Mr Bungle: CALIFORNIA (1999)
In an era where strangeness and pastiche reign supreme, it has become increasingly difficult to surprise and shock. Not that Mr Bungle don't try. This new offering is markedly less incoherent than its predecessor, yet the schizoid approach and warped sense of humor are immediately recognizable.
How can you describe Mr Bungle's music? Imagine a psychotic DJ on bad drugs doing the last circus show on earth, sampling from every style of pop music ever invented and… You get the idea. Incorporating heavy metal, big brass, surf rock and B-grade psychedelia (and with more than a few passing nods in Zappa's direction), Mr Bungle have truly created another monster. The high level of musicianship is noteworthy, and is, in fact, the first thing noticeable. There are plenty of sudden beat changes, layered soundscapes, unexpected arrangements, and everything is neatly crowned by the brilliant and versatile vocals of Faith No More's Mike Patton.
Although California is more "serious" in tone, at times it comes across as aimless, exhausting and nearly unlistenable. It is hard to keep a strong sense of direction with so much collage, so much chopping and changing. The inevitable question arises: What's the point of all this? Mr Bungle is a great bunch of musicians, no doubt. But one wishes sometimes there was more method in the madness.
(DAILY TELEGRAPH, 1999) ***
The Birthday Party: PRAYERS ON FIRE (1981)
Before singing duets with Kylie Minogue, wearing suits and crooning at the grand piano, Nick Cave was a filthy and disgusting creature who writhed and dragged himself on stage screaming guttural and barely intelligible hymns to all that is putrid in life. Despite all this, The Birthday Party, the Melbourne-born band Cave fronted from 1980 til 1983, became an unusual success story. Like Frankie would say, they did it their own way and were prepared to pursue their unpleasant vision wherever it lead. Scorned and showered in bad press, The Birthday Party moved to England and managed to gather a loyal and enthusiastic audience--mind you, this was the same bunch of junkies, punks and hardcore-heads that Nick Cave was desperately trying to shrug off ten years later.
Musically, Prayers on Fire is the most subtle and controlled of Birthday Party albums, although "subtle" and "controlled" are surely not the first words that come to mind when listening to it. "Nick the Stripper" and "King Ink" crawl with drunken insect-like heaviness, while other songs blend circus, vaudeville and tribal rhythms with simian and intestinal bass lines and the dissonant guitars of Rowland Howard to create a grotesque universe that makes the prefect home to Cave's brutal and anguished characters. Yes, there is anger and ugliness in liberal quantities, but also a redeeming sense of humour that many doom-merchant bands lacked at that time and still lack today. Although their music was, for many, a depressing affair, Birthday Party remains the most innovative Australian export ever. Whereas bands like INXS or AC/DC drew on a relatively risk-free rock/blues tradition, Birthday Party pushed their art to the edge of chaos, and no one has quite yet managed to sound like them. Not that many have tried.
(AUS MAG) ***
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: KICKING AGAINST THE PRICKS (1986)
Whereas bands usually release cover albums when they run out of things to say, the recording of Kicking Against the Pricks was a momentous turning point in Nick Cave's career. Banging the last nail in the coffin of his musical past, Cave and his troupe donned smart suits, string accompaniments and offered reinterpretations of some old favourites. There are rendition of classics like "Jesus met the Woman at the Well", "Hey Joe", "The Carnival is Over" and others by John Lee Hooker, Johny Cash and The Velvet Underground The result is more than merely a tribute. Cave sings the songs as if he had written them himself, and even the lyrics sound like something he could have penned, echoing with themes of murder, loss and religious visions.
Kicking Against the Pricks was the first step towards a more mature, sober and re-invented Cave. From extreme and idiosyncratic beginnings, his music had come full circle to embrace more conventional song forms and styles like the ballad and the gospel song. This album anchored the Bad Seeds in a long songwriting tradition originating with the blues. And although older fans felt betrayed, the darkness that had characterised his music still remained, but in a more sophisticated guise. As an artist who extracts beauty out of misery and turmoil, Cave remained true to himself while widening the appeal of his music.
It took Nick Cave a few albums to shake off his image of screaming Goth rocker (nourished so carefully with The Birthday Party) and gain respect and serious recognition, but the quixotic struggle seems to have paid off at last.
(AUS MAG) ***
Butthole Surfers: LOCUST THE ABORTION TECHNICIAN (1984)
It is hard to believe that Butthole Surfers are now romancing the top-forty and doing the David Letterman Show. But such are the ironic contradictions of pop-culture. Butthole Surfers began in 1982 when four guys from Texas decided to indulge in their unwholesome proclivities for sonic experimentation, substance excess and bad humour. Funnily enough (or maybe not), they soon acquired cult status. Songs with names like "Cream Corn from the socket of David" and "I saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas" have now earned a well-deserved place in the darkest rungs of the collective unconscious.
Wresting the so-called "experimental" banner away from the high-brow pretentiousness of other rock and electronic bands, Locust the Abortion Technician remains unsurpassed in its whackiness and in-your-face bizarreness. Butthole Surfers are not particularly talented musicians, and ultimately their effort must be valued not so much on its musical merit as on its cathartic properties. Keeping true to their tradition of making the worst record possible, the songs range from the puzzling to the unlistenable. Butthole Surfers boldly go where no Texan has gone before, and sometimes one gets the impression that their unpleasant and mind-gnarling tunes are reaching mental depths that are better left uncharted.
Locust the Abortion Technician is one of those albums that must be tucked safely away from the sunlight and aired in measured doses once in a while. After this, Butthole Surfers settled for more conventional band and song structures, but their music would be irrevocably chained to the same bowl of vomit
(AUS MAG) ***
Kim Salmon and The Business: RECORD (1999)
From odd name changes to radical image overhauls, rock stars pull all kinds of tricks to try to convince us they are entering their "mature" phase now. In this context, this offering by Kim Salmon and his new outfit The Business is bound to raise a few eyebrows. Kim Salmon in a business suit? You gotta be kidding. Then again, Salmon has never been shy of change. From The Scientists to Beasts of Bourbon and The Surrealists, he has travelled wide musical territory while always remaining true to himself.
Record is Kim Salmon distilled but undiluted. It is suave, funky and assured. It slides, meanders, screams and gets down. Salmon's sound is a lithe and infectious exploration of the sleazier and hazier side of life. The versatile horn section is a prominent feature, used tastefully and without overwhelming. Bourbonesque and Surrealist echoes notwithstanding, Salmon's gaze is set firmly ahead. With a clean production, neat arrangements and well-structured songs, Salmon has traded part of his sweaty, low-fi aesthetic for something sharper, slicker and more… erm, mature.
(DAILY TELEGRAPH 4/11/1999) ***
Chris Gaines: Greatest Hits
Once upon a time, on a planet far away, there lived a God-fearing pop star called Garth Brooks. With his steely blue stare, tacky cowboy outfits and mediocre tunes, Garth once again confirmed the dictum that no one's gone broke underestimating the taste of the American public.
But then, as the machineries of culture inexorably trudged on, an angel came to show Garth a horrifying glimpse of his final resting place: The dustbin of history, the tenth circle of hell reserved for awful one-hit-wonders like him. So, in an execrable sub-Bowie ploy, Garth invented a character called Chris Gaines and recorded an album of fictitious Greatest Hits. He gave this character a look and history. For the photo session he lost weight and sucked in his cheeks really hard.
There was one problem though. The music really sucked. In fact, the music could only be described as a lame aural thread washing through the nervous system with no lasting impression whatsoever.
So the album flopped and the record company dumped all the unsold CDs into the ocean, choking whales and creating a light-resistant screen on the surface of the waters that quickly precipitated the climate of that planet into doom. That nasty little species was never heard of again.
Meanwhile, in the tenth circle of hell, Garth was made to suffer double (both as Brooks and Gaines). Needless to say, everyone lived happily ever after.
DAILY TELEGRAPH
posted by Andres Vaccari @ 2:19 AM