Musick

Fifty Tons of Black Terror

Review of My Idle Hands
Review of Demeter

My Idle Hands

review by Mason Dixon

I knew this kid in my neighborhood where I grew up that used to take frogs and nail them to boards. Then heíd watch them writhe in pain all around the board, bleeding out their frog juices. After they died, he would then dispose of the frog corpse, afterwards, admiring the artistic like blood spatters like they were some sort of a form of art. For some reason this release reminds me of that kid. My Idle Hands, seems like the same sort of thing to me, itís definately not a pretty recording, but somehow, in a twisted kind of way, it too is an art form. If there is not already a genre of music known as Inbred-Rock or Schizo-Metal, then there ought to be, just to better define Fifty Tons Of Black Terrorís musick. Itís got the craziest vocals this side of Jesus Lizard, or better yet, similar in vein to Scratch Acid (Both groups featured the insane vocal ramblings of front-man David Yow). Or somewhat like the now infamous, Butthole Surfers vocalist, Gibby Haynes. In fact I had to check the liner notes to make sure that this wasnít some sort of a David Yow or Gibby Haynes side-project. It all makes you wonder, at times, if it is just an act, or if these people are really that damaged. I have a strange feeling that they really are.

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Demeter

Of all the bands Iíve heard them compared to (Jesus Lizard, Jon Spencer, etc.), I think Gallon Drunk fits them best, hybridized with a little Led Zeppelin through the use of recombinant DNA. And yet they still manage to look like John Cougar Mellencamp. (Should we expect to hear a tribute to small town America on the next album?) Indeed, this Dukes of Hazard Roadhouse Rock could easily be playing in a bar at a truck stop in Nebraska. The vocalist (Charlie Finke) sounds as if heís trapped in a car thatís just been pushed into a lake, his frantic, guttural howls and screams spilling out the crack in the soon-to-be submerged passenger window. The cover art on the CD is nice, although they donít share the lyrics, which from what I can tell is a good thing. They used to be named Penthouse before Bob Guccione sued them, and from the looks of them thatís probably what they spend most of their time reading. These guys think that an open shirt, a guitar case and a viscous scowl are all it takes to get chicks these days, and the sad thing is theyíre probably right. Please resist their charming invitations to accompany them backstage. Their intentions are not good.


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