If The Man formed in 1981, they’d have been in the Blade Runner soundtrack as something sad android blaster Rick Deckard could listen to in his hover car, or a song to hear buzzing out of the strip club speakers where replicant Zhora works before she gets zapped. Such is the disenchanted sci-fi hi-fi sound of tracks like “TV On,” where the chorus is a series of machine-precise down stroked rushes and halts that accent the rock holler of barely intelligible phrasings about a— member of the band? a hypothetical office anybody?—who hates his cubicle job so much he must zoom home, but only to smolder in front of the TV and get more soul poison. On tracks like “I Don’t Care” and “Pay,” The Man’s trio of office terror—guttural throat drags, merciless machine rhythms, trashy guitar solos—draw out the exhilarating and hilarious effect that has gotten The Man compared to a filthier version of Devo. Bring on the album! Until then, see the website for a vomit of misleading office buzz words and info graphs mish-mashed by the group. Fittingly, their contact address is a now closed coal factory on the city’s southwest side.
–Jim Joyce (HoZac)