vintage keys or backing female vocals that turn the most brooding numbers into blurry, saturated dream sequences. Breaking new ground the Sling ain't, but if you're in search of that dark, gritty, cinematic fix, look no further.

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