PRINT April 1997


Golden Palominos

If you live in a big American city, the voice running through the GOLDEN PALOMINOS’ new CD may recall someone you’ve met: a woman, controlled, astute, observant, maybe cynical or maybe just knowing, and a little too cool for her own comfort. Cool in the sense not of hip, not of rad, but of psychic temperature: I’m dead inside, she whispers, naming the record. Though she speaks through various personae, now an anorexic, now a murder victim, now an update of the erotic android in Metropolis, she’s always recognizable, but she’s probably talking more intimately, more revealingly, than you expect: ordinarily this isn’t someone who lets people get too close. I mean, when she finally writes a song that makes desire at least somewhat desirable she calls it “Drown.”

The Palominos have been in the world since the early ’80s, in a manner of speaking: not one of the band’s eight records features

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