Pulsars
Tiny Global Productions
Man’s best friend, apparently, is not a dog, but rather a machine. Reading like science fiction, the short and bittersweet “My Pet Robot” makes the case in the endearing, child-like oddity off Pulsars’ careening electro-clash debut LP, a long-lost ‘90s indie cult classic if there ever was one. Wired differently, the Trumfio brothers, Dave and Harry, had a knack for crafting off-kilter, alien synth-pop symphonies to God that were fun for all ages, with some PG-13 exceptions.
What an imagination they had. Gleefully sifting through a junkyard of discarded gadgets and gizmos to find the perfect tools, the duo daydreamed of recreating Pittsburgh tunnels, smothering love, and hitting Wisconsin roads, all while sending addictive hooks and sleek melodic currents racing through minimalist, technological circuitry. That is until the full, orchestral majesty of “Das Lifeboat” swept across the stage.
Hitting refresh, Pulsars are reissuing their ingenious self-titled creation, with an updated remastering, punchier original mixes for a fistful of tracks, and the initial, nightmarish artwork on the cover. It’s a playground of pulsating pop ambrosia. Theirs was an irresistibly DIY, and surprisingly radio-friendly, amalgam of vintage synths, mechanical drumming and unraveling, streaming guitars, all distilled into an artful, infectious euphoria of songwriting brilliance and subtle subversion. What else to make of the crunchy dopamine rush and underlying violence of “Runway” or the swooning S&M fantasy “Submission Song,” with its sunny horns and cigarette burns? Or, what about “Owed to a Devil,” an upbeat romp about selling one’s soul for fame and fortune? Its brass is showing, reappearing in a nostalgic “Save You,” as they somehow managed to fulfill the promise of The Rentals — remember them?
Necessity adopted the Pulsars as their domineering mother of invention, cheap keyboard blips and pops coloring a breezy “Silicon Teens” and distorted fuzz coating an infectious “Wisconsin” so that its crackling radiation vibe doesn’t burn its pale, Jesus and Mary Chain-like skin and dry, menacing vocals. A yearning “Suffocation” claps and shrugs off romantic disenchantment, as “Tunnel Song” burns brightly and drives into a clean, airy expanse, which begs the question: What if their big label deal with Herb Alpert’s troubled Almo Sounds hadn’t been such a boondoggle?
