ow in the fuck does anyone talk about Whitehouse? What with all the screams and squalls and hectoring vocals still ringing in my ears, I can hardly think, breathe, or see straight, much less string a coherent sentence together. I feel like William Bennett hates me; I feel very, very dirty; I feel like my head has been opened, my mind raped, and everything closed up again pretty hastily with staples. I’m stammering around my room in a daze, those sickening high frequency synths still slicing into me like daggers. This is vicious music, absolutely terrifying in its intensity, and when it’s all over I don’t really know if I love it or hate it; I just know that I want to play “Wriggle Like a Fucking Eel” again... and again, and again, and again...


Not much has changed for Whitehouse, not ever. Twenty years on and they’re still assaulting the senses with only slightly different techniques -- everything they’re doing now is just a logical extension of what they were doing when they first started. “Wriggle Like a Fucking Eel” (this is the single, mind you) is the most insane thing ever: harsh razor-edged synths run through a blender, with bludgeoning beats racing along like hyperactive hammers somewhere in the background, and William Bennett spitting out his lunatic yells at the top of his lungs. He sounds like he’s dying and he wants to take everyone in the world with him; as the song closes, he shreds his throat on the vicious-minded repetition of the title line ad nauseum. The song was originally released as a vinyl-only single last year, and the album sorely misses the just-as-abrasive instrumental mix that was the flipside.


“Why You Never Became a Dancer” is equally in-your-face, though not quite as effective (what could be?). The one-two combo of these two songs gives the album a great punch early on -- a punch which has, unfortunately, almost entirely dissipated by the time the end rolls around. The remainder of the album diverges into less openly abrasive territory, with a dramatic drop in the energy level. The title track, sequenced right in the middle of the record, is a 15-minute sound collage comprised entirely of monologues delivered by victims of rape and sexual abuse. It’s some interesting stuff -- and disturbing in an entirely different way than the preceding music -- but ultimately doesn’t really stand up to repeat plays.


The rest of the album’s musical tracks are similarly disappointing. I’m tempted to call “Philosophy” low-key, but that’s not an adjective normally applied to songs comprised entirely of high-pitched squeals and feedback. Bennett’s creepy whispered vocals seem to be from the point of view of an abusive spouse, and it’s all delivered with a chilling lack of emotion. Nevertheless, after the opening two tracks’ cathartic rage, this and the similarly meditative “Cut Hands Has the Solution” (which features nothing but a slow, steady drum beat and Bennett’s yells) are just not engaging enough to sustain their length. Fortunately, the closer “Munkisi Munkondi” brings things up a notch with a Merzbow-like rise-and-fall rhythm.


Still, it’s not enough and too late. Whitehouse has always been good at one thing and one thing only, and that’s shaking skulls and eliciting terror from the weak. When Bennett is at his most bludgeoning, his most torturous and unrelenting -- as he is here on “Wriggle” and “Dancer” -- he’s at his best. The rest of the time, who the fuck cares?