Erupting from the seamy neon-lit wasteland of Los Angeles, California – Frank Alpine’s self-titled debut offers a darker, sleazier view of the current cold-wave resurgence. In fact this disc might have more in common with the shuddersome compositions of Chris & Cosey than it does with the contemporary Brooklyn indie set. There’s a no-wave grit to Alpine’s pained squeals, and over double-time electrical beats he eulogizes a city in decline. It’s hardly even ‘cold’ at all – the sound of Frank Alpine is soaked in sweat, booze and the remnants of a night out you’d rather forget.

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