The Slats at the 7th Street Entry

Iowa transplants offer sugary melodies covered in salty feedback

After finally realizing that the band dressed up like accountants for their big set at O'Donovan's last Friday night were, in fact, accountants, I relocated to the Entry to see local punkers the Slats. The Iowa transplants took the stage in a big, sweaty clamor, looking (this is strictly guesswork) like they might be wearing the same socks they wore daily in college--still unwashed, of course, for luck. They played with frenetic energy, bringing the audience to the brink of Ed Sullivan Show-like mania with their pop-punk schizophrenia. Nearly sadistic in their commitment to eardrum-bursting guitar roar, the Slats offer up their sugary melodies as sacrificial lambs before feedback-laced power chords and general racket. At least one song was about social anxiety; or maybe all of them were, indirectly. It's grating stuff, also entrancing, and kind of hard to resist.

 
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