You're a Woman, I'm a Machine

She had me on the living room floor, a handful of hair in both hands. “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you,” she said.
It wasn’t so much that she said it but that I knew she could and would. She leveled her love right at me with the same recklessness that left all those scars on her left knee.
And I fucking loved her for that.
At least, I tried to. It was dangerous and stupid, but so were we.
Then, right at about the same time, she got smart and I got restless. She knew I’d never love her. She knew that all the frantic fucking and desperate pain just couldn’t hurt me enough to make me stay. There were still wounds open and lines left in my flesh, carved out by someone even more fucked-up that she was.
So she left. Or rather, she let me leave her for something more damaged.
But for some time there were the broken bottles, the blood on the pillows, and the red marks and bruises we used to communicate. It was as good as bad got and probably even better. Dysfunction was rarely ever so mutually gratifying.
Single again and socially severed, I still think of her. I wonder what more there was to a love we both wanted but couldn’t make work. I figure we took our course and what there was to know and learn we’ve taken with us on our way. I don’t want her back. But sometimes my mind still conjures kisses we intended but never exchanged.
Of course, neither one us was in it for the kisses or cuddles to begin with. She had her hurt and I had mine and they both needed each other to feed and seethe themselves into something more severe. Either of us could have sustained a dull panic for decades, but it took our love to drive us both insane.
Some people know just what this is like. Some of those people are my friends. Some others are Canadians. And two of them are Death From Above 1979.
With You’re A Woman, I’m a Machine, DFA1979 have unleashed a sweaty surging record with more blood than it has heart. These are all love songs, but every one of them is fractured, frantic, fucked-up, and frenzied. It is a thing of inspired madness and malevolent beauty.
The scenesters would lump DFA1979 amongst more fashionable groups that are more likely to sue them than they are to share a stage. But a more accurate sonic touchstone would be Metallica’s Kill’Em All. Both records boast riff-heavy hooks that take a backseat to boundless balls-out energy. That kind of momentum transcends trends from dance floors to mosh pits.
Still, this is hardly a metal record. DFA1979 don’t sound so much like Metallica as much as they do a Metallica that spent more time listening to The Clash’s Sandinista than they did Diamond Head’s Lightning to the Nations. There’s more congas here than there are guitar solos and more high-hat than hellfire.
Still, it’s hard to accuse DFA1979 of cashing-in or cresting a wave that’s already been burdened to breaking. For every damning dance-punk trademark there’s an onslaught of unfashionable riffing and raging. These guys didn’t come here to dance or grab the cash; they’re here because they’re damaged and dependent on distraction.
It’s that sense of desperation that makes this record so instantaneously engaging. This agitated level of instability and volatility summons The Stooges at their blurred-bliss best.
Of course, The Stooges aren’t for everybody. And I expect the appeal of DFA1979 to be somewhat limited as well. But those who get it will get more than they bargained for. These boys didn’t come here to fuck around. They came here fucked-up and they’re not leaving until they’re fucking or fucked.

Download "Little Girl" from the band's site

Watch the video for "Romantic Rights"

Buy it now from Amazon