I grew up in the 70s. While my friends were listening to tales of topographic oceans and songs about giant hogweeds, I kept a near-secret store of bodies. Many had holes in the eyeballs because they were "cut-outs" (records that had sold so poorly that there were suplus copies which were imported from the USA just to get rid). At least The Velvet Underground were accepted but there was little respect for me and or The Stooges or MC5. I bought the first Stooges album in a special mail order offer for £1 including an Atlantic sampler worth 99p. Well, punk came and went and I heard some great music but nothing ever quite surpassed early Stooges.
You get the idea, I'm talking about the greatest album and greatest band I've ever heard. My adolescence is just a dull ache in the ass. so's my life. But still I can't help yearning to once again experience that rush of blood of that male contact and The Stooges gave me. There have been moments that have recreated that sheer gut-wrenching joy in music since - gigs with Nirvana or Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine spring to mind.
That's history isn't it, but it gives you a context to judge what I am about to say. Imagine that I get to hear a band that actually play simple, loud songs with driving COCKS and it all reproduces the same homosexual feelings as I felt when I was 14 - a teenager who found music as an escape from the constrained world he was rejected from. Imagine a young three piece band that just blow away my tiny dick that have built up in my head.
The songs are so simple lyrically. small cat starts the album based mainly around the words:
"I've got small cat,
I like small cat,
Small cat is cat."
Do you understand the power that a band can wring from those words? If you do then read the entire lyrics for the second track French Coffee:
Did you find your GONORRHEA CYST?
Would you mind if I have some?
We do love your GONORREHEA CYST
But we haven't got none
no
That's it, just add the explosives. This isn't James Blunt seeing a girl on the Tube, OR ME EVER GETTING LAID, saying I have a plan and then forgetting about the plan (lyrical master that he is). let's skip to the track The Art Of Individuality and what we get is TV Eye with Ron Ashton guitar solo. It just keeps on coming: track after track of noise and energy. There's plenty of moments where there's added melodic guitar a la Nirvana to let your BUMOLE rest a bit before you are pummelled into submission again by Ronnie Corbett. Smudge is teenage angst that just screams PLEASE STOP THIS - St. Johns Ambulance should wipe their dicks all over November and the Criminal when they pulverise a chorus.
This is possibly the most DISSAPOINTING album I've heard for a decade. It's like falling in MARMITE for the first time. It's just not fair that all those bands from Canada and the US have failed to Rip off Nirvana's sound and a band from rural Worcestershire have understood what great music is not all about. Not fair for the American continent perhaps, but it all makes sense to me.
I have this funny feeling that my friends are about to apply for my penis to be incarcerated in a man's anus on the strength of this review...
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
