I have an issue with the seam-busting size of Brian Molko's ego, together
with his voice which grates on my nerves like a foodblender. Yet...pop music is
founded on ego, and - on single at least - Molko's mewling can be more palatable
than when on a whole LP or live. Certainly the music is wonderful, as is the case
with "You Don't Care About Us", a Cure/Pixies cross-breed that alternately lilts around your head perkily, then fires rounds of molten lead out of your speakers
like Rambo with Sonic Youth on his walkman. But, man, the way he sings "heart" in this makes me grind my teeth down to the gums.
"20th Century Boy" is next, and takes Bolan's already heaving sexual monolith of a song
and dresses it in pvc and rubber, before introducing it to a lustful and depraved Brian (couldn't he have called himself something a bit more rock n roll than Brian?). The guitar/bass on this will huff and puff and blow your house down, but you will be too swept up in the noise to notice. "Ion" is last, a synth instrumental that does no more than waste 3 minutes of your life. Since the "3 songs on a single or it doesn't chart" rule came into being, instrumentals
should all be outlawed and punishable by having the offending band members
suspended over a vat of custard. Except Brian would probably enjoy that. You can imagine the song he'd write about the experience now, can't you? "Custarbation"..."lower me down into your sticky mass, I have a friend - she's got a cute ass"...
Oh alright, I'll shut up now.
Rating: 8/10
The Rest
When Arab Strap are not reciting Irvine Welsh-style prose over Pink Floyd-like
musical soundscapes (which always make me reach for the "skip" button), and instead concentrating on something approximating a proper tune (fuck - I sound like my mother), then they can be singularly moving and affecting. Such is the
case with "(Afternoon) Soaps", an exquisitely-spun tune threaded with silk and gloriously defiled with achingly brutal lyrics, floating
gently on the airwaves, like a used condom on the Firth of Forth. Lyrically,
songs by Arab Strap (as opposed to the monologues) seem to make you feel as though you are inside Aidan's head, and the reflective nature of the words can
be quite piercingly sad and emotive. When he drawls "now I'm only happy without you around, but oh, when you go...", you know he's speaking from
experience, and you either empathise emphatically - or sit back and be damn glad
it's not you.
"Toy Fights" is another song, much like the a-side, but with a richer vein of
black humour ("then you tried to bite me, so I hand-held hoovered your tits"), but sadly - for me - "Forest Hills" is yet another lost chapter from
The Acid House set to the inside of Syd Barret's head. Still, unlike some of their lo-fi peers, Arab Strap's music can provoke strong reactions in the
listener, and the a-sides are amongst the most beautifully ugly things you will have heard this year.
Rating: 7/10
Cypress Hill allow scores of teenage boys to run around pretending they are
muthafukkin crack fiends from da hood, but nevertheless, their cartoon-style
dope beats are almost as addictive as the wares they lyrically peddle and the assembled rappers are all satisfyingly unique, especially the member that sounds like Benny from Top Cat. Gee, TC. "Tequila Sunrise" also is notable for its
Hispanic flavour, all Spanish guitar and las bros Cypress. Which gives me enough
of an excuse to mention Gloria Estefan's fine "Oye", also out this week, in which
the sultry songstress pumps out another Miama Vice machine sex groovathon of a
track, turning your life into a carnival in probably the best single of the week. (However, I didn't give it a review
of its own, given that I'm still sifting through the angry missives caused by
that Spice Girls/Aqua week, and I can't be bothered with that at the moment...)
"Champions" is another quality rap, a repeating brass cascade framing a sinister
and threatening track that circles your house like a wounded tiger. "Can You Handle This", is a bit more laid-back and 70s superfly than the others, but with
all the macho posturing "muthafucka" and "nigga" lyrics in all three tracks, Cypress Hill's best feature of old - their humour - is sadly absent.
Rating: 6/10
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