Off With Their Fucking Heads

OFF WITH THEIR FUCKING HEADS!

     "People who need people are the stupidest of people.”
– Johnny (Rotten)Lydon

My, my, my. Do I have a bone to pick with you—the alternatwats. Honestly, the next trendy asshole who curls up his/her nose when I buy an “uncool” disc had best be prepared for some violent retribution. It’s insane that some pussy who worships the likes of Weezer or Eminem even has the right to be offended by my tastes. C’mon, do you little fuckheads even know the first thing about punk rock? I’ll point out a few facts to help you:
1. It didn’t begin with Nirvana.
2. At The Drive-In and/or Green Day are NOT punk.
             3. Jeans with designer “holes” in them are for fucking losers.
    4. Punk has fuck all to do with piercings and/or tattoos.
   5. Females who listen to “alternative” music can’t fuck.
                  6. Being a PC, card carrying member of the “sensitive guy” club means:
                                                 A. You’re gay.                                                            or…
B. You’re a phony and a liar. Cuz no matter how many times you sing the praises of Camille Paglia or Kathleen Hannah, you just wanna get laid.

Satan knows I’d be a liar if I were to call myself a punk rocker, however. Truth is, I hate lumping myself in with any particular group and/or movement. I hate sheep, and I hate lemmings ready to jump off of a cliff if their “cool” friends demand it.   Simply put, if you really wanna tap into what made punk rock a thorn in the ass of authority (if it ever was), one must begin with its most important notion: Think for yourself! Don’t waste your time getting pissed off at me (although I would thoroughly enjoy it). Read a book, take some psilicybins, worship Satan or maybe I dunno, jump off of a cliff.

            “I call it adolescence; But they say it’s anarchy”
        – Dead End Cruisers, “Methadone Kids”

Hey straight-edgers, fuck off! There’s nothing I like more than having unprotected sex, followed by a huge steak dinner. After that, nothing does the trick like a fifth of Jack and a few ounces of opium straight from Nepal. Goddamn, don’t you folks wanna look back   on your formative years fondly? As it is, you’ll be working for some huge, evil conglomerate, your stupid X tattoo a constant reminder of: “I really wish I’d fucked that chick that wanted to smoke that big reefer.” Hell, I get pissed at myself when I think about the times I turned down sex because I was “so in love” with some little skank whose name I can’t even remember.   Denying yourself of all of the wonderful earthly delights is not cool—it’s FUCKING STUPID!
So what have we learned from this self-righteous, assholic Pope so far? Let’s see… hmmm… absolutely nothing! Why did He waste our time with this worthless rant? Because I can-- it’s my website. Seriously, don’t be serious. Don’t grow up to be world-class boho snobs like me. Believe me, it’s a painful and treacherous journey; nothin’ except for a bunch of broken bottles and broken hearts. And now, partially because I’m emotionally sated, and partially because I’m getting fucking bored, let’s get to the rawk….

V.A. – Sucking the Seventies (Smallstone)
Sadly this is what has become of the “stoner rawk” revolution. Too many spliffs, too many nights listening to “We’re An American Band” for inspiration, it just had to get fuckin’ old after awhile. The worst part is that I love a lot of the bands featured here, but dammit, no matter how many times I spin this fucker, I just don’t have any fun.
What ya got here is a two disc set of the cream of the downtuned rawk set doing a 70’s jukebox kinda thang. Thus, Halfway To Gone (who I dig) choke the life out of the Marshall Tucker Band’s “Can’t You See”, Heads positively butcher May Blitz’ “For Madmen Only” (though I give them bonus points for knowing who May Blitz was) and Throttlerod basically do a karaoke version of Ram Jam’s “Black Betty”. They’re not the only ones guilty of the note for note reproductions—most of these bands do just that, which begs the question: What was the point?
I hate giving this set a bad review—I really wanted to like it, but when shitheads like Doubleneck crucify the Spiders’ (pre-Alice Cooper) garage classic “Don’t Blow your Mind”, I’m left with no option. Avoid at all costs.

ELECTRIC WIZARD – Let Us Prey (Music Cartel)
These pothead limey bastards never fail to impress. Their bong-soaked, monolithic riffs leave the competition in a mangled heap, cursing their distortion pedals. The Wizards’ last slab of depravity, “Dopethrone” set new standards for apocalyptic guitar doom, and even managed to out crunch their gods, Black Sabbath, no mean feat. “Let Us Prey” manages to take that blueprint even further, spinning into psychedelic canyons never before visited by man, no matter what drug they were on.

LOU REED – The Raven (Warner)
Lou Reed— do ya remember him? The man responsible for making musical perversity into an art form, from the ragged avant roar of “White Light/White Heat” to the exercise in torture known as “Metal Machine Music”? Have you written him off as washed up every few years? I know I have—“Set the Twilight Reeling” has to be one of the worst albums ever released by an artist of his calibre. It’s almost as though ol’ Lou feels some sickly urge to torture his fans (contempt, perhaps?). Every once in a while though, he remembers that there’s more to being a musician than filling contractual obligations.
When I read the press release for “The Raven”, I had mixed feelings—certainly there was the potential for an interesting marriage: The bard of darkness vs. the bard of decadence. Of course, as with most projects that involve interpretations of Edgar Allan Poe, I also knew the spectre of outright pomposity and pretentiousness was looming, ready to cloak Lou in the mediocrity of the last ten years.
….And the winner is? Well, a bit of both, really. With a cavalcade of guest stars (Willem Dafoe, Steve Buscemi, Blind Boys of Alabama, etc etc), the quality is up and down. But when it clicks, Raven is probably his best work since 1989’s New York. Dafoe is particularly unwelcome with his overwrought recital of the title track, but when Lou decides to crank up the amps and kick out the jams, the celebrity cheese is easily forgiven. Stylistically, this fucker is all over the place: creepy neo-classical, lounge jazz, spoken word and all-out rawk. Raven is a very worthy addition to Lou’s brilliant but haphazard oeuvre. Hey Lou, welcome back… again.

Writting by The Fucking POPE; Design by Ms. Jennifer Cheetah