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Need
a Boost?
By
Bill Ketzer
Cannibal
Corpse
Kill
(Metal Blade)
In the ’90s, then-Sen. Bob Dole accused these Buffalo-based
gorehounds of violating human decency, which immediately endeared
them to me forever. Fans of this filthy, maggot-ridden trailblazer
will not be disappointed. Although only two founding members
remain, Cannibal Corpse have never released a stinker, and
here they continue to pound the cosmos and horrify Christians
worldwide with Kill, an extra-special order of (un)deadly
metal-machine music, just oozing with gore. It’s good for
what ails thee. If used as directed, pretty ditties like “Five
Nails Through the Neck” and “Brain Removal Device” will:
•
boost your immune system
•
rejuvenate your body and mind
•
reduce wrinkles and decrease cellulite
•
restore your sex drive and vigor
•
revitalize your heart, liver, kidneys and lungs
•
refresh your memory, mood and mental energy
•
help you sleep soundly and wake rested
•
eliminate stress, fatigue and depression
Why wait? Act now. And as a special bonus, playing Kill
at any reasonable volume in your office cubicle will probably
get you fired from your belittling, unsatisfying and life-crushing
day job, especially if you bare your chest while grunting
along. This is a greater public service than any ward leader
could ever provide. Go get some.
 Thom
Yorke
The
Eraser (XL)
Do you get that feeling that Thom Yorke might be getting bored?
I do. What tipped me off? I was maybe two or three songs into
The Eraser when I realized that it sounded as if Yorke
hadn’t bothered to wake up before singing the songs on his
debut solo album. Yorke has become the above-average but bored
student; his audience, the teacher who can’t quite keep the
star pupil’s attention.
It seems Yorke has had his fill of toying with his devoted
audience, which still, after all these years, doesn’t quite
get it. Yorke likes to disappoint, or at least confuse. He
tried to throw off the burden of his mainstream fan base with
Kid A and Amenesiac, but some are still mindlessly
picking up Radiohead albums, unshocked, still not turned away
by Yorke’s contempt and his band’s experimentation. And a
lot of their devotion has to do with Yorke’s tormented croon.
And that’s why, with The Eraser, he has come off his
pedestal to mock his audience to their faces.
The
Eraser can very easily be compared to the Smashing Pumpkins’
Ava Adore or Billy Corgan’s solo album The Future
Embrace. Gone are the epic guitar hooks, lush acoustic
guitars, and driving percussion of the backing band. These
are, instead, replaced by plodding background electro-beats,
keyboard loops and runs that sometimes function as a moving
hook when not serving as a drilling annoyance. Don’t be mistaken—this
isn’t industrial, trip-hop or techno; this is plodding synthpop
at its most twisted.
While Yorke has been known for his overly simplistic mantra-lyrics,
the chorus to the first single from The Eraser seems
particularly uninspired and coarse: “cause this is fucked
up, fucked up.” And yet there are times on The Eraser when
it is almost impossible not to be caught up in Yorke’s sweeping
moan, his lazy despair, his hissed disdain; and it’s hard
not to crack a smile when Yorke plaintively demands, “I hate
to ask, but are you being nice ’cause you want something?”
Has he ever been so coy? He spills classic moments onto this
album despite himself.
No matter how hard Yorke tries to be someone else (Bjork,
Satan, a DJ, etc.), he can’t help but sometimes still slip
back into himself: the tortured lead singer of the best band
in rock & roll for 10 years running. Yes, The Eraser
may be Yorke’s temper tantrum, his one-off to his demons
and despair, but if reports about Radiohead’s latest material
are true, that their new songs are lighter, guitar-driven
and most reminiscent of The Bends, that Yorke has actually
taken to dancing—dare I say frolicking?—on stage, then this
might be his last chance to choke out his spite without having
to bend it to beautiful melodies, or wrap it in warm packages
of riffs.
—David
King
My Ruin
The
Brutal Language (Rovena)
These female-fronted doom stoners from L.A. have suffered
a number of setbacks in recent years, including unauthorized
rereleases and the departure of two longtime members, which
forced founders Tairrie B. and Mick Murphy to record all tracks
on The Brutal Language themselves. Probably just as
well, as they seem to be an item and we all know how annoying
that can be to deal with (and not surprising, what
with all this preoccupation with unreadable high-renaissance
band lit and spoken-word side projects). Nonetheless, Murphy
pulls it off, recording all bass, guitar and drum tracks with
a dogged Southern-roots determination.
Sadly, the end product suffers accordingly. It takes an almost
hallucinatory vision to make such an egocentric effort succeed,
and theirs is limited to a very accommodating stoner-rock
eye chart. Five fingers make a fist; My Ruin need more
hands on deck. The songwriting flops around like a smallmouth
in the bottom of a dinghy, relegating Murphy’s loin-quivering
guitars to dishwasher status in the Kitchen of Killer. And
for all the feathers in Nick Raskulinecz’s engineering cap
(Foo Fighters, Rush, Fear Factory), the egregious volume of
said warblings, coupled with an obnoxious snare drum, heartlessly
snip the balls from the bottom end. I can see him now, tossing
the forbidden kiwi over his shoulders, gazing disparagingly
at the anesthetized hound on the table. “There’s nothing we
could do . . . ”
—Bill
Ketzer
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