In this drive by, Thomas fearlessly disposes of: |
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The Hollowbodies As I've said before, and so I shall say it again. Mediocrity is the murderer of music. You can quote me on that if you want, I don't mind. It happens a lot. Here is an album which defies real explanation, and does it in a way that never allows you to be entirely sure whether or not you like the album itself. Decent lyrics. Good vocals, and the guitars and rhythm hold it together well. It keeps it afloat. But where are we sailing? I'll be honest with you; I know no one else will. It sounds a lot like Pearl Jam. [with a poppier sound, as if that was possible.] And there was a point in time when that was okay. Until I got sick and tired of hearing his name. See? I can't even bring myself to say it.
"YOU JUST WANT TO HAVE VEDDER'S LOVE-CHILDREN! YOU'RE MAD, YOU'RE ALL MAD!" Then I began tearing out my hair. "Please try to calm yourself--" "I'M NOT CRAZY I'M SANE AND YOUR ALL INSANE AND YOU'RE TRYING TO STEAL MY MAGIC BAG!" That was a long time ago, and I learned to deal with it. I don't hate E-D-D-I-E, just all the sort of false messiah nonsense that Jarvis Cocker attacked Michael Jackson for. Sting was the same way, bonding with the natives, until they got wise and gave him the heave-ho. Now he cooks socks in hell. And he listens to The Hollowbodies. This album gets an "E", for whats-his-face.
Foreskin 500
Mix your idea of quality industrial dance (if you have one) with a thin layer of pure 70's interplanetary locomotion and trandecendant love-funk. Mix in a voice like what's-his-face of Marrilyn Manson. Turn it up really loud, please. I'd be interested to see what it would do to your car, myself. Turn that battered Gremlin into a long, sleek, hot pink love machine, with three wheel motion and velvet seats, I imagine. I give it a "B" for Baby. Do yourself a favor. Check this out. You're beautiful, baby. This is definitely a keeper for me.
Gravity's Pull "Plastic Umbrella", the first track of this one hit wonder, has cornered the single release market, fair enough. It's everything good. It's a proud ballistic knife, cutting through your darkest day with it's 'Nothing can touch me' mantra. Shave your head and shoot to kill. This is it. You vs. the Evil Wrong Bad Guy Fuckers. All white and black, wrong and right. No gray matter here. It's the bottom of the ninth, sudden death, you're on their ten yard line. There's a hundred of them, and you've got four bullets left--three for them and one for you. That leaves 96 pallbearers, and you've still got your pocket knife. A great single, all in all. After that, it wears out it's welcome by simply existing. It's like the omnipresent soundtrack song of the summer, "Hey Man Nice Shot", by Filter. Great tune, hard, fast, catchy. But overused. (It's been in every action movie since 1970, easy. The next time you watch Star Wars, listen carefully when Luke is buzzing the Death Star, in for the kill. I swear you can hear it.) Summary: First song, tickles your fancy. Rest of album, boring as dishwater. Hey man, nice try. "C"
THOMAS MCKENZIE did four years in the U.S.
Navy as a bomb tech, living in Europe and having a total James Bond life as an
informal ambassador of the U.S.; partying, traveling and drinking all over the
globe. He has been writing since he was old enough to pick up a crayon. Besides
PURR, his work is also published in MOO, ACME and Ezzthetic Media Design.
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I thought I was doing pretty well, until I learned my therapist liked them too. I
backed out of her office, running and stumbling, knocking over chairs and
minimalist sculptures.
Throw the double doors
open wide. Strut, do not walk, into the room. Glass platform shoes, red sequins,
live goldfish in the heels. Two foot bell bottoms, with large colorful dragons
around the legs, and made of a light green leather, swish and sweep the floor.
White disco shirt, collars grazing your shoulders, open to the navel. Gold zodiac
medallions on heavy gold chains sway across your chest. You've got your lava lamp
cane, with the disco ball snow shaker on top. Your Starsky and Hutch signature
series red thigh length leather jacket with the fur cuffs spells out 'love god'
across the back, in flashing neon. Your blue suede wide rimmed hat, its dingle
balls around the edge, is topped off by a peacock feather. Light blue feather
boa, around your neck, draped soulfully over your arms, down to your waist. Your
diamond studded gold tooth sparkles in the lights of the room. You borrowed your
wide gold rimmed sunglasses from Bootsy. Gold rings on every finger, spelling out
'Papa' on the left, and 'Love' on the right. If your cellular phone rang right
now, you could put the party on hold to the sounds of Mr. James Brown. The entire
club falls silent as you stroll in, each step to your own beat. You gesture from
the hip to the ladies in the house, oblivious to the open mouths and silent
throng of the club around you. Welcome to the funkadelic monstrosity that is
Foreskin 500. It's all that, baby. Don't be afraid. I'm your love doctor, and
we're going to fly to the moon tonight.
