The drummer plays in a jerky, attacking motion that reminds me of Tori Amos. The vocals are hushed, falsetto and reaching for a dramatic beauty that falls between the dissonance of the guitars and stand-up bass. It’s mutant jazz on downers twitching along in a disregard for formula. Bird Bones in the Bughouse is sometimes beautiful and fragile and still often bitter and painful to the touch. Probably too artsy for its own good and far too pretty, because you know somewhere beneath the surface there is something more interesting than what you’re being given.
This review originally appeared in Glitter Gutter Trash, April 2005, Issue 196.