My time with Pre was brief. I wasn't expecting Pre, I wanted Pissed Jeans, but they had bedtimes apparently and when I arrived they were huddled around the dim lamppost outside the Bobo, looking like regular dudes, not the scum-rock fist-punk saviors found on Shallow. By all accounts their live show was great, but I'll stand by the razzing I gave Hope for Men, a disappointment that should be fully ignored. Shame on Sub Pop.
Back to the four blokes and nymphet from the United Kingdom that seized my attention in spastic spurts of proggy nihilism. I'd thought that I'd grown out of this Skin Graft state of mind -- I was once fascinated with the free-form skronk of Space Streakings and the detailed velocity of Melt Banana -- Pre however seemed to play with unconscious primal ism instead of studied histrionics. This is not Beefheart on 45. Each tiny knick and twist accelerated to Soul Disco absurdities. They've got Boredoms on the brain and that's a movement I can get behind.
Speaking of behinds, I saw the word "shtick" cleverly scrawled on a cocktail napkin to describe the singer's skimpy attire and sexual gyrations. Sure the sausage in the front row were drooling on their used shoes, but the sheer amount of sweat this girl shed allows her any uniform, any form of shock tactics she wants to throw down. The sleazy force of Pre prefectly fit the dingy environs and by night's end, or 25 minutes later, I had to crank my jaw back into place.