Dry Cleaning Turn Nonsense into Truth on the Fantastic New Long Leg

This kind of ever-lingering sigh permeates New Long Leg. “It’s a Tokyo bouncy ball / It’s an Oslo bouncy ball / It’s a Rio de Janeiro bouncy ball,” Shaw muses atop the turbocharged, shiny rattle of “Scratchcard Lanyard,” equally flummoxed by and fascinated with how one object can take on so many different meanings while also being a nearly useless human invention. “Would you choose a dentist with a messy back garden like that? I don’t think so,” she mutters on “New Long Leg” as undistorted arpeggios circle her like plastic horses on a carousel. There’s seemingly no connection between backyards and the quality of medical care, and with this nonsense, Shaw dismantles and scoffs at the asinine ways that we jump to judgments.

The other folks in Dry Cleaning are just as potent as Shaw. “Unsmart Lady” opens with a quadruple-time feel even though the song is literally just starting thanks to Buxton’s bonkers drumming, and Maynard thereafter gives Dowse exactly the bassline he needs to propel his squelchy guitar bends and phaser-soaked chords. Their work culminates in—and this all comes after Shaw’s most dumbfoundingly obvious non-sequitur, “If you like a girl, be nice / It’s not rocket science”—a Marc Bolan-like mega-riff that’s over almost as soon as it starts, a tease that only amplifies the return to the main motif thereafter.

“A.L.C.” is just as acid-fried, a slow-moving dirge full of frayed, incisive edges even as Dowse’s guitars go entirely silent, and only Manyard and Buxton guide Shaw’s observations about changing cities, low-wage jobs and general driftlessness. The band balances this frizzy harshness with clearer air on the ominous “John Wick,” one of Shaw’s more antagonistic moments. “I like your wardrobe / I never know if it’s okay to take the clothes / Hold on to your beehive,” she says dryly, at once issuing a threat and implying that there’s really nothing to worry about. New Long Leg is full of moments like these, ones where Shaw is equally powerful and powerless, controlling and lacking control, vaguely fascinated with it all. “I’m smiling constantly and people constantly step on me,” she says on “Her Hippo.” Some grin in the face of the absurd and rotten, and others reflect all the hot air back outward. Dry Cleaning make an art of doing both.

Sometimes, Max Freedman sits and writes about music, and sometimes he just sits. Follow him on Twitter, where he has been hailed as “an incredible person with an incredibly bad internet connection.”