Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major-label releases.
Today is the fifth of July and, in America, a national holiday. We believe it has something to do with a decision the American people once made about wanting to be disrespectful to their elders and betters, and literally biting the hand which had not only fed them but had clothed them, had given them some land, and had set them up in a pretty damn cushy situation all round if you ask us.
Something like that, anyway. An American chap did once try to explain it to us, but to be honest it was hard to make out what he was saying through the mouthful of cheeseburger and cream cake.
Some albums and thoughts. With an American theme this week.
Firstly, Rollin’, Texas Hippie Coalition. Your Mango was not around in the 1960s, for it was a time before the internet had been thought of, created, and filled with videos of kittens, pwnings, and attractive ladies being improbably aroused by several ugly men at once.
But, thanks to the internet (brought to you exclusively by Al Gore), we do know that the 60s were populated by a beautiful group of people called hippies. Basically, a whole generation turned into a bunch of prancing Mary’s, poncing around all naked and that. A whole generation got so whacked off its cheese on Afghani headweed that when a war came along they were all too bletched to fight, insisting instead that all their soldiers’ guns be loaded with flowers, for some reason.
Not scary people, hippies. Until now.
The Age Of Aquarius has given way to The Age Of Hairy Arse, if this Texas-based coalition of “hippies” are to be believed.
See, the Texas Hippie Coalition is a band of badass motherfuckers who don’t give a flying goddamn about peace, love, or the correct spelling of an intransitive verb’s past participle. Just listen to the lyrics of track 5, Pissed Off And Mad About It:
Guess you’ve heard about it,
Pissed off and mad about it,
So let me scream and shout about it,
Pissed off and mad about it.
Wow. Such passion, such anger, such… tediously overblown, impotent adolescent rage.
The rest of the album is more of the same: a poor attempt at recapturing the emotions of early 90’s hard rock, including? an ill-advised effort (Groupie Girl) at one of those intra-song transitions from thrash to ballad which?Soundgarden were so adept at. This guy is no Chris Cornell.
Keep on rollin’, Texas Hippie Coalition. Before we turn on the water cannons and release the Alsatians to chase you out of town. Here’s your thought:
Aw, shitcrackers. I am so goshdarn pissed off at the world, my parents, that girl in the ninth grade who told everyone I don’t have down-there-hair yet. Time to break out the Texas Hippie Coalition.
ROOAARR!!! So very angry! Need some musical fuel! Give me unto Rollin’ right now!
Secondly, Tailgate, Trailer Choir. ‘Trailer park trash’ has long been used as a pejorative, a way of demeaning a group of people with a certain lifestyle.
But those same folk have recently reclaimed the term, using it instead to describe themselves with a sense of unified pride. Such a phenomenon has happened previously, as groups of people whom society has marginalised and beaten down grab their haters’ words of abuse and make them meaningless through self-referral. Think of “Paki”, or “Queer”, or “Member of the 2010 England World Cup Squad“.
And those trailer park trash love nothing more than a good old ‘tailgating’. Essentially, this means turning up at the football stadium two hours before the game, lighting a BBQ on the back of your pick-up truck, then eating meat and drinking beer until you fall asleep in the sun and initiate multiple melanomas while the game is played.
Basically, tailgating is a Club 18-30 fortnight in Ibiza condensed down to an afternoon in an Alabama car park.
The latest album from Trailer Choir is as dumb as they come which, in this genre (whooping, hollering, can-of-Bud-held-aloft American rock), is a compliment.
Kicking off is Shakin’ That Tailgate, a song whose lyrics suggest the titular tailgate shaking is not merely an attempt at checking the vehicle’s suspension for road worthiness:
Start shaking that tailgate,
Back it on up and down to the ground…
…Them country girls can’t wait,
To start shaking that tailgate.
And thus the album continues, rocking song about beer following rocking song about boobs. Favourites include the heartfelt paean to a female lover, Wal-Mart Flowers, and the heartfelt paean to moobs and coronary heart disease, Rockin’ The Beer Gut.
Great stuff from the Trailer Choir. We’re sure they’d be an interesting act to see live, if only for the chance to be in a room with the entire world’s supply of wolf/moon/confederate flag combo T-shirts. Here’s its thought:
Whoo!!!!! U-S-A! The greatest nation God ever did see fit to put on this darn fair earth of his. Screw you, England, Italyland and Mediterranea. Y’all can suck my wiener!
Why, Ah do declayuh that this done be mah most favoritest band of them alls, yes suh. Please, take mah ayass to Tailgate.
Thirdly, Memphis Blues, Cyndi Lauper. Your Mango has been to Memphis. We have seen the room where Elvis Presley used to shoot television sets. We have looked down onto the balcony where Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated. We have stood on the spot where Irish tossrockers U2 recorded one of their turgid cheesewank albums. And we have drunk laughably overpriced beer in BB King‘s very own blues club on Beale Street (like from that song, but sadly our feet weren’t “ten feet off of” it. That would have been better.).
On this latest album, Cyndi Lauper has chosen to record some of the great blues songs which influenced her. You know, those classic, sorrowful blues songs which inspired her to write such moving tributes as Girls Just Want To Have Fun.
No, we’re being facetious. Possibly. We should really look that word up, because it looks like it might be something about poop.
Anyway, this is a really good album. Cyndi Lauper has enlisted several blues giants, including BB King and Charlie Musselwhite, to bring some authenticity to proceedings, but really they offer nothing more than that. Cyndi Lauper’s own voice is so huge, and simultaneously so tender, that she is the star attraction here.
Our favourite track on Memphis Blues? is Down Don’t Bother Me, performed with Mr Musselwhite. But the whole album is a classy little package of heartfelt songs.
Who knew that girls could make the blues this much fun? (? probably every bloody person who reviews Memphis Blues). Here’s its thought:
Wow. When I woke up this morning, I discovered that my girl had left me, my dog had died, there was no more whiskey in the house, the house had actually burnt down around me as I slept, AND I’ve got a damn big pimple right on the end of my nose. Time for Memphis Blues by Cyndi Lauper, I reckon.
That’s amazing! I also woke up this morning to find out that my girl had left me, my dog had…etc, etc, etc. Look, just take me to Memphis Blues, okay?
That is all for this week, faithful Mangons. If you or a record company PR friend of yours has music deserving to be flushed down the ears of an overwhelmingly large number of people, contact us here: TheGibbo[at]gmail.com.
Cheerio!
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