Hecuba's dubbed-out drone-moan is the L.A. version of New York bands like Excepter or Gang Gang Dance: sexier, cleaner, not as gnarled, more open spaces, more vocals, hippie-friendly, less concerned about their record collection, would rather dance to hip-hop than talk about it, not afraid of a little glitter, better filling your lungs than your nostrils, has photo shoots, trims beards. They're using all the same glitches and squonks and hisses and growls (and most importantly the hoooosss of what is presumably an electronic cuica), and use them to motor Isabelle Albuquerque's slow-churned pop spiritual. She sometimes sings in tune and sometimes deliciously out of tune, which means it's polished, but just-not-polished enough to count as neo-no-wave death-disco or whatevs. Ergo, in a sun-beaten Los Angeles parking lot where No Age is Nirvana, Hecuba front the college-radio playlist of the steaming tarmac with their version of PJ Harvey swamp-poppy To Bring You My Love or Suzanne Vega's quasi-industrial 99.9F°. (Spoiler: Second time around she's rapping like M.I.A. and Yoko Ono. And then namechecks Yoko to drive the point home.)
In a flash, Albuquerque is all three Ronettes, harmonizing in a split-second of bliss, just ro-oh-owe-ohlling over a '60s girl-grou
