"Got balls like Sheryl CrooooOOOOOOOooooooowww!"
Bands like Pecola are the reason I spend so much time looking for records. If I'm on the internet, chances are I'll be looking for new bands. It may seem like a futile search - after all, everything's been found, everyone knows every band. But I heed not the naysayers, I just know that if I look long enough and hard enough, I just may find something that absolutely blows my mind. And straight up - The Mexican is one of the most killer albums I've ever heard in my life.
Pecola hailed from Toronto in the early to mid-90's. Somehow they have this perfect blend of bendy Polvo-esque guitar, mathy changes, feral hardcore fervor and as an extra little something, a strange country twang. It doesn't make any sense, but they do all those things better than every other band ever. They've got it down. They're funnier and angrier than most bands could wish to be, and they just happen to do it in a single song. I'm not comparing it to anything, because really, they don't sound like anyone. They've got a few 7"s and a 12" ep, but on their final and only full-length they destroy everything.
When I first heard this album, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This band didn't chug, they barely even yelled, yet somehow they were the toughest scariest band around. There were these strange moments of beautiful melody that shouldn't have worked, that shouldn't have been; weaving guitars and neck bends and cymbal surely cracked from the power hitting them. Ferocity was not in distortion pedals and down-tuned guitars, but in the passion of the guys that hold them.
Pecola destroyed my life.