it’s a fucking mess? it’s a fucking mess?? too right it is. a glorious fucking mess at that. welcome to the misanthroparty! woo. and. hoo. a timely reissue of arguably the brainbombs finest moment.
a gargantuanly grim reminder of just how squalid life and art can be. oh it’s art baby. a fetid ugly little abortion of a record. coming on like some hormonally imbalanced pubescent sexfantasist drooling over real crime pornography, chronically masturbating to lisa lopes car crash photos with humourless determination. the worst kind of comic-book nihilism presented in the best possible way. a sour, bile-yellow rancid cumshot right down yr earholes.
it’s the sleaziest production/recording job they’ve had on record. a swampy murky claustrophobic mire, a burned out sludge of hideous aural erotica.
so what d’jew get for yr bucks? you get seven tracks with titles such as stinking cocks and skinned alive. you get their most straightforwardly rocking numbers since the gonzoid swing of ass fucking murder. you get an attempt at some fucked ballad, stalker, whose clammy filthy fingers snake greasily down the middle of the album. you get all the mangled stooges movesyou can (wet)dream of.
musically it’s the same monotonous, sadistically simple garage squall. out of tune trumpeting like someones dug up roy castle and stuck a ketamine addled robotup his ass, like some monged steve mackay huffing among the threechord repeatrepeatrepeaterry. guitar buggery, slow and endless, a mantra for all you softbrained pederasts and brain-damaged misogynists. a vaguely jazzed bass voyeuring dampcrotched through this incoherent rape. all played through busted amps and broken instruments, howled over a hypnotik mesmerik motorik corpse thump.
the bored torture porn vocals are buried in the mix, the way yow’s early jesus lizard hollerings were. lyrically it’s the same deadeyed monotone of headfucked rapist fantasyand butcher knife serial killer instruction manual.
it seems wrong somehow to enjoy this. like watching funny games (not the tim roth remake) or henry: portrait of a serial killer. where’s the pleasure amongst the obscenity? i don’t know. i listen to whitehouse (effectively their electronic brethren) for chrissakes. i laugh occasionally.
it’s the nowave industrial dirge of early swans. it’s the metallic bloodsoaked blues of unsane. it’s the deranged pounding abjection of shit and shine. it’s degenerate and destructive, stinking of semen and real bad vibes, a needle wielding junkie lurching at you with ugly fucking intent.
limited to something in the region of seven hundred copies.
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