The Trucks

    The Trucks


    Torn between this debut full-length’s rudimentary content and painfully repetitive choruses and the Trucks’ somehow nuanced fashion, I’ve concluded that the band is a curious study of how aggressive street culture can be transmogrified by a female quartet from a lumber seaport called Bellingham, Washington.



    The introduction’s “I like it, I love it, you like it, you love it” rant is hard to stomach, and the second track, “Titties,” offers no reprise to redundancy, albeit with more of an edge: “What makes you think we can fuck just because you put your tongue in my mouth and you twisted my titties, baby?” The bold listener with an answer must also consider the final verse’s ultimatum: “You can’t even get it up into first. What makes you think you can get it in my driveway?”


    Aside from the band’s ultragrrrl appeal (apparently lost on me), the Trucks have a fun sound that should communicate with the dancing crowd. Every track has a digestible beat, steady underlying bass, appropriate synths and, as I’ve already explained, repetitive choruses.


    And the Trucks’ posture is amusingly nuanced, if a bit opaque. “Messages” features friendly and melancholy lyrics alongside a voicemail montage, the album’s lonely departure from the band’s assertive noise. The alleged radio single, “3 AM,” features a pulsating drum and bass that opens with a story of seeing “a boy in a dress in distress/ That’s the kind of boy that makes me arrest,” followed by a performed orgasm, and then the self-congratulating chorus proclaiming, “You are in luck/ We are the ladies of the Trucks/ And we don’t give a fuck/ When we trippin’ all you butts.” Who takes this band seriously?


    Yet, I’m rallying around that nuance. The Trucks’ delivery is a reinterpretation of contemporary culture: the members have consumed a gangsta-rap mentality and reinterpreted/reinvented/regurgitated it in their vehicle of nerdy ultragrrrl sound. Try to consider what inspires four girls from Bellingham to turn out a song like “March 1,” with the following chorus: “And I think that you’re a fucking idiot/ you’re always talking shit/ your mouth just never quits./ I think it’s funny that now you want me back/ it’s probably just an act/ you must be smoking crack/ you must be smoking crack.” I mean, I could call attention to the distance between language and territory and restructure this whole review on postmodernism.