Me thinks, as usual, the corpses are stinkin’ to high heaven! Alas, let’s begin with a force-feeding of that ridiculous mess of a front man who was, quite fucking literally, stomping on my very last t-cell! That crap you’re failing to deliver as freeze dried death has taken a shit on the stage for the last time. Put away your horns, which must certainly shirk, at the site of your rancid and putrid lips being placed on their undeserving blowholes. I found myself wanting magically, sadistically, for that grand piano you were diddling like a pederasts’ pre-pubescent prize, to swallow you up and spit you out, all clotted mascara and swill, a big fat dump into The China Basin. The “burner” on tub-bass and “drums” should just as well have stayed home and masturbated into a dirty tube sock. And ahhhh yes! The girl. Her electro noise riffs were adequate at best when sparse, but mostly out of place and wayyyyy overly indulgent. And might I suggest, my love, duct tape? Girly girl…you cannot fucking sing! So just…just…god damnit… just STOP!
M. Lamar was a completely different story. I’ve followed his career for some time now, and I truly must say, he has become quite the performer and damned good. He’s taken his Avant-Diamanda references far beyond even Ms. Galas. He is a singer, who always leaves me wondering inexplicably, “Did he mean to be that flat?” and/or, “are my ears bleeding?” Surely, if not for the obvious and sheer sincerity and heart-felt delivery, it cannot all be a certain lack of intonation, Lamar holds and trills his guttural utterances with the marvelous fortitude and surety of a Nina Simone or a Patty Waters. Wearing his blackademia on his form-fitted leather sleeves with equally tight-ass jeans, Lamar places the listener into often uncomfortable situations. I thought at times, bloody black fetuses might climb out of the piano’s guts, slither downstage, sit and stare accusingly at me. Like Kara Walker, or David Hammons, Lamar confronts with history, shuns with narrative, pricks our noses with shameless recall, all the while smiling, his eyes turned to the floor, waiting.
4 comments:
Ha ha Carol, glad you're back. We thought we had banished you.
Aww, Carol! Give a corpse a chance! They put on one of the most fun shows I saw last year at the Clarion Alley Street Fair. They may have traded in their retrofitting for something a little less stable, but it still sounded good to me.
Oh yeah, and welcome!
I can't hate on the Corpses because they never cease to amuse and amaze us with the variety of sounds coming through the wall our practice spaces share.
i would rather eat the rotting ass of richard nixon's corpse than to ever hear these talentless turds again!
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