Let’s say you’re watching a horror movie where the villain is this Lovecraftian beast, as old as time itself. Despite its gargantuan size and blob-like physique, this beast can move with the force of a rhino and the agility of a mongoose. It has the insouciant attitude of a high school bully in his third senior year. It could maul an asthmatic little girl, then turn right around and high-five his beastly bros while they all chuckle like dumb stoners.
And just as this beast is lurching toward one of its victims, ready to strike- suddenly you see the zipper on the costume start to unzip. Then the dude inside the costume jumps out, looks right into the camera and plays 6 verses of “Oh Susanna” using armpit farts.
I get this feeling a lot when I listen to The Melvins, and especially during The Bride Screamed Murder. When they wield their monster truck riffs and their kinky metal rhythms and crane-sized hooks- which they do for nearly 30 of the new album’s 45 minutes- they’re unstoppable. Rock like theirs both empowers and frightens me. It makes me feel 15 feet taller and 10 tons heavier, and it makes me want to rampage my way through midtown Manhattan in rush hour.
I also find the band’s juvenile Dadaist humor refreshing- but only in small doses. Like many great class clowns, The Melvins don’t seem to know (or care) when enough is enough. A couple of ideas that might’ve been amusing for 15 seconds (a boot camp cadence, a leaky balloon rubber chicken impersonating a jazzy sax) become painful before they reach the minute-and-a-half mark. Worst of all are the last 2 tracks: a sludgy, smart-ass cover of “My Generation” and a tedious, half-assed nightmare called “P.G. x 3.” At a combined length of 14 minutes, these 2 tracks gunk up almost an entire third of this otherwise ferocious album.
Yet as much as these kinds of aggressive shenanigans can get on my nerves, I suppose it’s all for the best. I can’t help but wonder if this refusal to take themselves too seriously is a big reason why The Melvins continue to roll on long after most of their humorless grunge-metal disciples have self-destructed. (See also The Ramones, AC/DC.) If that attitude means they’ll keep cranking out killers like “Evil New War God” and “Electric Flower” for many more years, then awesome. I just wish they’d keep more of their silliness confined to the studio.
I love the Melvins with all my heart.
Not every record satisfies completely, but I appreciate those un-apologetically difficult records the most. This is definitely one of those. And I think it takes more than 10 listens to FULLY appreciate these sorts of albums. No offense! It might take ME a year. And I’m a guy who owns every record they ever put out.
As for the the military call-and-response thing at the end of track 1, I say THAT RULES! Maybe my favorite moment on the disc, especially following that awesome noise solo which leads into those cool double-drummer beats. Really impressive to me, and it all works, like, EXTREMELY well. Imagine trying to actually come UP with that shit and then actually pulling it off for recording? Christ…
And, by the way, FUN FACT: that sound isn’t a leaky balloon. It’s actually Dale playing the rubber chicken: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3570/3536970915_94ae69155a.jpg
I will agree that the final track is obnoxious (except for the lovely folk tune section). If it fell anywhere else on the record I would’ve felt that my patience was being tested. But having it come at the end, however, feels like just the band’s way of reminding us who they are (a damn WEIRD group of guys) AND telling us all Goodnight… A lot like Ringo’s outro cut on the White album. No. Fuck it. It’s EXACTLY like that.
Thanks for the Fun Fact, JB. I’ve corrected the review. I have to admit: the fact that Dale’s playing a rubber chicken makes that little jazz interlude much cooler…but only in theory. In practice, I still find it extremely difficult- physically painful, even- to actually LISTEN to someone play a rubber chicken for that long.