Six Finger Satellite rocks

Paranormalized (SubPop)

Like peanut butter combined with chocolate, the Rhode Island quartet Six Finger Satellite bring hard-to-laugh-at, ironic humor to the violence of their musical mission. The recipe for their new record, Paranormalized, combines equal dollops of nihilism, hate of all that is comfortable in music, and a multitude of synthetic bleeps and burps. With these tools, the band forges a sound and image that revel in the ironic rock star-isms and self-defeatism of indie rock at the same time as it waves around the flayed corpse of a scene built on sarcastic good will.

Whereas most indie rockers ironically wink at the fact that they'll probably forever have to keep their day jobs or deal with living with their parents, Six Finger Satellite put forth a joking posture of rock excess that somehow laughs at you instead of with you. Paranormalized, the band's third full-length, is an extension of their mission to destroy all via elaborate jokes.

Originally signed to SubPop on the strength of a joke demo tape filled with the watered-down grunge sounds that SubPop was, at the time, infamous for, Six Finger Satellite--after one 7" containing the contents of the hoax tape--began to develop an aggressive rock approach somewhere between the territory staked out by the Jesus Lizard and Big Black. After one record of fairly convincing, caterwauling, guitar-based progressive punk, the band threw in a new curve: goofy techno. The release of the horribly received Machine Cuisine 10" EP found the band putting down their instruments and creating a Devo-esque record conceived and rendered entirely with electronics (i.e., plenty of Moogs and drum machines, no guitars). This synth obsession has, however, developed in an opposite direction than the Farfisa pop of Stereolab. Where Stereolab trade in bubbly Marxism, Six Finger Satellite revel in pessimistic Nietzschian dilemmas (see their new song "Paralyzed by Normal Life" for a primer).

At the same time, the band picked up an '80s schtick to go along with the tunes--cheesy suits, guitar-style keyboards that could be slung over the shoulder, and a fascination with an extremely narrow range of subject matter (i.e.: Machine Cuisine had a song entitled "The Well Tempered Monkey," their next record, Severe Exposure, brought us "Simian Fever," and a recent 12" of "dance music" found them playing "Valley of the Monkey God").

And here they go again. Like an paranoid epileptic with Tourrette's, head freak J. Ryan's wails from under a haze of fuzz and layers of wheezing electronics add variety to songs which tend to sit obsessively on one keyboard punctuated groove at a time. With titles like "Do The Suicide," "30 Lashes," and "Coke and Mirrors," Six Finger Satellite would not want to be caught in a PMRC hearing, but reading only the song titles really misses the joke. More often than not, these songs should be read as a multi-layered jibe on (and in a way a tribute to) early non-goofy '80s synth bands (fans of Devo and Kraftwork will enjoy; fans of A Flock of Seagulls and the Boggles need not apply).

Perhaps Ryan states it best in his sole lyric to the collapsing groove that is the album's final track, "The Great Depression": "Word is out. Word is out."

--Alec Bemis