"Cleopatra Grip" is an American colloquialism that describes the squeeze-action tightening of the vaginal muscles during sex, which should give you some insight into the kind of obsessions which rage through the singer/lyricist Rose Carlotti's head when she lies awake at night. Fairly average obsessions, when you think about it. Sex, death, desire, frustration, repulsion, they're all in here, just as they are in most normal warped minds.
The only difference is that, whereas we get all hot and bothered and then fall asleep, Rose goes into a recording studio and makes an album like "Cleopatra Grip", a labour of unrequited love and terminal malice more choc-full of female loathing than any LP since Laura Nyra's "New York Tendaberry".
Bile never tasted this pretty before, though. The Heart Throbs' rampant disgust is all the more convincing because it sounds so sweet. There's more held back here than most groups will ever have up front.
"Cleopatra Grip" is built like a classic album. There are 12 tracks, virtually all of them intricately crafted songs, with details and chord changes and bits where the melodies go off in surprising directions just when you least expect. It boasts two big-name producers in Gil Norton (Pixies, Blue Aeroplanes) and Martin Hannett (Joy Division, Happy Mondays), both of whom bestow, respectively, a glistening roar and a controlled power upon The Heart Throbs' extraordinary material.
Or rather, extrAORdinary. The Heart Throbs take middle-of-the-road, daytime radio soft-rock and twist and bend it
into virtually unrecognisable shapes. A couple of tracks here, "I Wonder Why" and "Dreamtime" are ex-MM Singles Of The Week, and were described at the time of release as something like the sound of My Bloody Valentine playing Fleetwood Mac. It's true, The Heart Throbs understand the value of MOR and noise better than almost anyone at the moment: enough, in fact, to know that they work just as well together as they do apart.
The Heart Throbs have accidentally bumped into an original sound on "Cleopatra Grip", the sheer torrid beauty of which steers them through the two comparatively weak spots, "Slip And Slide" and "Big Commotion", enabling them to still fascinate even when Rose's songwriting slips a little. Credit where it's due, though. For most of this record - one that, incidentally, works as an intoxicating, sultry piece - the Carlotti sisters, Stephen Ward, et al cook up dozens of storms and perform like whirling dervishes.
The first side is particularly stunning for "In Vain", a gorgeous recurring mantra in which Rose cries, "I'm not an angel", and you immediately believe her.
But side two is something else, a near faultless song cycle flooded with torrential guitar-strokes and desperate imagery. On "Calavera" (Spanish for "Skull"), a funereally-paced march where crescendoes seem to leapfrog over each other towards the climax, Rose sounds like she's burnt out, like she has nothing left to give. But during "Blood From A Stone", when she sings, "Here's my heart, you can have it", you realise she has after all.
Rose infuses her every lyric with a disturbing, world-weary ennui, yet her exhaustion is bolstered by The Heart Throbs'
remarkably determined attack. Together, they sound like they're caught in a permanent state of palpitating fury. "Trance", which is dancey in a "Paint It Black"/"LA Woman" kind of way, and the hymnal, "Kiss Me When I'm Starving", which puts Rose's quiet rage into unambiguous focus, are ravishing finales to "Cleopatra Grip", already a contender for album of the year.
Paul Lester
Melody Maker, 16 June 1990
