It starts with the guitar, a jackhammer line joined by a propulsive rhythm section beat. And then lead singer Marisa Dabice starts singing, her voice fierce and fragile at the same time as she delivers lyrics about a toxic relationship: “Who told you/ That my body was yours to own.” The title cut to Mannequin Pussy’s third full-length, Patience, opens the album like a manifesto scrawled in blood. There’s resignation, fervor, anger, and reclaimed power kneaded into it. The track makes exactly the right kind of racket.
Hailing from Philadelphia, Mannequin Pussy blazes and punches with every song, channeling a rock ferocity that I’d begun to assume had receded for good. Dabice’s vocals make the riot grrrl movement of the nineteen-nineties an easy comparison, but I think they more convincingly echo college radio titans who first rattled speakers in the decade prior, when the folding of melodic sensibilities and more nuanced lyrics into punk-propelled songs was a new enough practice to be raw and revolutionary. “Cream” is such a concentrated burst of guitar that’s both catchy and ear-assaulting that it was genuinely a surprise to me when the singing started and it wasn’t Bob Mould’s voice, and a less ostentatious version of J. Mascis’s Dinosur Jr. guitar tricks texture “Drunk II.”
Mannequin Pussy slip back and forth between sonic speeds with exciting ease. The album has room for the pure punk blasts of “Drunk I” and “Clams” — both tracks clocking in at under one minute, bless them — and a more restrained version of intensity on cuts such as “High Horse” and methodical, piercing “Fear/+/Desire” (“When you hit me, it does not feel like a kiss/ Like the singers promised, a lie that was written for them/ And you’re touching me, my skin, it turns to mold/ And I’m crying out, a story never told”). “Who You Are” calls to mind Hole, circa Celebrity Skin, as if wresting away a glitter-and-spit-speckled baton away from the band that collapsed after approaching greatness. It’s been some time, but Mannequin Pussy can take the next leg of that sweaty race on a rutted track.
For me, listening to Patience is like having someone unexpectedly clap their hands together loudly millimeters away from the tip of my nose. It delivers a jolt, surges the adrenaline, wakes me up from my mental drift. Some albums insinuate. Patience has no time for that sort of nonsense. It asserts itself with awesome immediacy.