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New Album Review

ALBUM REVIEW: Tacocat – This Mess is a Place

This Mess is a Place by Tacocat

BEST TRACKS: Crystal Ball, Hologram

FCC violation: Grains of Salt

Tacocat is a guitar-based pop punk group out of Seattle. However, Tacocat’s most recent album, This Mess is a Place, leans significantly more towards bubblegum pop than some of their previous albums. Tacocat rose to success as a band in the early 2010’s, at a time where everyone wore rainbow loom bracelets and nyan cat ruled the internet. Though Tacocat sharpened and refined their sound over the decade, the early 2010’s influence is still prevalent in their pastel music videos and peppy songs.

A word of caution to crust punks, metalheads, and people who love to suffer: this album is SWEET- have too much and you might find yourself with a cavity. Songs on this album feature velvety background choruses and saccharine guitar. You could say this album sounds similar to Chris Farren’s Can’t Die, or Remember Sports’ All of Nothing but with way less grit. Overall, This Place is a Mess is light and breezy, easy listening. I enjoyed listening to it in the mornings while I was in the shower to get pumped for the start of a new day.

Despite having underlying existential themes, this album refuses to wallow in misery. This Mess is a Place is about finding hope and light despite the bleak state of the world. The first track, Hologram, reminds you to take a step back and enjoy life’s simple moments, with immersive imagery of beaded curtains in the purple dark. The third and most popular track on the album, Grains of Salt, is about living for yourself and dropping the weight of other peoples’ judgements from your shoulders. Major props to Tacocat – say what you will about them, but their cup is undeniably overflowing with mettle.

If you like sunshine, you’ll probably like this album. Just don’t forget to brush your teeth!

-Safia Rizwan

Categories
Short Stories

Nightmare of a Softboy Chapter 3

So I flipped the dial.  I did it. I am, or was, at that moment completely overtaken by a fever of lethargy.  It had crept between the discs in my spine for days, or months, or weeks, or years, or months, and I had, at this moment, surrendered my action to it.  Hindsight is, obviously, sufficient to make any historian a genius. You in your comfort, or myself in my narrow-minded approach to my own identity, which existed before me and only then, can easily chastise this decision.  But the fever. Values are luxuries. Without material well being, I cannot even retain enough consistent consciousness to formulate meaningful conclusions from my surroundings. And so, in the undetermined and unimportant length of time preceding my decision, I was broken down into something which was not me or otherness or really anything.  If there was no one around and my mind was relegated to ponder why it was so hot and heavy, then there would honestly be nothing left.

I can recall a day where it was particularly bad.  Though clear comparisons between this instance and the one which ultimately led me to turn on 102.9 are impossible due to the incredible abundance of factors which contributed to their tangible assets, I imagine that it was generally less severe simply because it did not lead to an apocalyptic action.  Additionally, analysing every piece of the scenario which facilitated my dial-turning would be too difficult, at least now, because it has been fantastically muddled within my memory, and would subsequently be even more muddled in my articulation.

One morning, at around 2:30 PM, I was laying on my couch.  My eyes sloppily traced the ceiling. I was dressed but not particularly; I had to anticipate any lazy stomach pains.  But then, out of nowhere, or perhaps maturing slowly, or perhaps as a result of some forgotten force, my head began knockings into itself.  The stinking mass of nerves and tissue sleeping in my noggin began to boil, belching and excreting against the back of my eyes. It was a monolith: absolutely inescapable and coupling into every piece which could call itself me.  And so I laid there. What else could be done? I let it throb until it subsided or maybe it didn’t and it only happened to get even worse later. Operationally, the results were the same.

It was therefore in a desperate ploy for relief that I changed to 102.9. I had become obsessed with whatever state of flux could relax the aching pieces rattling within me. And in this flux I began to listen.  And in this flux I began to tap my foot.

– Cliff Jenkins

Categories
New Album Review

Album Review: Tobi Lou – Live on Ice

Live on Ice by Tobi Lou album cover

By far, the most creative album I’ve heard in a long time.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve been listening to Tobi Lou for a while now, but how I discovered Tobi Lou is actually quite interesting. A producer that I was extremely fond of named YOG$ had just got done doing a collaboration project with another artist I thoroughly enjoy, and upon finishing that project, did a track with Tobi, and I hated it. It took me about around 3 months and 15 listens to actually come around on the song, and I was still pessimistic listening to the rest Tobi’s music. I finally started coming around to Tobi’s music because of the dichotomy between lighthearted fun and melancholy teenage emotions within his songs. Not to mention his incredible lyrical creativity, singing ability, and downright fantastic production, mixed with actual interesting ad libs. Tobi Lou quickly became one of my favorite artists to follow, and Live on Ice does not disappoint.

Something that makes this album truly interesting and separate from other hip-hop/r&b/pop albums is that many of the songs can be thrown into any of those genres, and possibly others. From the first track on the album, 100 Degrees, it would appear to be a hip-hop album, but as you head down the track list, you find songs like Sometimes I Ignore You Too and That Old Nu-Nu that are so far from hip-hop in a traditional sense, and that argument can be made for just about every song on the album. Tobi even collaborated with K-Pop artist Vernon on the track Looped Up, arguably making for one of the most creative and ambitious songs on the album.

I have been trying to think of a good comparison for Live on Ice, and from a musical perspective, I haven’t been able to find one. It’s just that unique and creative. But, I believe an argument can be made that Acid Rap by Chance the Rapper and Tobi Lou’s Live on Ice have very similar impacts on the audience it reaches, essentially accomplishing the same goal, connectivity. Acid Rap, is arguably one of the most influential factors for the type of music I listen to, and many others my age. Live on Ice accomplishes the same effect, but for a slightly different audience. Acid Rap was influenced by extremely prevalent themes being love, friends, following your dreams, with the biggest theme being heavily based around drugs. All of these elements combine for one of the most successful mixtapes ever made, as well as being responsible for Chance the Rapper’s massive popularity. Live on Ice is similar to Acid Rap in a way, due to how Tobi effectively connects the themes of the album to the listener. While it might not be as successful as Acid Rap, Tobi Lou has created a project that will touch the lives of many people in the same way Acid Rap did. Themes like finding love, dealing with depression, being comfortable with who you are, and heartbreak are expressed throughout the album extremely effectively through fantastic production, Tobi’s ambitious vocal layering/editing, and lyrical creativity. Personally, I love happy music, and when I heard tracks like Favorite Substitute, Like My Mom, and Ice Cream Girl, I immediately fell in love with them because they connected with me in a personal and interesting way. The use of non-traditional hip-hop instruments, catchy choruses, unique vocals, and actually interesting ad libs (seriously no one ever has good ad libs) make songs more lively, and help to set a mood for the album overall.

Live on Ice is genuinely in a league of its own, and I think it should be treated as such. It took me almost a month to fully understand and interpret this album, and I hope others get as much out of this project as I did. I truly haven’t listened to an album this interesting since Healy’s Subluxe in 2017. I highly suggest you give this album a shot, even if you don’t like hip-hop/r&b/pop because it is such a different experience.

Suggested Tracks:

-100 Degrees

-Sometimes I Ignore You Too

-Berlin/Westside

-Cheap Vacations

-Looped Up

-Favorite Substitute

-Ice Cream Girl

-Jaye

Categories
New Album Review

EP REVIEW: Josh Mullen – Lemon’de

Lemon’de by Josh Mullen album cover

EP REVIEW: Josh Mullen – Lemon’de (8/23/19)

BEST TRACKS: Fine, Lemon’de

FCC Clean

Meet Josh Mullen, who is just now dipping his toes into the world of songwriting with his first EP, Lemon’de.

This 18-year-old grasshopper from Youngseville, NC is an unashamedly self-proclaimed indie boy who draws his inspiration from the likes of Mac Demarco and Neutral Milk Hotel, which is evident in this EP by the mellow vocals and dominant use of acoustic guitar. Mullen admits to recording this entire EP in his bedroom using Audacity, but to be fair, who doesn’t record their first EP on either Audacity or Garageband? Despite not having the greatest means of production, for a first EP, it’s pretty good.

The song “Fine” kicks off the EP and immediately blasts you into the 5th dimension of consciousness with high energy strumming and a nicely complimenting bassline. The vocals are easily the most impressive part of this song. Mullen’s voice is soft but not completely mushy, carrying a pleasant amount of grit and intensity while still remaining soothing to the ears. The heavily reverberating vocals will penetrate their way into the center of your brain and settle down there. The reverberating, softly warped vocals make their appearance again on “Brown Recluse” and ‘Punch”.

Another highlight of this EP is the title track “Lemon’de”. For this lighthearted number, Mullen sets aside the guitar and picks up a sweet little ukulele. I feel like I’m in the Curious George universe when I’m listening to this song, dreamily floating down a river in a rowboat on a sunny day. Eating a banana. This song will ‘whistle’ your worries away.

Josh Mullen is a talented guitarist and vocalist with a lot of potential. Josh Mullen, if you’re reading this, keep making music! Everyone starts somewhere. Thank you for being a fan of WKNC and I hope to see you making waves in the future.

You can listen to Lemon’de on soundcloud here: https://soundcloud.com/skippysgotmail/sets/lemonde-ep

-Safia Rizwan

Categories
Miscellaneous

Obviously, Fake Top 5 Most Shocking Moments in Music History

Obviously, Fake Top 5 Most Shocking Moments in Music History

5. When Ozzy Osborne ate an entire horse on stage 

The undisputed king of classic doom has been relegated to docile geriatrics as of late.  Following his exploration into reality TV at the turn of the millenium, Osborne has become somewhat of a parody of himself with his cartoonish antics and increasingly unintelligible ramblings.  That being said, it’s crucial to remember Osborne as an absolute legend of classic rock. As he popularized playful occultism, sludgy romantic doom, or just general head banging goodness, Ozzy was a key player in transforming rock into a liberated art form.  Nowhere is this more clear than the infamous occasion wherein Osborne participated in a horrifically graphic equine feast. While on a solo tour after leaving Sabbath, the band was halted mid-set by their leader; Osborne first looked out into the audience in silence before finally opening his lips.  “Bring her outttttttt!” he screamed as Randy Rhoades and company scrambled backstage before bringing out, well, you guessed it. A giant horse. For the next three hours, the audience stood stark horrified as Osborne slowly sliced through the beast and consumed it piece by piece, blood dribbling down his chin and onto innocent concert attendees who just wanted some good-down-to-earth-metal-music-itellyawhat.  The show was, of course, cut short as Osborne proceeded to shit himself and die after eating so much raw horse meat. Classic Ozzy, he’s quite a clown, huh? 

4. When Mick Jagger Didn’t Die 

How is this guy still alive? Like, I don’t wish ill on him.  But it seems like a natural violation that the Rolling Stones are still a thing.  I’m pretty sure him and his bosom buddy Richards have done it all: smoked poo skeletons, injected specially radioactive gas poison, writhed around in the River Styx while occasionally shouting “yeah baybay” to each other as their tight leather pants grazed death water. It doesn’t matter, I guess, though. 

3. When Billie Idol Invented Punk Rock 

When the words “poonk rok” first creep past your ears with their spindly digits, the first images that pop into your whimsical head may be of dingy clubs occupied by New York’s darling quartet of hideous grandmas, but they, sadly, were posers.  Wha…? Posers? Posing as whom? Iggy Pop? Nope. The MC5? Nope. Lou Reed?! Nope again. See, they were actually following what could essentially be distilled down to an elaborate marketing campaign designed by one Billie Idol. Idol, originally a marketing consultant for Viacom, spent years researching what could set off what he identified as a powderkeg of untapped teenage angst. Several years of looking at graphs, gathering disgruntled testimony, and co-opting avant-garde aestheticism into white-consumerism later, Idol emerged with the hit single “White Wedding” which fundamentally altered the course of music history.  Idol would go on to enjoy a long and successful career as punk’s most vital contributor, eventually giving birth to two sons: Henry Rollins and Ian Mackaye. 

2.  When The Beatles Headlined Woodstock

Imagine this, Woodstock has already been going on for nine-days, your one pair of super hip homemade jean shorts have been absolutely soiled by mud and human feces, and the acid jell-o isn’t enough to keep you going.  It’s about time to leave, the sun is rising, but wait. There’s one more act. Who could it be? You think, lids nearly crusted over from sleep and probably a little pinkeye too, the headliner has been kept a secret from us this whole time.  Who is it who is going to come out and end the show. Also, this was New Year’s Day 1970. Then, you see it, a lanky figure with a severely unbrushed beard begins making his way towards the stage. Sunlight is still soft, you can’t see exactly who it is but the anticipation is beating against the inside of your head as another figure steps forward.  This time, it’s a greasy guy with no shoes and a round face who is tailed by a guy with an impressive mustache wearing like robes and then another guy. Of course, it was the Fab Four appearing to close out both the now-legendary music festival and the 1960s as a whole. Who could forget their classic renditions of “Hey Jude”, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, “Octopus Garden”, “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road”, or Ringo’s fifteen minute drum solo rendition of the National Anthem.  You had to be there, man. 

1.  When the guy from Def Leppard Grew An Extra Arm to Drum Harder 

Deep in the bowels of 1985, Def Leppard was perched gracefully upon international charts and drew tens of thousands of rabid fans who were interested in seeing what was, simply put, the worst band of all time. During one of their famously shitty performances which drew attention from Rolling Stone writers who were baffled at the sheer magnitude of their diarrheal soundscarpes, drummer Rick Allen began to sweat profusely as shapes began to appear in underneath the skin of his sweat-drenched chest.  Audience members wretched as the shapes began to take more tangible figures and it became clear that what was being formed was none other than a horrible bundle of fingers. Fountains of bile streamed down the floor of the jam-packed stadium as the fingers flailed helplessly into the air as they were painfully pushed out of the now swollen and putrid body which housed them. Eventually, the arm was fully generated, picked up a drum stick, and laid down the worst drum solo of all time.

– Cliff Jenkins 

Categories
Short Stories

Nightmare of a Softboy Chapter 2

Nightmare of the Softboy Chapter 2

I’m uncomfortable marking my infidelity as an aberration of bad choice.  Maybe I would have before the accident, before I became who I am today or, I should say, realized a piece of my own figure which was given inadequate attention.  It seems, one could posit, that this lack of attention is what subsequently led to a frustrated transgression, a rebellion which gives too much agency to its master when considered as a lapse in judgement.  I cannot claim my body; my body claims me. As such, moving against the grain in a refusal to acknowledge an inalienable part of my being was destined to end in supposed catastrophe. 

Just as I would start any day, the morning in question began at 1:00 PM.  I must admit that my personal life had deteriorated severely in the preceding several months, and I must admit that I do not have a job.  My days are, or were, understandably free. There is no use in explaining whatever semblance of a routine I had here in this narrative. It would be useless.  It would be infinitely difficult because my days were spent inwardly, exploring tangential realities that the mind is left free to explore when material is lost with social interaction. This is why WKNC was so important to me, to us, to an entire world that has essentially disintegrated into will.  Whenever the opportunity presented itself, or whenever I could be bothered (these two are operationally the same), I would switch on my house radio, which was always set to 88.1 It wasn’t me who switched it to my trusty station originally, or if it was I couldn’t remember. What was important is that I became a subject beneath it. 

Such subjectivity breeds alienation, anger, hopelessness.  The apparent viceroy of unbias would here point to me, or what was me, or what has always been me but historically more so, and screech with an obtuse digit that “it is your own doing, you cretin! It is (or was) you who switched to WKNC! If not, then it was still you who remained under it! Whose life was built around it!” after  which I would retort, “Yes! Yes! Exactly that! I am only it and so I cannot without!”.

But, of course, rebellion creeps slowly.  And I had nothing but time. It doesn’t matter how long before that morning I was listening to WKNC, the reader just has to trust that it was long enough to question my own vacuous existence.  And so, in an action which was no more prophetic than it was a mistake, I tuned my dial to 102.9.

Categories
Short Stories

Nightmare of a Softboy Chapter 1

Nightmare of the Softboy: Chapter 1

 

I don’t know how to fully separate what happened before and after the event. Of course, we as people are accustomed to think of ourselves linearly, as arrow whose points end on our present and whose entire lives are essentially just training for whatever moment we might be living in.  But this is misleading. I can’t say that I haven’t always been like this, as I write this. Weeks ago, before it happened, of course I would have sneered at even mentioning that my body could be stricken with such maladies as I am today, but I was no different then. Maybe less aware. My life has undoubtedly changed in that I have actualized something which has probably always been there, now. But I have no right to call my metamorphosis an offense. 

 

It would be best, for the sake of this narrative, to start before my change.  Again, the reader must keep in mind that however strangely I may have acted compared to myself now, it is still me and each of these versions have always existed within each other.  But I digress.  

 

There was, or is, a certain pleasure I took in alternativism.  Prior to the accident, I found protection from the banal in layers of scratchy sweaters, ironically dirty socks, malnutrition, lazy summers, terrible interior decoration, underwatered plants, plastic glasses, four dollar green teas, occasional pink eye, etc.  And even if I initially revelled in it, its boundaries undeniably remained within consumption. It was my main hobby, consumption, that is, and my lifestyle could not be uncoupled from simple variations in my consumption patterns. This included crack injected coffee, ridiculously inflated footwear, prank jeans, research chemicals, and, most importantly, my favorite radio station: 88.1 WKNC.  Nowhere was my self-inflicted solitude more quickly recognized here; and through my status as a faithful listener of North Carolina’s most alternative epicenter, I retched at the idea of having my ears soiled by any other radio station. That is, until the accident.

 – Cliff Jenkins

Categories
Miscellaneous

Top 5 Class Rock Bands

Top 5 Class Rock Bands 

I get it, it’s exhausting listening to the most cutting edge music 24/7 on two simultaneously spinning student-run radio stations.  Sometimes you just gotta throw on some 100.7 and let your brain mush take in the vibes of a land long gone to the passage of time. But we can’t forget that these bands and musicians are our forefathers, and that they deserve the utmost respect from the new guard of…ahem…coolness.  For this reason we’ll be going back in time today to take a look at the most essential bands that ever existed and fully analyzing what about them made their impact so durable.  

5. The Rolling Stones 

Formed in 1945 by best friends Mike Jagger and Keith Richmond, the Rolling Stones became a virtual overnight success due to being an anomalous sexy band from England.  Their 1984 single “Miss You” put the band on the map with its sexy combination of sexy guitar, sexy vocals, and sexy drums. Around this time Mike, who had reached an emotional pitfall due to his drug use, underwent a special therapy where all of his blood was replaced with more sexy blood.  Following the procedure, Mike’s sexy levels were so high that the United States government (still being led by President Richard Nixon) barred the Rolling Stones from entering the country. To combat the low album sales that naturally follow being left out of the American music market, Mike Jagger and Keith Richmond went undercover in the CIA for over thirty years to destroy the system from the inside, accidentally setting forth a series of convoluted events which ultimately led to Donald Trump being elected president.  To retaliate, the CIA was ordered to murder one of Mike’s closest friends: David Bowie, which was then framed to look like illness. In an unprecedented deal with the U.S. Department of Justice, the Rolling Stones were spared capital punishment on the condition that they tour forever until they die. 

4. The Beach Boys 

Oh boy, where to even start with the Beach Boys.  Well to begin with a little fun fact that few people know, the band’s name is actually derived from the surname of all of its members: Bechbou.  Emigrating from Germany in 1890, the Bechbou clan first established itself in Des Moines, Iowa as a circus act consisting of 15 identical children singing the same note so loudly that they would begin to hover six inches above the ground.  This was not a good idea. Frightened Iowans exiled the Bechbous from Des Moines and the family had no choice but to wander the Midwest until they reached a promised golden paradise: California. By no means was the trek easy. Though in 1932 the Bechbous had reached Los Angeles, half of the children had died by means of natural disaster or cannibalism.  Now a disgraced, broken clan, each of the Bechbou boys had ten more identical boys who they subsequently trained to be even better circus performers as themselves. Twenty died during the brutally strict singing regiment. Still, this left 50 members, most notable among them being Huey, Louis, Dewey, and Charles Manson. Renaming themselves to the more anglican “Beach Boys” the band erupted in the West Coast American rock scene after the release of their 1975 album “Rumors”.  However, their bitter rival, the Beatles, figured out that, due to the band’s insane musical training for their entire childhood, they could be activated as super soldiers if the right song was played for them. Needless to say, 1980’s “Helter Skelter” ripped the band apart. Charles Manson was the first to be activated, turning into a high powered psychopath while Huey, the band’s leader, went bananas. 

3. The Beatles

Possibly the most famous band of all time, the Beatles were formed in 1989 by spirit brothers John Legend and Rob McDonald.  Both being from recently divorced parents, the duo began their career with busking on the streets of their hometown: Seattle.  In a time where Michael Jackson was ruling the Billboard Hot 100 with a bedazzled fist, the Beatles were dead set on dismantling popular music in its entirety.  At first, the King of Pop didn’t pay much attention to Legend and McDonald. However, as spray-starched hair began to fall out of fashion with a youth obsessed with being disaffected, the freshly-born MTV recognized extreme potential in Lennon and McCartneys supremely unkempt chic.  After releasing 1991’s “Revolver” to critical acclaim, Legend grew noticeably distant from his musical partner. Walling himself in his Northwest fortress which he custom built to look like a medieval castle, he and his new wife, Joan Jett, notoriously indulged in month long benders while recording unlistenable noise soundscapes. In early 1993, at the pit of this illness and while the Beatles had taken an indefinite touring hiatus due to hysterical crowds, McDonald was forced to slap Legend several times in the face and subsequently bring about his sobriety.  With a full functioning creative engine again in place, the Beatles recorded their sophomore record “Under the Bridge” during the Fall of 1993 and began plans for a world tour the following year. Sadly, these plans were never actualized. In the Winter of 1994, Michael Jackson silently moonwalked into Legend’s ridiculous cartoon castle house while he was sleeping and bludgeoned him to death in his sleep. Though McDonald continued on to a profoundly successful solo career which still thrives today, the story of The Beatles is one which undoubtedly ends in tragedy.

2. AC/DC

We all know AC/DC as the vessel by which rock and roll most quickly enters our bloodstream.  But what I bet you didn’t know is that AC/DC is actually just five dogs sloppily dressed up as people. 

1. The Beatles Again

I’m so sorry.  I forgot to mention Sgt. Peppers.  When I first heard Sgt. Peppers, I punched my own mother in the face because I didn’t know how to react.  The minute the soundwaves emanating from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” stroked my face the spongy material in my brain signaled me to go full force berserk mode.  I ripped through my shirt and first two layers of epidermis, I drove my car into a wall, I burned off my own foot with a flamethrower because it was the best music I had ever heard in my life.  As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I was struck by maddening inspiration. Formulas, formulas, formulas, and Bam! I had invented the time machine. I traveled back to the days of Mozart and sliced his head off with a machete.  How dare he try and remove the crown of best musician from atop the collective mop-topped heads of the Beatles. This man has never come close to writing the majesty that is and was “A Day in the Life” and he should be ashamed to ever even venture into the territory of musicianship. I will call the police on any person who does not get the album cover of “Sgt. Peppers” tattooed on their chest. 

Categories
Playlists

TOP 10 SONGS TO LISTEN TO WHILE YOU POO

TOP 10 SONGS TO LISTEN TO WHILE YOU POO

Everybody does it.  Though we often don’t openly talk about it, each of us has cumulatively spent days of our lives sitting on the pooper, thinking or listening to God knows what.  With that being said, there is an almost completely untapped market of music made specifically to listen to while their listeners are subjected to regular movements.  We haven’t gotten to a point where highly specific shite tunes are widely available, but we still have your trusty blogger Cliff here to deliver a personalized playlist of my favorite crap tracks.  This is the TOP 10 SONGS TO LISTEN TO WHILE YOU POO.

 

10. California Dreamin’- The Mamas and the Papas

 

I don’t know about you, but there is seldom a time where I am squatting down to let loose where I find myself in a particularly clean or aesthetically pleasing environment.  Because of this, it’s hard to resist throwing on this counter-culture folk classic. As I sit trapped in my self-inflicted linoleum prison my head begins to peruse thoughts of a mild-aired utopia.  All the leaves are brown, baby. 

 

9. Seeing Red- Minor Threat 

 

Though I must admit that I’m not the most amiable person in the world, my own worst enemy is me, especially when I’m undertaking a nice #2.  And I when I mentally face-off with myself in the toilet bowl-arena, I need the one-two punch of speed and power to slap myself into the correct BM mindset.  Ian MacKaye’s screams provide the perfect burst of energy to accelerate out of those unfortunate ruts. 

 

8. Dazed and Confused- Led Zeppelin 

 

Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re being dramatic about your poos (my girlfriend does to me all the time), your expulsion of organic waste is the most natural heroism of all time: an epic written in the dirt beneath our feet.  It’s hard to choose a particular Zeppelin song to snap into my greasy bathroom tape player, but this wailing classic off their debut transforms my bashfully off-white bowl into a golden throne from which I sip from a goblet while straining the blood vessels in my forehead.  This heavily distorted dissent into fiery blues-rock gifts an otherwise banal task with the dignity that it has always deserved. 

 

7. Informer- Snow

 

The barrier between the abstract enjoyment of music and material improvements from groovy tracks is much less tangible than you would expect.  What could this possibly mean, Cliff? Well, the undeniably perfect mid 90s classic, Informer, is so funky that it helps me finish my duty. Snow’s beautifully crafted beat massages my colon via soundwaves, and the lyrics are so good that my body completely relaxes whenever I let those golden words into my ears.  Thank you, Snow. 

6. London Dungeon- The Misfits 

 

You can probably tell that these songs are chosen to reflect something I am feeling in my head and that I view them as reliable extensions of whatever I am feeling. As mentioned in the California Dreamin’ segment (see number 10), I often feel trapped by architecture that is understandably designed to keep the stank from leaking out.  However, more often than not I decide to revel in my discomfort rather than finding release in escapism. For that reason, the Misfit’s London Dungeon, a song literally about being in a dungeon, really resonates with me. If you were to break down my door mid-project and conducted a vibe check, there’s a good chance you would find a wave of brooding anger lingering within me. 

 

5. Crosseyed and Painless- Talking Heads 

 

Despite whatever I may be wearing, whatever fad I’m committing myself to, or whatever I may be currently spending the majority of my time doing, at the end of the day I cannot escape the vulnerability of simply being human.  Unsurprisingly, this existential dread of being within a soft body surrounded my hardened testaments to human progress is particularly exacerbated in the necessarily immaculate reality of a bathroom’s interior. So, when I sit there within my mech of pipes and tile questioning why I must inherently remain a pinnacle of weakness while pushing out evidence of my body’s inefficiency, David Byrne’s nervous yelps of modern fear give me at least a partial feeling of solidarity.  The (angular) rattling echoes my anxieties of an alienating society and empowers my disgust with its throbbing isolation. As a result, I have few qualms about dropping my deuce within it. 

 

4. Honey Bucket- The Melvins 

 

I won’t lie to you, my trust readers who have made it to number 4 on a listicle about my poo-poo playlist, I don’t like metal.  It’s a pretty deflating predisposition when ruminating on songs to help squeeze out a big one; metal is the perfect engine to keep you regular! By no means do I want to dispute the inescapable law of nature that states heavy music is objectively wonderful for a poor sap whose clenching mechanisms have been exhausted.  But I don’t like metal. I’m sorry, I really can’t stand the stuff. As such, I become incredibly distracted whenever it fills my ears which sit atop my cocoa seat. But Honey Bucket by the Melvins is the perfect compromise for me. It’s heavy without being obsessed with its heaviness and therefore I have effectively eliminated all distractions.  From here, I let the heaviness overtake me as I become significantly lighter. 

 

3. I Love You- Vanilla Ice 

 

Of course, how could I complete a list hinging on my relaxation and subsequent internal evacuations without putting in a little R&B?  As I scroll through my library of records, thumb lightly pressed over each of the titles as if to tease every one of them with the privilege of being of my restroom royalty, one record stands out.  You guessed it: 1990’s To the Extreme by Vanilla Ice, specifically the last track: I Love You. The song is the perfect tempo through which I can focus in on internal stasis, a plane of existence which allows unadulterated self-cleansing.  The beat centers around a crisp, reverbed splash which is incredibly reminiscent of a mass entering a toilet bowl’s sea. Ice croons about love in such a down-to-earth manner that I can’t help but turn to myself and say “I love you” in a burst of confidence which is required for a successful trip to the john.  And don’t even get me started on the sax solo. 

 

2. Day of the Lords- Joy Division 

 

Time to get real, folks.  I’m not perfect. I know this whole list builds the illusion that I’m perfectly prepared to live an incredibly clean and regular life; a life where surroundings which breed a colonic flow-state have been so ingrained in my head that it’s virtually automatic.  But, as much as I hate to say it, this is the real world. More often than not I don’t have a perfect trip, and I leave feeling incredibly frustrated and confused. What did I do wrong? Do I need to change my diet? I bet the normal people don’t have these issues.  In times like these, I look back to my days of constant discomfort: high school. When embracing these nihilistic anthems of self-hatred as a means of relinquishing the responsibility of my fecal health, I become a martyr. And no band empowers self-pitying more than Joy Division.  When I leave my bathroom in silence and lay down in a pool of my tears after a catastrophic failure, I become Ian Curtis. 

 

1. Rollin’ (Air Raid Vehicle)- Limp Bizkit 

 

The beauty of a pooping playlist is its utter lack of pretension. Sure, the concept itself is pretty funny on a surface level, but it does provide a legitimate opportunity to judge music on the utmost visceral level.  In most circumstances, there won’t be another soul joining you in your journey to the bottom of the potty, and in most circumstances, you won’t want to associate the experience to closely with any part of your identity. The only reason why you would put something on a playlist like this is that you enjoy it independent of how you think your friends or peers would react.  For this reason, Limp Bizkit will always remain my kings of the chocolate log kingdom. Their music is foul, trashy, offensive. But it’s fun to listen to, and as such makes me feel my most powerful when my jaw and various other muscles clench daily.  

– Cliff Jenkins

Categories
Classic Album Review

CLASSIC REVIEW: SCRATCH ACID- Berserker

CLASSIC REVIEW: SCRATCH ACID- Berserker 

 Mary Had a Little Drug Problem, For Crying Out Loud, This Is Bliss

I may be going out on a limb here when making the grand proclamation that music is a particularly potent form of communicating emotion, an expulsion of abstract human experience into material and social reality.  These emotions aren’t necessarily the basic happy, sad, mad, etc., but are more closely reminiscent of attitudes that reflect an environment which the musician can interpret and which is relevant to their audience.  For example, the first wave of the British Invasion was centered around teenage angst and generally pubescent themes, which spoke to a world of youth who were incredibly frustrated and confused. Punk was a fit of anger at systemic injustice, whether this is political or highly personal; and bands like the Smiths or The Cure tackled robust melodrama.  Of course, these are just a few examples in an infinite pool of artists and movements, which are by no means rigidly separated in their capacity to feel and create. I bring up this fundamental requirement of music, though, to emphasize both the genius and eccentricity of Scratch Acid. As stated above, the relationship between music and its audience demands communication, however abstract. It implies a shared connection between the two.  With this in mind, it makes sense that Scratch Acid has simultaneously remained critically important while missing from the canon of classic American acts. And what’s the feeling that they so effectively make digestible for their audience? Pure discomfort: the sensation akin to the shell of your skin being constantly irritated by the red goop moving beneath it. They sing of constant anxiety which permeates every facet of a being whose existence is an inherent offense.  With their EP, Berserker, Scratch Acid melds young noise experimentation with punk’s insistence on efficacy. Rather than using noise to experiment with everything that could be made, Scratch Acid limits themselves to only what is necessary to explore a life filled with a pressing, constant discomfort. I don’t want to act as if I understand Scratch Acid, or that the pain I have felt in my life has been particularly bad by any means. I have a really difficult time listening to Scratch Acid.  Rather, I want to emphasize that their goal as musicians is to deliver a message which is drastically different from most any other band.  

Scratch Acid was formed in the Austin, Texas of 1982.  They consisted of Steve Anderson (vocals), David Sims (guitar), Brett Bradford (guitar), David Yow (bass), and Rey Washam (drums).  Before recording their first album, Anderson was kicked out while Yow took over mouth duties. There is little information out there about the band’s career (beyond their status as a precursor to noise legends Jesus Lizard) other than their notoriety for highly chaotic performances.  Thrashing loosely on a stage clad in aggravatingly unassuming street clothes, Scratch Acid forwarded a movement focused on transferring the spirit of punk’s alternative bluntness into a new direction. Noise experimentation replaced disciplined hardcore, and punk’s natural decadence became a pragmatic nihilism.  Through lyrical subject matter centering around unstable emotional fits and sludged bursts of screeching feedback, the band affirmed libertine attitudes of romantic validity while also remaining grounded in harsh, modern realities. Their 1987 EP Berserker is caustic mayhem which is as brief as it is intense. It stands at only 16 minutes long with pounding headaches of songs which thud against the front of the head in agonizing marches. Yow’s voice is frighteningly clear in a disturbing showcase of guttural pain; Scratch Acid does not sacrifice recording quality for aestheticism.  Berserker’s quarter-hour is determined to massage every crevice of an incredibly detailed offense. 

“Mary Had a Little Drug Problem” is, I guess, the poppiest song off the EP.  Yes, it does feature compressed chunks of dissonance bouncing between Yow’s strained and extended syllables, but the song ultimately falls into a semi-accessible groove.  It’s with the second track, “For Crying Out Loud” that Scratch Acid fully employ their talent of sonically describing discomfort. A grimy and uneven chord progression disorients a listener who is, at the same time, bombarded with a drum solo interspersed with unnaturally long bleats held by Yow. He sounds as if he’s writing on glass as his voice slithers unbroken over his band’s succinct bedlam.  “Moron’s Moron” finds no natural center in its tottering bassline which Yow stumbles over in a quasi-spoken word delivery. “Skin Drips” adopts a rockabilly uneasiness which mocks the camp of The Cramps with deeply disturbing imagery and commotion, while “This is Bliss” contrives descending guitar and bass riffs with a meandering shred of Yow’s throat. It often sounds incredibly unpleasant. Getting through this EP might be the longest 16 minutes of your life. But Scratch Acid know what they’re doing.  It’s a construction relying on complex, often unspoken truths about the disgusting reality of everyday life.

Scratch Acid was always destined to provide a link between alternativism and exploration of more nuanced emotions.  By shifting focus from simple anger and alienation to more abstract concepts of constant disgust or suffering, the band validated and manifested the human experience in ways unique to only them.  Berserker is most representative of their work.

 -Cliff Jenkins