LAREDO, Texas — Conservative Tanner Oakenson recently committed his life to destroying all forms of fictional child abuse invented by his favorite conservative podcasters and commentators, proud friends reported.
“I just care so deeply about the children, and it pisses me off to hear the ways they are molested in plain sight at drag story hours or abducted off the street by Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton and mined for their adrenochrome,” professed Oakenson, despite lacking a single tangible shred of evidence that either of these things have ever happened even once. “Every newspaper journalist or newscaster on TV is a child molestor, so you can’t trust them to report any of it. I only get my news from The Daily Wire podcasts and www.american-patriot-news.biz.us. I plan to end all these systems of abuse by tweeting at Joe Biden in all caps and sharing LibsOfTikTok videos to my family text chain until I’m blocked.”
Others on the right offered alternatives to “dangerous” environments for children like Pride parades or classrooms with college educated teachers.
“It’s time for a return to family values. Send your children to my Sunday School classroom, mmmm, yes,” said Father Ray Palmer, a Catholic priest whose thin mustache should be enough to trigger an investigation for criminal conduct. “I will talk to them at length about the sins of premarital sex and masturbation in my classroom with no other adults or cameras. Keep your little ones away from the demons outside, send them to me instead to be completely unsupervised in an environment that has a legacy of being safe for children. Praise be.”
Actual experts in the realms of human trafficking and child abuse expressed some frustration at conservatism’s preferred areas of focus.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, THERE IS REAL CHILD ABUSE HAPPENING IN THE WORLD, AND IT ISN’T WHAT THESE DIPSHITS ARE OBSESSING ABOUT,” screamed an aggravated Dr. Erica Herd, social worker and researcher on human trafficking. “Jesus Christ, infinitely more cases of child abuse have happened in family homes, places of worship, and ‘traditional values’ groups like the Boy Scouts. But conservatives don’t care about actually protecting children. They care about demonizing anyone who challenges their ancient, rigid expectations of how the world should operate. But you can’t talk logic to these people, so I’m at a complete fucking loss for what to do anymore.”
In a complete surprise to no one, Oakenson has been arrested and is held on bail pending the FBI’s investigation of multiple computers confiscated from his home for child sexual abuse material.
Turns out inviting that old lawyer to one of your sex-and-cocaine afterparties isn’t such a bad idea after all.
If your current singer is a hard-working team player who can sing really well, you could save yourself a lot of time by just letting them continue in their current role.
Whether mailing the news, sending a singing telegram (via your new singer), or breaking up in person, you’re going to want to know where they’re holing up these days.
Sure, you’re a grind band with only guttural vocals, but we recommend having “Oh Sherrie” twinkling somewhere in the background anyway.
This could also be step #1. A simple internet search will indicate if you have to go through the stress of a breakup or if you can just save face by calling them a hero in the media before finding a replacement. (See: AC/DC.)
Is it possible your frontman already knows, and you don’t have to tell them? That would be so great!
And be thorough. You don’t want them wandering back to your next rehearsal claiming they forgot their Nirvana poster.
Soften the blow by easing them into obscurity. Maybe see them off with a gift basket and a card signed by the band.
It worked for Van Halen in 1985.
We know it’s a one-in-a-million shot.
As a concept, Collins’ long-awaited foray into Archies/Partridge Family turf is a fantastic one, but if my editors caught me giving this bubblegum pop album anything but the bottom spot, I’d be put in punk-satire-website solitary confinement with the folks trying to get Captain Beefheart headlines approved. This album seems to exist as an exercise in “how many different ways can we deconstruct “Yummy Yummy Yummy” (in fact “Hot Sour Salty Sweet” straight up pilfers its chorus!) That said, every song on “Ka-Blooey” paints a fluorescent vision of the Dirtbombs leaving a high school dance gig to go solve an animated mystery with their talking pet, and that’s pretty cool. Plus, we love a title with a “Calvin & Hobbes” reference, don’t we folks? Take this ranking with a grain of salt and a few dozen truckloads of Pixi-Stix.
The Dirtbombs’ first full-length LP is probably their least focused offering…but since the Dirtbombs started as a “single releases only” experiment, this is something you just gotta embrace. Hot ‘n heavy live tracks like “She Blinded Me with Playtex” and “Shake!! Shivaree” provide a shambolic looseness that most echoes the type of thing Collins perfected in the Gories (although the Gories themselves are PROUD imperfectionists, they’d be the first to admit.) It’ll definitely leave you pumped and wanting more, and puzzled over why these guys weren’t bigger than the White Stripes. But be forewarned: the album cover may have your parents asking you some invasive questions.
As the album title may give away, this is the Dirtbombs at their most lyrically paranoid…And justifiably so! Have you gotten a load of this planet lately? Woof! Here we have a collection of songs about the downfall of society that are as relevant today as they ever were (folks, we gotta stop this society thing from downfalling, and SOON!) Collins’ vocals are in fine form (when are they not, this guy could croon circles around you with laryngitis) and he even puts the echo effects to good use, amplifying the anxiety factor. Throw in both a Sparks and Dead Moon cover and we’re happy…still upset about that whole “world collapsing” stuff, but, y’know, may as well crank up those guitars while we still have a power grid.
The sheer feat of covering deep Detroit techno tracks and turning them into heavy, driving rock songs is something NASA scientists were probably hard at work on, but lucky for us, the Dirtbombs beat ‘em to it. Their take on pulsating house slabs like Inner City’s “Good Life” are somehow more hypnotic than the originals, letting you get lost in a groove while still never letting you suffer withdrawal from those screeching fuzz guitars we know you kids can’t get enough of. It sounds exactly like a rave is happening after hours at the Ford assembly line. The ‘bombs are always taking the time to salute others’ music, we hope they don’t mind us using this opportunity to salute THEM for once.
This album doesn’t just want you to feel the steady pour of sweat drip down your face, it wants you to wring it out into a highball glass and chug it for more fuel. A straightforward ripper of a record, this one’s all about fun. Highlights include the “rolling down a never-ending cartoon freeway” vibe of “F.I.D.O” and the “how have these guys not written a song about being stuck in the garage yet?” pounder “Stuck in Thee Garage.” Throw this on the next time your head’s in need of a proper banging. “Dangerous?” Yes. “Magical”? Oh hell yeah. “Noise”? No way, baby, this is MUSIC!!!
A masterpiece through and through. Collins valiantly leads his roving team through an endlessly impressive gauntlet of soul and R&B covers that work insanely well when peered at through garage-punk shades. Throw a dart at the tracklist and any one you hit will have your speakers, and your ears, eating good for the next three minutes. From songs everyone knows off the top of their heads like Stevie Wonder’s “Living For the City,” to songs everyone SHOULD know off the top of their heads like “Ode to a Black Man” (off Thin Lizzy frontman Phil Lynott’s second solo album), Ultraglide is the perfect showcase for Mick’s velvet vocal cords. An absolute crash course on some of the finest American music ever made…and we do put the emphasis on “crash,” since this will undoubtedly have you running red lights from singing along.
Coming in at last place is a very good album, “Give a Glimpse Of What Yer Not.” Do you think a titanic musical institution like Dinosaur Jr. cares about which one of their albums comes in last? Gimme a break. There’s a reason these guys didn’t get into competitive sports. Pretty sure Lou Barlow has never thrown a football. Murph might hunt. Sure, J’s been seen skiing and golfing in the music videos, but there’s no way he’d ever have a “coach.”
A touch more pared down than their previous album, “Sweep It Into Space” captures a living room recording quality akin to a “Poledo” or some Mascis solo stuff. It’s elegant, simple, and shockingly quiet for a Dinosaur Jr. album. Feels great, to be honest. Imagine you’re on Facebook Marketplace and stumble upon J Mascis selling his effects pedals after this record drops. That might not actually feel so great, to be honest.
You gotta smile when listening to this one. While not the ultimate exploration of a more chipper Dinosaur Jr. (see “Take A Run At The Sun,” or as we lovingly call it, The J Mascis Beach Party), it feels pretty damn close to having a locally sourced grapefruit quadruple IPA on an outdoor patio. The jams don’t quite set their roots in like they did on their previous post-reunion effort (which we won’t name just yet for dramatic purposes) but “I Bet On Sky” is an undeniable hit.
“Green Mind” is cool. What’s not cool about Dinosaur Jr.? Their music sounds like a bunch of amplifiers having a gunfight. And on “Green Mind,” sometimes there aren’t even amplifiers at all, just loudly strummed acoustic guitars that also sound like they might have a pistol on their hip, ready to shoot somebody in the head. That’s right, even the acoustic stuff can kill you if you aren’t careful. Don’t you forget that.
There’s something immeasurably sad about “Without a Sound,” which is no doubt what makes it great. While other Dinosaur Jr. records like to be unfussy about the volume of noise, this one doesn’t fuss about getting real quiet, falling to basically whispers toward the end on “Seemed Like the Thing to Do.” J Mascis isn’t the type to fuss, man. The guy barely raises his voice above a mutter, there’s no way in hell that he’d even consider fussing.
Don’t sleep on the first album, it rips. Obviously the production isn’t the highest caliber, a pretty crusty affair overall – but c’mon man! This is where it all started, the primordial soup, dog! “Mountain Man” is like, a character study about a survivalist? “Heard the snowcats calling?” Basically high fantasy. And in “Quest,” he talks about eating caterpillars. This might as well be Baldur’s Gate.
Uh, yeah…I’m thinking they’re back! While perhaps not reaching the highs of another post-reunion record that you’ll see shortly, this is a hell of a comeback album. Reunited in earnest for the first time since 1988, “Beyond” molds the ashes of the original trio into something new, joyous, sustainable. There’s an airy quality to the jams that feels new for these guys, and you can’t help but think that they might be pretty damn happy to be at it again.
Genuinely experimental and a product of the (essentially) one-man Mascis Orchestra, “Hand It Over” is certainly out there. And we’re not talking about “Out There.” That’s a different song and it’s not on this record. Don’t expect anything else about “Out There” on this blurb, okay? Strange percussion, trilling horns (see “I’m Insane”), the echoes of a Brian Wilson movement are strong here. No radio hits? Who cares! It’s J’s favorite of this era, and we love it too.
Okay, now we can talk about “Out There.” They put strings on this record! Yeah, that’s right, strings. Imagine, for a second, J Mascis conducting the LA Philharmonic. Big long suit tails, hair tied back into a ponytail like a teen stoner showing up to their court date. That’s basically the vibe on this one, when we’re not being treated to some truly gruesome reverb (‘you know what’ might be the best opening track of any Dinosaur Jr. record) and the most delicate Mascis vocal to date on “Not the Same.”
A cacophonous, openly hostile listening experience, the impending crack of the band’s sanity is written all over this banger, which is likely what makes it so damn tasty. Worth noting that “Freak Scene” was their first real radio hit, as “Bug” kicks off with this earworm-y single before devolving to complete and utter sonic chaos. Mascis hates it, his least favorite album of the bunch, but we’re not J Mascis, now are we? No, we are not.
“Farm” is a minor miracle, there’s no getting around it. The soloing on “Pieces” and “I Don’t Wanna Go There” goes as hard as any of the first three records, while the sincerity on a track like “Plans” feels more poignant than anything we’ve heard from the boys before. The expected wall of sound starts to feel more like a fortress – with like, a big deep moat around and everything. And not even any crocodiles or archers, either. They know this shit’s gonna hold up.
Sorry, not gonna reinvent the wheel on this one. Alternative rock scholars and weird guys in garages across America agree that “You’re Living All Over Me” is a perfect album, deep shreds bolstered by the sparse musings of alternative rock’s great poet laureate. The clarity in their sound a mere two years after “Dinosaur” is pretty unreal. It’s a showstopper. And can you believe this baby clocks in at 36 minutes? If you take out Poledo, that’s like, an episode of Curb. But don’t you dare take out Poledo.
