Dry Cleaning
Secret Love
4AD
Before suddenly dissolving into a disorienting and dissonant spill of surrealistic, no-wave eddy, Dry Cleaning’s breezy “Cruise Ship Designer” has a confident air about it, talking of building “a powerful boat for a powerful mind” and the “need to serve a useful purpose.” Matter-of-factly, the character study of a success-oriented social climber unencumbered by self-awareness unfolds, ending cryptically with a monotone Florence Shaw coyly uttering, “I make sure there are hidden messages in my work.” It’s unclear if she’s still in character.
A piece of languid, stripped-down funk, uncluttered and neatly arranged, much like its more tribal and effortlessly cool predecessor “Hit My Head All Day,” the quirky “Cruise Ship Designer” is amusing and mildly addicting, metallic flashes of choppy guitar dancing overhead and then turned inside-out, tumbling rhythms operating below deck. Not merely a curiosity, the assured and airy Secret Love, produced by Cate Le Bon, is an intriguing slice of unconventional pop lucidity, following its own whims to where insecurity and isolation hide and wary of being too hopeful. It’s also as witty and sardonic as all get out, Shaw’s breathy, deadpan vocals sliding along dreamy yet sometimes jarring sounds, the well-manicured aesthetics of sly, post-punk groove and flirty, new wave detachment ever present.
Edgy and biting, the menacing and noisy “Evil Evil Idiot” slowly gnashes its teeth, its bitterness growing with every loaded word, seething with a weird obsession with burnt food. On its heels, full of resentment and unfulfilled desire, comes a tense and cathartic “Rocks,” its loud, avant-garde clangor, lashing whips, and riots of head-swimming mystery making for a bewildering listen, while a liquid and slashing “Blood” observes real injustice and atrocities from afar.
Not vying for anyone’s attention but expecting it anyway, Secret Love is an immaculate model of self-restraint, shiny coils of guitar misdirection and industrious agitation unraveling around churning bass lines and tight drumming. It decodes and translates the messages of Wire for a new generation but also succumbs to temptations of melodic, romantic beauty and natural grace with “Secret Love (Concealed in a Drawing of Boy)” and “Let Me Grow and You’ll See Fruit,” the latter a fingerpicked, folky charmer. Intentionally, it woozily loses its balance on occasion, just for kicks, but it quickly gathers itself, like it does in the closer “Joy,” a snappy jangle of clean, power-pop persuasion. Secret Love doesn’t always take itself seriously, but everyone else should. Simply put, Dry Cleaning is utterly fascinating.
