Send "Prinzhorn Dance School " Ringtones to your Cell 
| Pitchfork |
 "I do not like change! I do not like change!" When Tobin Prinz hollered those lines on Prinzhorn Dance School's 2007 self-titled debut, he was speaking in the crotchety voice of an uptight conservative caricature. But, judging by this five-years-in-the-waiting follow-up, the line serves as a handy bumper-sticker advertisement for his own band's cryogenically sealed post-punk aesthetic.If Gang of Four famously extracted the sex out of funk, then Prinzhorn Dance School suck the funk out of Gang of Four, retaining their violent guitar spasms, ominous bass throbs, derisive vocal interplay, and the claustrophobic, Entertainment!-style production, but breaking up the 4/4 fluidity into hiccupping, epileptic rhythms that, true to the PDS name, would seemingly require some educational instruction on how to dance to them. Where most bands reemerge from an extended absence exhibiting changed perspectives and freshly absorbed new influence, Prinzhorn Dance School remain defiantly un-evolved. No string sections, dubstep makeovers, or, hell, even a single cheery synthesizer line for these two; the challenge of telling the two albums apart could form the basis of a great dorm-room drinking game. But then, as that first record made clear, Prinzhorn Dance School's proudly spartan setup is simply a reflection of the harsh, unforgiving, hand-to-mouth nature of modern English life-- and it's not as if an interim economic collapse has made the situation any more promising. And so Clay Class presents familiarly despairing scenes of "granite-gray" skies and "concrete hinterlands," while the band's instrumental economy extends to the songwriting, which can quantify the magnitude of the global recession in a single dispiriting couplet ("Got off the treadmill, treadmill/ Got in the breadline, breadline") or disarmingly evocative image ("A tin of mixed fruit/ On special occasions"). As co-vocalists, Prinz and partner Suzi Horn rarely play off one another, or try to assert their individual identities; rather, their disparate voices-- a withering, monotone sing-speak for him, hyperactive yelps for her-- simply deliver the same dispiriting news with different degrees of anxiety....full text |
| Consequenceofsound |
| The formula that makes Prinzhorn Dance School work is one of utter simplicity; they’re the reason the word “minimal” is used in music discussion. England’s Tobin Prinz and Suzi Horn may have a similar setup to The White Stripes, but the bass and drums compositions these two put out make even the early Jack White work seem flamboyant. Their 2007 self-titled debut album received amazingly mixed reviews (heck, the The Guardian gave it either one or four stars; the reviewer couldn’t decide) despite some superb, weirdo dance-punk hits. While they may be taking baby steps in altering that formula (most notably by adding a healthy smudge of guitar), the little change that does show makes their new disc, Clay Class, a deeper experience. That sameness is something that gives their tightly wound, little post-punk tunes such a mesmerizing quality. When Prinz blithely barks that “It’s cyclical/it’s circular/it’s human nature” on “Usurper”, the single bass note and bass drum rhythm that pound out behind him reinforce it the same way that the 11 songs on the album reinforce each other. When they do alter their sound, it’s for a stark effect. The twanging guitar and deliberately sweet harmonies on “I Want You” keep the same insistent simplicity but soften the whole palette severely. Where their debut felt powerful in its saturation of a single tone, Clay Class shines in its subtle changes to that tone. On “The Flora and Fauna”, Prinz’s voice is echoed at various times by the interlocking bass, guitar, and Horn harmonies, and the simplicity is suddenly a multitude. Their messages may still be repeated ad nauseam (turning simple social commentaries into absurd slogans), but the shading that surrounds them is enhanced tenfold. The straightforward dance-y quality of much of their last album is replaced instead by a lithe slinkiness here, a sweet tottering there. But rather than losing any consistency, the fluidity of form builds a richer world....full text |
| Sputnikmusic |
| There’s something utterly divisive and confrontational about sparse, minimalistic music. For some, its bare bones are a sight unpleasant to gaze; too naked and stark to be truly enjoyed. With Clay Class, Brighton, England’s Prinzhorn Dance Studio (whose name stems from Dr. Hans Prinzhorn, who collected the art of his mentally ill patients) don’t strive to convert such listeners, with an album as spare and trudging as you’d like; yet manage to outlay something which somehow still could. It’s in the oblique, slogan-like lines Tobin Prinz delivers, with an icy-cold lack of anything approaching emotional chutzpah but a voice that simultaneously grasps the phonetic intricacies of cold-hard, gloomy intent, with his accented, angular tone. The words he sings are just as important – a cryptic and intriguing barrage of downtrodden outcasts of desire, prosed in almost political fashion which subverts the typical singer/songwriter trappings of simply explaining sadness in a sad voice. He offers a more opaque stance that spews lines which are as personal as they are political: “got off the treadmill, treadmill/Got in the breadline, breadline” serving as an example. Musically, Clay Class doesn’t stand a chance of converting those who like their radio waves overflowing with noise, however. Tobin Prinz and Suzi Horn (see what they did there?) strip indie rock back to its bare, post-punk roots, with stringent, steady bass chords, sparse percussion and squalling lead flashes which dance over the top, as nervous and twitching as the remaining seven legs of spider, when one of its legs is caught, pinched between the fingers of an assailant. It’s slow and trudging, never evoking excitement, opting for a paced march though sodden ground instead. It’s not particularly easy to enjoy but unravels itself over time, making sense when coupled with the angular vocal delivery....full text |
Prinzhorn Dance School lyrics
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