Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.
We have spent the last week playing with a three-inch remote controlled helicopter. It taught us two lessons. Firstly, three-inch remote controlled helicopters can be “awesome” (us) or “so scary I did a wee and some poop at the same time, then refused to eat for four days” (our cat).
Secondly, mixing three-inch remote controlled helicopters with alcohol in a living room is expensive: vases, picture frames and emergency eye surgery don’t come cheap, it turns out.
That’s life, though: the good with the bad; the ups with the downs; the 30 seconds of fun with the six hours of retro-orbital bleeding.
Firstly, Desperate Measures, Hollywood Undead. Before the whole helicopter/SoCo/eye thing, we spent a couple of days with a child. A two-year-old child who had just discovered naughty words, and loved to scatter them around randomly during the course of a day, then offer a sly look towards any listening adult, which hinted: “Yeah, I just said dirtyfartboob. And what the bitch are you going to do about it?”
It was a bit like hanging out with Chris Moyles, but a Chris Moyles who was 300 pounds lighter and 700 times funnier than the real thing.
Which leads us to Hollywood Undead. Like Nickelodeon re-created Slipknot, and then asked a potty-mouthed two-year-old to write the lyrics. Take a look at this naughty little stanza:
“Everywhere I go, bitches always know,
That Charlie Scene has got a weeny, that he loves to show.”
That is classic lolz right there. Charlie Scene, by the way, is just one of the hilarious stage names these crazy guys have: Da Kurlzz, J-Dog, Johnny 3-Tears and Natty Pimp. Actually, that last one isn’t true; it’s just what we reckon we’d use if a really awful raprock band wanted us to join them.
And the music is as bad as the lyrics. They grab at the stylings of acts like Limp Bizkit, Eminem and Joy Division, but without ever getting a good grip on any of them. In the end, they just sound like naughty boys let loose with a keyboard, a microphone, and a copy of Roger’s Profanisaurus.
This album is represented by the thought:
Goddamn, I should just go right down there and bitchslap that bitch. Bitch. Probably best wait til after dinner though, she’ll send me back to my room without any food.
Secondly, Buffet Hotel, Jimmy Buffett. Yes you do: the guy who sang Margaritaville and… probably some other songs, too. This is Jimmy’s 592nd album, and the style won’t shock his fans. Just as he is contractually-obliged to, Buffett presents 12 songs exclusively about alcohol, good times, and how alcohol makes bad times into good times. Examples: Turn Up The Heat And Chill The Rosé; A Lot To Drink About; and I’m So Lonely (One More Glass Of Jack Then It’s Time To Suck Steel Tell Rebecca I Love Her). One of those, we maybe made up.
Stylistically, as well as lyrically, this is familiar Buffett territory: hints of the Caribbean, touches of the South, and splashes of the Midwest. This isn’t the time of year to best appreciate the vibes, so maybe check back in with this album come summertime.
It is represented by the thought:
I am so enjoying my life right now. The margaritas are flowing, me and my fellow divorcees are chillin’ on this cruiseship, I wish that bitch Carol could see me now! Where did it all go wrong, Carol? What did he have that I don’t? Apart from a steady job and no dependency on alcohol?
Thirdly, Malice N Wonderland, Snoop Dogg. Another artist who has a style and sticks to it. In this case, that would be ‘the music you’d play if you were in a limousine being driven through Atlanta at night‘. Because, unlike so many of his contemporaries’, there’s just a thing about Snoop’s music that makes you feel like you belong in his world.
Yes, he’s just as much into the bling, bongs and bitches as any of the others. And yes, he has danced awkwardly to that Soulja Boy song. But you always know that Snoop will deliver a unique kind of sleepy rap (‘slap‘?) that draws you into its hazy, lazy world. Plus, one of the guest artists here is called Nipsey Hussle. Which is the dizzle fo’ shizzle, obviously.
This album is represented by the thought:
Ah, Snoop. With your drugs, and chillout beats, and allegations of personal battery. I’m going to smoke this blunt for you.
I am far too high to nip to the shops and buy this album, so please take me to it online.
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