Local quartet Post Pink doesn't waste your time. The group's self-released demo cassette, "Too Pooped to Pip," flies by in under 10 minutes, with only one of its six songs cracking the two-minute mark. It's quite refreshing that the band members— bassist Emily Ferrara and throat Angela Swiecicki (both from Big Mouth), guitarist David Van McAleer, and drummer Sam Whitelaw (from Crimson Wave)—are so mindful of how precious time is in the 21st century that they don't feel entitled to ask you to spend an hour getting to know their band. That they so successfully cram so much into such compact songs is what makes this introduction to Post Pink's recorded output so refreshing.
"Too Pooped" is where you might land when hopscotching from post-punk through art-punk, skipping from LiLiPut to Huggy Bear to God is My Co-Pilot. Think: a jerking sense of melody, guitar used as both propulsive blast and rhythmic crunch, a breathless approach to vocal insistence, and all of it delivered with right-now urgency. Opener 'I Want to Believe' takes a two-chord and galloping-pulse approach to strangling the precious sweetness from indie-rock young-love songs, with Swiecicki softly singing sweet nothings before moving into a stretch of feral sarcasm that ends with her sing-screaming, "I love watching TV with you—I love TV, and I love you." The breakneck jitters of 'Made in Mexico' sounds like it is mocking the reactionary fears some Americans harbor about people crossing U.S. borders.
Swiecicki seems to take a similar approach, that of assuming the attitudes of her target of ridicule, in '(S)hit,' where the opening verse—"Hey baby what do you see/ what do you see what when you look at me/ hey baby baby what can I do/ what can I do to get inside of you?"—feels like the rude cluelessness of somebody hitting on anything with a pulse. All six songs here feel like they're taking aim at some recognizable human target, be it older dudes objectifying younger women ('B.G.E.') or the needy partner in a relationship ('Crampy,' which not only contains such whiny gems as "Can I bum a smoke?/ Will you drive me home?/ Let me see your phone" and "Did you make the bed?/ Will you give me head?" but makes "You, you only think about you" a chorus—all in under a minute). A deliciously bracing jolt.