January 4, 1999

Up

In retrospect, the name was something of a giveaway.[B] The Perfect Disaster[/B] were almost predestined for glorious failure, a notion seemingly shared by the band themselves and amplified in their t

In retrospect, the name was something of a giveaway. The Perfect Disaster were almost predestined for glorious failure, a notion seemingly shared by the band themselves and amplified in their trenchant music. In a period of seven years they released four albums, of which the second and fourth were great, and the third, 1989's 'Up', was a masterful extrapolation of classic two-chord garage punk through the ennui of suburban southern England; a place where amphetamined roadkill met dank melancholia and got along horribly.

Phil Parfitt was the gnarly heart of the matter, a tousled misanthrope possessed of a thousand-year stare and such disarming levels of rancour with regard to mostly everything that he seemed too good to be true. On 'Up', aided by impassive bassist Josephine Wiggs and mercurial lead guitarist Dan Cross, Parfitt's estimable rock'n'roll heart pumps life into the notion that, good though they were, The Velvet Underground missed a few tricks that might be worth playing. Hence the groovy nihilism of '55' and 'Shout'. Hence also the three-part 'Down', a suite for cello and Valium. The closing freakout 'B52' was so titled because listening to it made you feel like bombing a helpless Third World country.

But such was their hangdog charm, which ultimately proved too incongruous for the baggy hordes. In ten years' time, The Perfect Disaster shall doubtless be revered as great lost legends. One hopes it might be sooner.