The Hex Haus, where they conceived this monster, isn’t pretty, and neither is this. Eight unchained howler anthems for lovers of P.J. Harvey and Gang of Four were the two caught screwing in a bar owned by John Lydon. Miss Jilly’s a thorny rose: Her shrieking, serrating vox are doubled and tripled to the point where she is her own personal doom choir, allowing her sparse, often rudimentary keyboards to take on a welcome creep factor. Guitars play second shift between stabs of harmonics, arpeggiated work and e-bowed atmospherics; the meaty drums favoring power over finesse. Hex dresses their rock up as a street urchin who totes trashy leather boots and brass knuckles. Frisk her at your own risk — there’s a knife somewhere.
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