The band’s name says exactly what it means to say, and as a listener,
you should set your expectations accordingly. You don’t wander into a sex shop
with a wholesome agenda – you’ve got a dirty, dirty grocery list in your pocket. You cheeky perv! I don’t want to
even guess what’s on it - and while I run the risk of coming off as markedly
prudish, I will actually refuse to do so. I run a family website here. (No I
don’t. I don’t even run Cassette Gods.)
Whatever, because Sex Shoppe is a dirty, dirty band, and they have (or he has, I don’t know if it’s really a band) made a perv of a tape,
twenty-two minutes of greasy, leather-clad industrial flecked with art pop.
Sounds appropriate, right? Sex Shoppe should
only be listened to while dressed in leather, preferably with a gag ball
strapped to your head to avoid the risk of you interrupting the music with your
stupid comments.
The first half is wicked and exciting, with the title track and,
particularly, “Culture Zone” coming off like a garage version of Mr. Bungle’s
“Desert Search for Techno Allah,” which sounds pretty good in theory, and
delivers in practice. The second half of the tape is a bit more Suicide-lite,
and it’s not bad, but the first half is where Sex Shoppe shines. Or convulses
in agony and ecstasy. I’m not 100% sure which is better. Regardless, get your
grimy mitts on this whack job before it sells out! Only 25 made…
--Ryan Masteller
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