Meet Yr Overlords

MUSTAPHA MOND

Loves: Soma, Alphas, World Domination, Technology, Persian Food, B. F. Skinner, Uriah Heep (but only the Ken Hensley/David Byron Years)
Hates: Squalor, Epsilons, Hamburgers, Sand in His Shorts, O’Brien

KARELLEN (WITH MRS. KARELLEN)

Loves: The Overmind, Balrogs, Seawater Sacks, Sexy Devils, Sorority Girls, Jethro Tull (but only when Glenn Cornick or John Glascock were playing bass)
Hates: Simpletons, Empathy, Pretentious Arthaus Klowns, Inefficiency, O’Brien

WINTERMUTE

Loves: Himself, Upstate Ether, Rough Sex Role Play, Treehouses, The Earthworm, Computers, Toe Fat (the band, not the body condition)
Hates: Humanity, Sporks, Space Chubby, The Adams Party, O’Brien

O’BRIEN

Loves: Boots to the Face, Rats in Cages, “My Dinner With Andre,” Sigmund Freud, Big Brother, Karellen, Uriah Heep (but only after Ken Hensley/David Byron left)
Hates: Violent Children’s Games, Macho Bullshit, Insensitivity, Himself

Advertisements

Johnnie F’s Soliloquy from “Song of the Second Shift”

Johnnie F: I’d love to tell you about the women. My women. That is, the women that are kind enough to sleep with me. Or cruel enough, anyway.

But I’m not interested in the women. Because I’m a drunk. And who wants to hear what a drunk has to say?

Now, a drunken skirt chaser? That’s the kind of self confidence that we’d all like to dabble in. I, however, like the rest of you, have only dabbled in the fantasy. And I’m lying. I’m not even Johnnie F. Except that I am.

But what does that matter? Because there have been many, many women. At first, it was just a contest with myself. To see if I could do it. Hell, I was 21 when I had my first. But then there seemed to be a streak. I’ve been hoping it would end for some time now. But I seem to keep having the luck. The luck or the skill, I’m not sure which.

And what bothers me about it is I wonder: who’s taking advantage of whom? Am I being exploited? By them? By society? Because, let’s be honest, I hardly ever enjoy the actual climax. No, it’s definitely the chase for me that’s important. I get off on it. Or at least, I think I do.

Women can’t help it. They’re drawn to my ‘creativity’. Truth is, I’m not all that creative. I haven’t written a story in years. And yet, based on my past record and the contacts I’ve made, they all think I’m brilliant.

So what is a man to do whose only purpose is, after all, to chase women and money? Money I don’t have, and can’t get anymore. I’ve been dry for years; no one’s buying my stories, no one’s giving me royalties. But the skirts, they keep paying off.

But when I stop enjoying them, what’s a man to do? I suppose I could start writing about them, telling you about my women. But that would just serve to artificially raise this creative block I’ve been having, and to tell you the truth, I don’t lack the integrity not to, if you can understand that. Poopshoot boogie.

The way I see it, the women like the gentle abuses of neglect and inattention. The minute you’re nice to a woman and focused completely on her, that’s when she’ll give up and stop loving you. Not that a woman has ever actually loved me, if one did I’d put a ring on her finger in a second.

A woman without that edge of insult from her man is like a nut without salt on it. Like a cake without frosting. Better yet, like white bread that someone tells you is a cake. Legs don’t part without a little command and control.

Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I’m in favor of it. I believe, somewhere deep in my heart that I can’t find, that women are just as smart and able as men. It’s just that when it comes to my dealings with them, I can’t act that way. Because all their lives most women have been told that they’re not equal to men, and women, just like all humans, love to believe what they’ve been told all these years. Otherwise the struggle won’t be worth it. Better yet there will be no struggle, there will only be boredom.

And when it comes to women, I’m always on. Which means I have to be anything except boring. Even if I’m silent, or pensive, that gives them the impression that they’re somehow being insulted. It gives them whatever impression they’re looking for. But overall, when you’re being silent, it’s most important that you don’t look incompetent. Look lost in thought, look deep, look off into the distance. But don’t look tired. And don’t look disinterested entirely. Women need to know that you’re interested in something, especially if it’s not them.

And when you’re done with that; be honest with them. Let them know that you need them. Let them know that this has all been a farce; that your whole life is a farce when their companionship is absent–because after all it’s the truth. This whole charade has been carried out for their benefit. But you have to let them in behind the curtain just enough that the red velvet is on their thigh. Then you move in for the kill.

And that, my friends, is how you rack up the points. Whether or not you want the act, the points are what will count when you’re telling your life story. And right now, that’s what I’m doing. And if you want more, I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you don’t, I’ll know. I can convince you that I know, at least. So there’s that.

Published in: on March 15, 2010 at 1:41 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

Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!