A Girl Named Pip Who Lives in My Heart: Bumblefuck Kid vs Wintermute

Bumblefuck Kid: I got a record by a band called Black Flag from my older brother who went to a hardcore show up in Albany once. There was an insert in there to purchase some SST records. I bought some records by bands called The Minutemen, Husker Du, Dinosaur, and the Meat Puppets. Then I went to my school computer (we have the internets here in Bumblefuck County) and I looked up other bands with my friend Bumblefuck Sue. We started an awesome duo influenced by this kickass band we heard on Garageband called Flat Duo Jets, and are in the process of recording our first record. It’s an indigent musical exploration of the Beirut sewers in the 1980’s by a young girl named Pip. Expect to be charmed, disillusioned, tickled pink and nauseated. Will Pip ever live up to her dreams of marrying a wealthy Frenchman, or will she succumb to the undeniable desires that lie in her bosom of becoming a sensitive lesbian folksinger? Find out for yourself, as soon as we finish it!

Wintermute: Did you spend a lot of time in Beirut in the 1980s? It was a lovely place to be an Overlord at that point. So many grubs. So many earthworms. I tingle at the memory!

Bumblefuck Kid: No, I’ve never been to Beirut. It’s kind of like how Barry Gibb was never in New York, but he still wrote a heart-rending ballad about a mining disaster there, that took place in 1941, five years before he was born. Actually, truth be told, I don’t know where Beirut is. But I know a lot about a little girl named Pip with whom I share a heart.

Wintermute: That’s fascinating, this not going someplace but writing about it. Have you ever actually been a girl named Pip? Because sharing a heart, that’s just got to be hard.

Bumblefuck Kid: It is, Mister Wintermute, it is! Sometimes I just start crying and I have no idea why. And then I get these conflicted urges to make love to wealthy Frenchman even though I know I should be marrying a beautiful woman. Truth is, wealthy Frenchmen make me sick. But, who knows, marrying one might get me more access to the beautiful women I so want to make love to. Until my wealthy French husband finds out and has me castrated, anyway.

Wintemute: Let’s imagine what it might be like, being with a Frenchman, shall we? Is he gentle with you? Does he have strong hands or facial hair? Pets? Will he allow you to pursue your musical career, or will your debut album also be your swan song? Also, how many beautiful women will we be able to access?

Bumblefuck Kid: No, I don’t want to imagine such things. You don’t seem to understand that I’m talking about a real girl named Pip that lives inside my heart. She communicates with me in a language I cannot understand, the language of love. And she is real. You might want to talk to me when I’m having one of my seizures.

Wintermute: Lives in your heart? I’m confused. Did you eat this little girl? And if so, then why haven’t you just pooped her out? Please explain.

Bumblefuck Kid: I didn’t swallow her. I don’t know how she got in there. I think a psychiatrist implanted her while I was under hypnosis. Either that or during my electroshock treatment to cure my homosexuality.

Wintermute: So Pip is a lesbian?

Bumblefuck Kid: She doesn’t know it yet, but yeah, she’s definitely a lesbian. I know because she’s really into Boyskout.

Wintermute: When you’re on the couch, you have to watch their busy hands, don’t you?

Bumblefuck Kid: Well, when I was hypnotised and undergoing shock therapy, I don’t really remember much. I just know that I’m less crazy now.

Wintermute: And, yet, you have a little vagina in your heart. I’m intrigued. Tell me how that informs your songwriting.

Bumblefuck Kid: Sometimes, especially on this album we’re working on, the vagina really comes through. Then I start to write about stupid topics like heartbreak and romantic love and murder. If it weren’t for Pip, I’d just be writing about war and getting drunk all the time.

Wintermute: I hear you. Now I understand how your aura is full of so many pastels. I like that a lot.

Bumblefuck Kid: Fuck that “aura” new age shit! I don’t do that pussy garbage!

Pip: That’s not true! I love pastels! I love to color pictures of lesbian hearts with them! I’m in the middle of a pastel rock opera right now. It centers on Princess Leia, torn between her marriage to Charlton Heston and her lesbian desires for members of Sleater-Kinney, Le Tigre, and Boyskout. The part of Princess Leia will be played by John Travolta. In drag. With a Freddie Mercury mustache.

Bumblefuck Kid: mumble . . . . drool . . . . mumble . . . twitch . . .

Wintermute: Isn’t Charlton Heston dead now? And if so, can I have his gun? Seriously, though, how did Princess Leia wind up with Moses?

Bumblefuck Kid: Uhhh . . . what are you talking about? And why are your busy hands in my lap?

Wintermute: Because I swallowed a wealthy Frenchman and can’t shit him out. Save me!

Published in: on April 4, 2010 at 8:58 pm  Comments (1)  

Safe in the Neighborhood: Wintermute vs Drunknard

Wintermute: My treehouse is growing roots. Scary deep roots. The Earthworm is guiding the tree down to a water reservoir thousands of feet below the limestone.

Grub: There are lots of us in Wintermute’s basement. More and more by the hour. There are so many good things down here to lay eggs in. Joy!

Wintermute (picks up and dials the phone): Hey, Drunknard, buddy. Can you make it to my place tonight? Do you remember how to get into the basement without anyone knowing?

Drunknard: Sure man. I can be over there around eight o’clock. You need help on the treehouse again? You want I should bring my circular saw?

Wintermute: Just stay away from the Miller High Life, Grub. That stuff’s expensive.

Grub: We will steer well clear of the Miller High Life, since we’re prone to drowning in it if we don’t. And why would we want hops, anyway, when there is so much flesh down here?

Wintermute: Drunknard! Hey buddy! Hey! Ummmm, no, you can forget the circular saw. I greased that hole in the foundation, so when you shimmy in it’ll be easier. Go feet first, ‘cause like I told you, I don’t turn the lights on these days and there are amps and car parts and stuff. You’ll want to take about five paces forward, or maybe less cause you’re so damn tall! At face level there’ll be a hole in the plywood, punch your head up in there, and I’ll pull you the rest of the way into the treehouse. Okay? And, you, Grub, listen up! I don’t talk to you and your type. You take your cues from The Earthworm. Get it? Drunky? Drunknard? You there, kid? Boy. Drunknard?

Drunknard: Ten four, good buddy. Oh yeah, and I’m gonna have to bring my dog again. I just can’t leave him alone anymore without hearing about how he’s murdering neighbors again.

Grub: Hey Earthworm, can you ask Wintermute to bring down some more meat? It’s getting kind of crowded in this chunk. Thanks, boss. You da’ Man. Or, um, da’ Worm.

The Earthworm: Hush! Daddy’s working. Patience.

Wintermute: Aw shucks, Drunknard, sure you can bring Herschell. I love that dog! Truly I do.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Wintermute: Did Herschel kill someone today? Did he? DID HE?!? That’s a good boy!! Good, good dog!!

Drunknard: I’m not sure if he killed someone today or not. I haven’t checked the garage yet. That’s where he usually leaves his little surprises for me.

Wintermute: Either way, you and your boy Herschell are safe in the treehouse, Drunknard. My tree found a reservoir under my house and I got The Orangeman kept down there in a little coffin-sized submarine. At night he travels up into the Hudson and watches the port real close for vampires coming in on cargo ships. Man, I freakin’ HATE vampires! Will Herschell sic on vampires, Drunknard? Drunky? Buddy? You there pally?

The Orangeman: Drunknard! You there? Hey, Drunky!

The Earthworm: Where’s our buddy? Drunky, come in, Drunky. Calling Drunknard. Come in.

Grub: Drunky! Where’d you go, Drunknard?

Wintermute: Will you all shut up?? You’re going to frighten him. Hey Drunknard, come on, puddin’, where’d you go?

Drunknard: Sorry, had to answer the door, and got sucked into an argument with the Zombie Missionaries again. I can’t stand those guys. They just won’t take no for an answer until you bash their heads in with a fireplace poker or something. There ought to be a law against that sort of thing, you know? And, uh, I dunno if Herschell will sic on vampires or not. I’d actually be willing to half bet that dog is half vampire himself, since he’s dead and all.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Wintermute: Okay, okay, easy pal, that’s not a problem. We’ll see you tonight, right? Okay? You like the Miller High Life, Drunknard? Do you?

Drunknard: No, Wintermute, I live the High Life, but I don’t like to drink it very much. Buy some Scotch instead. And some Sonic Youth albums. See you around eight.

Wintermute: We look forward to entertaining you, Comrade. My treehouse is growing roots that are thick with brine sucked out of the mercury pools that bubble between layers of medina sandstone the length and breadth of the great Empire State. The Earthworm leads the way. Fiat lux.

Thurston Moore: Hey! Did someone say Sonic Youth? Hey! Hey! Look at me! I’m Thurston Moore! I’m a clever dooder! Look! Look at what I can do! I can play microtones! I can skronk! Hey! I’m Thurston Moore! I sleep with Kim Gordon! I invented indie rock! I am so cool it hurts! Can I come to the treehouse, too? You can interview me! All about the indie rock and the microtones and the skronk! Hey! Look at me! Hey!

Kim Gordon: You’re overcompensating, Thurston. Again.

Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!

Published in: on March 28, 2010 at 2:13 pm  Leave a Comment  

Carry On, My Wasted Son

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

You pretend to be the nards and the asshats.
Write the jokes about the boobs and the meatflaps.
Posting as your favorite rock stars,
And the Gobrin Shalk.

Egging single doods to their own demises.
Giving unprotected baws some surprises.
Post the Bloorp Bloorp Uh-Oh photo
When it’s time to go.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Masquerading as vagina dentata.
Drinking far more Aquavit than you oughta.
Getting riled by liberal squishees.
You know. Sexually.

Call in SMART when dooders flirt with the meltdown.
See AJones programming deep ‘neath the downtown.
Random Slutty Grrrl is waiting,
you’d better masturbate.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Carry on! May you always be lonely!
Carry on! Entertaining us only!
So just type on, Rum Dum Duggins,
Keep esplainin thins.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun
Har yuo rike me nar?

Published in: on March 17, 2010 at 12:48 am  Leave a Comment  

Upstatetherville

Nibbling on fatback, nuts in our nut sacks,
looking at work that should not be ignored,
We’ve crawled from our bed sheets, to come work on spreadsheets,
but leave them to wait while we visit the Board.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, posting pictures all day
Some dooders cuss that there’s no biddies for us,
so we can’t, get the tuckus in play.

From stateworker flunky to Fucking Sucks Monkey
to baw-wicking dawg and to Albany Jones
we pile on the drivel, as work output shrivels
and get nothing done ‘fore it’s time to go home.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, Yarrr, it’s Pirate Raccoon
Some dooders pause to check out Sloth Bear’s big claws
or to wish, someone else would post soon.

We blow up our livers, suck asbestos slivers,
Cough up some spleens, post some pictures of b00bs
We stew in our hating, and save our berating
for incoming innocent sensitive noobs.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, find a job for McFlig
Some dooders moan that we’re all sad and alone
just because, no one comes to our gigs.

Published in: on March 17, 2010 at 12:32 am  Leave a Comment  

Despergaven

despergaven
why dont you come to yr senses?
you been up cleaning lenses
for so long now
oh, you’re a hard one
and i know that you got the k hearts
but that band’s got some spare parts
that you should not allow

don’t you draw the king of muppets, boy
he’ll banjo if he’s able
you know the bald and husky ones are your best bets
and it seems to me, some fine things
have been laid upon your table
but with troy around, they’re things you’ll never get

despergaven
your hands smell like muppet rectum,
your band and the spectrum,
they’re dragging you down.
and freedom? oh freedom,
well, that’s too abstract for drummers
just let the singers and strummers
tell you what they have found.

don’t your hands get cold in the movie booth?
the sun don’t shine there and that’s the truth
in dark room light, the night looks like the day
you’re loosin’ all your grooves and licks
ain’t it funny how your talent slips
away?
away?

despergaven
why don’t you come to your senses?
drop your prog rock pretenses,
and open the gate.
the parking monkeys
sit in the box there above you
dont let that delmar dad shove you
come home and give us some hate.

Published in: on March 16, 2010 at 2:23 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Gospel of Rock

Magnum Anvil: Little known fact, but Jesus Christ was documented as being a truly ace guitarist. Seriously! I looked it up! In the lost scripture known as the Extended-Adolescence Codex, Jesus chucks his day gig as a bazaar magician (“Hey, Paul, wanna watch me pull some loaves and fishes outta my hat?”) to hit the road with his band. They were called Nazareth, until they found out there was another band of that name, so they changed it to Nazareth UK. They were only so-so. Typical oasis band of the time. Decent shofar player, though, and Jesus really threw himself into it. Got a reputation as the hardest-working man in the biz. He’d play till his palms bled (his feet and side, too, which was weird). Graffiti started cropping out in the Roman outposts: “Jesus is God,” and the like. Chicks would swoon, and even the guys would brawl to touch the hem of his garment. There was a thriving trade in fake souvenirs–the platform sandals, the Shroud of Touring, etc–before he pulled a G.G. Allin and croaked it during a piece of performance art with a bunch of people looking on incredulously, wondering why he wouldn’t just shred and sing that “Do Unto Others” song that everybody liked so much. What a waste of talent, verily, verily. Yeah, Jesus really was the (Son of) Man, man.

Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 1:46 am  Leave a Comment  

Space Chubby Goes Prog

V. Gina Gnome: Hey everybody, I’m sharing the new Space Chubby album on Soulsuck right now. Jury’s still out, but it’s definitely worth a listen. Don’t let the naysayers steer you wrong. Step right up to and get a fresh hot copy of Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster, the brand new record by those purveyors of progressively political prog punk: Space Chubby! P.S. It kinda sounds like they’ve been smoking the reefer a lot, ‘cause there’s a lotta prog here. Just saying.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoa, dude, I don’t think Space Chubby deserve to be called prog, despite Rilla the Real Gorrilla’s certifiably uncanny vocal resemblance to Geddy Lee. SALESMEN!!! Ooop ooop ooop OOOOP!!!! Heh. Heh heh. Heh. This new record just sorta sounds like trend hopping to me, like they’re trying to spray this week’s flavor onto last week’s stink, namsain? And that just smells like perfumed shit. And not the good kind of shit either. Heh heh. Heh. Heh heh.

V. Gina Gnome: They’re not trend hopping. They’re expanding their musical pallet, and as part of that they’re trying to “go prog” a little. Obviously, they’re going through some growing pains, but it’s not inorganic or obvious.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Well, being that the trend prior to their album has been for indie superstar bands like Mars Volta and Radiohead to “go prog,” I just gotta say that I feel as though Space Chubby’s late arrival on the trend smacks of inauthenticity. Plus even if it is organic, it’s just not their bag, baby. They were a great indie punk noise band. Every effort they’ve made to expand has fallen flat for me. Hey, uh, can you pass me that remote over there? It’s time for Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom.” Excellent!! And shit. Heh heh. Heh.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Prog is dead. Anyone trying to do anything called “prog” or “neo-prog” today is just looking for an excuse to wank out more than is probably healthy, and they will soon end up on the Dave Matthews Band concert circuit. Prog was part and parcel of an era. Saying “I am prog” today is like saying “I am 1968″ today. It just doesn’t make sense. Bands may make concept albums or incorporate orchestral structures or play mellotrons, but they’re not prog. Except for King Crimson. They birthed the genre and are still entitled to use the term. Even though they don’t.

V. Gina Gnome: Well that’s why I kinda use the term “go prog” kind of tongue-in-cheek, Zorax. Bands like Radiohead and Mars Volta are certainly incorporating prog elements into their music, which is interesting, if not entirely unproblematic artistically.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Radiohead and Mars Volta are loathsome and unoriginal. And Flaming Lips, too, for that matter, who are another band who get tagged with the “prog” label. Most bands that are trying to “go prog” these days are trying to tap into an audience that isn’t much interested in anything with that label released after 1978. Ozric Tentacles and Spock’s Beard and Marillion and the like are terrible, terrible bands for the most part. Old Genesis and Yes and such is listenable only because it’s charming in its dated quaintness. But you can’t quaintly date something made in 2005. Plus, the whole charm of prog was that people in ’67-78 were just beginning to figure out that it was possible to merge rock and jazz and classical and such. These days, such mergers are old hat: you already KNOW that you can mix and match just about any styles, so there’s not much novelty there either. Now shut your trap and get with the fluffing! I’m not paying you to upload and critique albums! I’ve got people to do, things to see. Chop chop!

Napoleon Boner Pirate: My favorite prog to fluff to is Yes’s The Yes Album. Part III of “Starship Trooper,” entitled “Wurm” has never failed to get a rise out of a client, with the exception of Drunknard from Space Chubby, ironically enough. I guess Yes needs to do a follow up song called “Chuckun.”

Drunknard: I’ll drink to that.

Where Everybody Knows Your Favorite ELP Album

(Piano Music and Singing Over Credits)

Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Sometimes you wanna go
Where everybody knows your name
And they’re always glad you came
You wanna be where people see
Troubles are all the same
You wanna go where everybody knows your name

Karellen Walks In

Ether Gallery: KARELLEN!

TITS (polishing a glass behind the bar): How’s it going there tonight, Mr. K?

Karellen: Not too bad, TITS. Quite a day at the office. My bunions are killing me again. But it’s good to be here.

Mustapha Mond (dressed in a postman’s suit, stands up, walks over to Karellen, sits on the stool beside him): That’s good, Karellen. We’re all glad to be here. Let’s chat about Emerson, Lake and Palmer to get your mind off your bunions.

TITS (Slings towel over shoulder): I tell you what, y’all keep chatting about ELP all night and this bar’s gonna get shut down real quick.

Ether Gallery: Laughter!

O’Brien (from a table in the corner): Aw come on, TITS, let’ em talk about what they want. I personally don’t care for ELP, but it’s a free Ether right?

Karellen: That’s what I say, O’Brien. (Sips from beer). Ah, nothing like sipping back a cold one and chatting about ELP with pals.

Mustapha Mond: Yep, their third arlbum wars tha one ta have. It’s er, eh undeniable. Hey bahrkeep, how’s about parrin me anather one?

TITS: Just a minute there, Mister M. Hey, Snoink, why so glum tonight?

Snoink (in sports coat with beard): Oh I don’t know, TITS, I suppose it’s just so unreal, isn’t it?

TITS (Leans against bar): Well how d’ya figure that, Mr. S?

Snoink: Well, that’s the whole idea of it I suppose. Here we are, in a public space, similarly to the way it used to be. However, it’s completely different than it used to be. Ten years ago, Guttman was right, we were “bowling alone.” However, now, we’re not even actually bowling (and nor are we, I might add, in virtual reality helmets, literally). We’re just clacking away. The least effort short of watching television, and yet this is the proverbial and current public sphere!

TITS: What are you getting at, Mr. S?

Snoink: Oh nothing I suppose, nothing. It’s just depressing is all.

O’Brien (from a table in the corner): I hear that.

Mustapha Mond (Raises glass): To depression!

Ether Gallery (All raise glasses): DEPRESSION!

Snoink: Don’t understand me too quickly. I’m talking about atomization, the individualistic, privatized tendencies of man gone too far! I’m talking about alienation, and anomie only against one’s self, the cause of that depression! I’m speaking of the current lack of feeling, caused by this lack of real, public interaction, that can’t help but leave one feeling empty and unfulfilled in the end, despite the fact that this is, in some (inferior in my opinion) sense considered “public interaction!”

Ether Gallery: Silence!

Karellen (Turns away from Snoink and towards Mustapha Mond): Yeah, so the third ELP album is definitely the one to have.

(Fade to black over piano music)

Published in: on February 22, 2010 at 3:19 am  Comments (1)  

Record Review: “Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster” by Space Chubby

Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster by Space Chubby
(ARISTA Records, Copyright: 2010)

Track Listing:
1. “Cuter With Her Tits Out” (3:17)
2. “Egging the Single Dooders on to Their Demise” (4:22)
3. “Get This Motherfuckin’ Snake Out of My Motherfuckin’ Ass” (2:53)
4. “Watch Out for the Cranked-Up Little Anklebiters” (0:42)
5. “Mrs. Cheese Heiney is Endearing” (4:19)
6. “Escape from the Island of Bloated Fat Liv” (13:27)
7. “I’m Comin’ to Sting the Fuck Out of You” (2:45)
8. “After You Left Last Night, Well, You Know, Staph Came Over (3:02)
9. “Yarrr! Yarrr! Yarrrrrr! YAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!” (6:16)

Credits:
Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: Vocal Stylings, Rhythm Guitar, Songwriting
High Function Downs Boy: Bass Guitard, Special Happy Good Fun Boy Hugs
Roosevelt Franklin: Drums, Knives, Threats
Nice Guy Chad: Lead Guitar, Good Vibes
Pretentious Arthaus Klown: Beeps, Bloops, Laptops, Flashing Lights, Withering Scorn
Rilla the Real Gorilla: Oop, Ooop, Ooop, OOOOOOOPP!!!
Drunknard: Lyrics, Visions, Tin Foil Hats, Vomit

Engineered by The Analog Kid.
Produced by Clive Davis and Frank Farian.

Space Chubby’s harrowing new long-player, Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster (their third album) begins thusly: thirty-six hammered monotonic bass- and-drum beats connected by an insistent mosquito-whine guitar line followed by a malevolently emotionless voice intoning “Gretchen Mol is always cute, but she’s cuter with her tits out!” Brrrrr! Up go your hackles in response to the overwhelming menace emanating from the stereo, and you suddenly find yourself frozen to the floor, quivering like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, recognizing that horror, pain and nothingness are upon you now. White noise, black out, red mist, and then the next song begins.

2008’s full-length disk, I Am Ze Onion, Loved By All!, marked a musical adolescence of sorts for the band, as the Chubbies managed to link the childish sounds oozing from their horrible analog noise-makers to a more adult-oriented thunder emitted by a crackling new rhythm section (Roosevelt Franklin and High Function Downs Boy). Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster now finds Space Chubby grown to full artistic adulthood. Mind you, they haven’t become the kinds of adults with whom you’d want to leave your kids, but they are extraordinarily adept at doing what they do, and they’ve certainly got those grown-up concerns down pat, as evidenced by songs like their Steve Irwin tribute, “I’m Comin’ to Sting the Fuck Out of You”, “Mrs. Cheese Heiney is Endearing”, “Egging the Single Dooders on to Their Demise” and (gulp!) “After You Left Last Night, Well, You Know, Staph Came Over.”

Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster is, in general, an awfully ugly record filled with awfully mean songs written by an awfully menacing band, though there are a couple of crucial lighter moments that give the disc balance and make it easier to get through it in a single spin. “Watch Out for the Cranked-Up Little Anklebiters” provides the perfect antidote for when you’ve got a big hankering for Scandinavian musical sweets, but neither the ABBA reissues nor the Ace of Base regurgitations are snapping your suspenders the way they used to. It’s got a great hook, great rhythm, hilarious English as a not-quite-second language lyrics and monumentally off-kilter subject matter. It could almost be bottled as Essential Oil of Swedepop, boiled down into a concise, 42-second blur.

At the other end of the spectrum, “Escape from the Island of Bloated Fat Liv” is a long suite that allows you to appreciate the many varieties of slowness that quasi-ambient music can offer; 40 beats per minute sounds surprisingly lively when you’ve crawled along at 25 for a while. This lovely ‘ludecore workout left me wondering why none of our other supposedly clever ambient artists ever realized that the best way to evocatively, but unobtrusively, fill aural space is with actual songs. Rilla the Real Gorilla’s Oop Oop OOOPs are really given a chance to shine here. Bravura performance, big primate!

In summary, while Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster may be a hard record to love, with a little patience and lot of awfulness in your heart, you’ll find it’s an even harder record to ignore. Space Chubby will be supporting the new album with a North Country tour of VFW Halls, strip clubs and parking lots, co-billed with Stake Knife and Wheel Dio. Highly recommended!

Another Viewpoint: Space Chubby Goes Prog

Drunknard vs Radiohead

radiohead is long, long dead
so long, long live on, radiohead
and tell kid A the walrus was thom
then watch kid Z go dance with mom
to beatle stones and smoking bones
and kingdoms come and seven thrones
for seven kings of the frontier (wild)
and adam ant and the holy child
who the wise men knew would be a star
when they gave him myrrh and a guitar
and frankinsence and freakin’ peas
so get thee down upon thy knees
and worship thom and all the rest
the holy ones, the amply blessed,
with volt and ohm and amp and watt
the son is roasted on the spot
where boon’s corona blows up space
and leaves us dead without a trace
of thicker liquor, beer, i fear
goes down like piss again this year,
the anno in the domini,
means that there is no more b.c.,
so after christ, not anti yet,
no gog, magog, nor chia pet
no you nor me nor old pooneil,
just thommy yorke, the real, real deal,
the bomb, the shit, the anvil too,
the bomb-a-lomp, the big bam boo,
the hottsy tot, the dwarf in shorts,
the kids who aren’t that good at sports,
the redneck, burnout, junkie guard,
the bassist with the single nard,
forget them, now, like they were dead
and sing a song of radiohead

Published in: on February 3, 2010 at 6:43 pm  Leave a Comment