What’s that sound?
Remember when you were a kid and your little brother was at that perfectly annoying age where his whole raison d’etre in life was to wind you up and watch you go?
Well he got a keyboard for Christmas, and he just loves that “demo” button. There are also effects that can be put on the sound emitted by the tinny crap speakers in the back that make the honking noise sound like “a flamenco guitar”, “a string quartet” “a wet fart”.
Well imagine that, very quietly in the background whilst you are trying to read a book, or watch tele, or just sit quietly, until you get so enraged that you rush upstairs, kick down his door and batter him to death with said keyboard.
Then add the same drum machine “pfft” guff on repeat.
That is what listening to this record is like.
A review I recently posted attacked a young man for making bedroom masturbater musak. The stuff you’d hear in a lift. I miss that lift. Chuck me back in that elevator and cut the cables.
All That Glue has the picture of a urinal on the cover, well a sketch, a cartoon piss pot. So there’s no jokes there. Included in the double vinyl are publicity shots of the two of them taking a whiz. Ha ha ha ha, so droll. Your wit and sophisticated humour go before you.
There is that scene in Blackadder Goes Forth when the Baron Von Richthoven turns to Blackadder and says “How lucky you English are to find the toilet so amusing. For us, it is a mundane and functional item. For you, the basis for an entire culture”. Or an album, as it is in this case. But then we are all “Baldrick’s sons and Blackadders”.
The title maybe comes from what they were sniffing before they thought up the concept of releasing this odds’n’sods compilation of feted horse manure.
Less a place to piss than a very unsightly dump in the solitary urinal in a crap pub in Aldershot.
It’s 22 tracks of absolute wee wee.
And yet, a huge swath of cloth eared twits love them. They love the fact they’d write a song about taking offence to someone giving them a bit of a ribbing on the socials and driving to where they live, posing as a delivery driver and then beating the shit of them. Men of the people.
But it’s only a joke. It’s funny. I’m such a snowflake. I’ll probably have a picture of a cock and balls sent to me for this. Or maybe they’ll find out where I live and come and spray paint one on my house then a picture of it will be used as the front cover of their next L.P.
He is very angry. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing except he is angry with everyone. On ‘Fizzy‘ he seems to just be annoyed with managers of shops. Being fucked off with the government and people of real influence is a good thing but this is just an excuse to call someone a cunt.
‘Rich List‘ is naturally about being angry with rich people as they don’t give a fuck about your life. Where to start with that?
I don’t think I need to describe what ‘Jobseeker‘ is about. Safe to say it isn’t about an attempt to find a job in a Job Centre. Who is he railing against there? People helping people find work? “What have you done to find gainful employment since your last appointment? FUCK ALL”. The prosecution rests.
There’s a lyric in ‘Jolly Fucker‘ that goes “Bah Bah, Crack sheep, have you any rock”. Credit where credits due, that’s a snort inducing line.
They have been described in other reviews as “post-punk”. They aren’t post anything. Pre maybe. Pre learning to play an instrument. They are punk if they are to be labelled. The attitude and the limited musicianship. The “anyone can do this” aesthetic. Punk as fuck. Just without the tunes.
Hang on a ‘Second’. No sorry, still no tune.
Back in the glorious nineties, it was well known that music hacks would write whole album reviews having not listened to a note. Well I have listened to it once and that is as much as I can stomach. Further dives into this cess pool and I’d be coming out of a shitter like Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Covered in excrement. Puking.
So they’re outspoken. Fine. So am I. If you can’t deal with that, well maybe write a little ditty about travelling to my house and punching me in the face. Guffaw.