Belvedere Jehosophat - Sunday, 9 May, 2004 - Print Version
Big Black blasted into my consciousness about 4 months ago with the same speed and brutality of that diamond bullet that hit Kurtz back in his Vietnams [sic].
My first introduction was with The Rich Man’s Eight Track Tape, which collected the Atomizer LP, the Headache EP and the Heartbeat 45.
Songs About Fucking was released a few years after those individual CDs but before the compilation.
I mention The Rich Man’s Eight Track Tape because it’s easier to review this CD with reference to that one.
Where the guitars on Eight Track were loud and bludgeoning and the drums were simple and pounding, the guitars on Songs About Fucking are a little more subdued and the drums are a little more intricate.
It’s an unexpected trade-off, but not an unwelcome one.
Lyrically, Albini stomps his usual grounds – the extremes that human beings will go to and, of particular interest to me, the extremes that they go to when they’ve got nothing to do. All sorts of uncomfortable topics are touched on – truck drivers fucking up and down lonely highways, Mafia hits, murder, 'shroom induced religious "visions," etc.
What makes this album exciting is its undeniable “pop” sensibility. Of course, I don’t mean to say that this album is easy-listening in any way but there’s something definitely catchier about this album; it’s a little more welcoming than Eight Track, less aurally insular.
The band also has the good sense to keep the songs about as long as they need to be. As such, the album's 14 songs are over and done with in about 32 minutes.
The lady who sold me this CD made it quite clear that it was a "classic."
Now, I'll never forgive her for trying to sell me an A.F.I. record, but in this case she's clearly right, you know? Clearly. Right.
Songs About Fucking features two covers, one of Kraftwerk’s The Model and one of Cheap Trick’s He’s a Whore. Both are corkers.
This CD looks like this:
You should probably own it.
Stream-of-consciousness revealed this and nothing more:
If it wasn’t for the legendary time spent in a South American prison cell he would never have met Sewnale, the love of his life. If five years ago you had told him that he would be involved in a homosexual relationship he would have spat in your face and called you a dagg. “Pretty girls make graves,” he said as he washed his golden locks in the filthiest sink imaginable, “but that doesn’t concern us, now does it?”
Finagle with our bagel and keep a fresh and up-to-date eyeball on our latest reviews, articles and filthy somesuch. Mmm doughy.
class=etc
class=grimm
class=grimm
id=vonnegut
For lovers of reviews on music, books and theatre with advice and fiction on life and evolution.
Nipple protection from the elements?
Armpit hair needs a lair?
Bellybutton catching too many flies?
Then grab this comfy chest covering and other kinds of T-shirts at The Wax Sweatshop.