Right now we’re gearing up for another
Eurovision Song Contest, the world’s biggest celebration of karaoke dollybirds
and mentally unsound comedy entrants like Spain’s bequiffed Rodolfo
Chikilicuatre who proudly plays a toy guitar with his nose.
Child Pornography – She’s Got Legs (Deathbomb Arc) http://www.myspace.com/deathbomb Psychedelic Horseshit
– Magic Flowers Droned (Siltbreeze) http://www.myspace.com/psychedelichorseshit If one
were to arrange the world’s worst music onto a single ear-splitting,
bowel-clenching C60 party mix beginning at the impassioned strains of The
Portsmouth Sinfonia, taking in Syd Barrett’s desperate pitch-flailing from the
Madcap Laughs sessions, jukebix hits by The Legendary Stardust Cowboy, Electric
Eels and The Shaggs, a tongue in cheek pairing of Yoko Ono’s Midsummer New York
and something by (China’s answer to Mrs Miller) Wing, maybe chucking in The
Slits bedroom demo Number One Enemy and a couple of B-movie trailers for good
inter-textual measure, and finally tailing off with Wild Man Fischer’s oddly
perfect “We’re not trying to be perfect folks” soundbite; there might just be a
home in these hypothetical Gong Show grooves for Child Pornography and
Psychedelic Horseshit’s seriously in-the-red assaults on taste, talent and
volume control. I almost didn’t write about She’s Got Legs for two
reasons. First, because of the band’s striking moniker, I couldn’t face Googling
any info. Second, Incendiary probably don’t want an inbox full of frustrated
scout leaders typing complaints with the one free hand. Alas these aren’t good
enough reasons so here’s the deal. As bass heads off into new directions and
we’re hearing about dubstep and doom and how all the cool kids in Bristol are
pilling it to the brown note played through goliath sub-woofers, Child
Pornography defiantly rattle out a high end ‘autism pop’ racket, just bonkers
enough to fill any synesthesiac’s head with flying Crayola colours. Of
all the wide eyed noisemakers currently associated with oh-so-trendy-right-now
Los Angeles art space The Smell, this is the most appropriately snotty. A no-fi
no-wave no-nothin’ voice reduces the ego-bound art of lyricism to grunts and
gurgles (because stroking your chin is not a dance move) atop drum machine
blasts, mashed keys and the murky outline of guitars that go “bwlargh bwlargh
bwlargh”. They’re a fine addition to Deathbomb Arc’s stable of crossover noise /
rave weirdos with such hook-laden pop nuggets as Woot Woo and Honey Bear making
equal sense on the dancefloor as the depths of a bad crack experience. Mere
seconds of their female fronted fuzz will eradicate a day’s sound pollution from
whichever radio stations, car adverts and AW35OME ringtones are currently
grinding your teeth into dust. Right now we’re gearing up for another
Eurovision Song Contest, the world’s biggest celebration of karaoke dollybirds
and mentally unsound comedy entrants like Spain’s bequiffed Rodolfo
Chikilicuatre who proudly plays a toy guitar with his nose. No-hopers who
perform with such endearing ferocity as to stumble through an election and onto
the international platform. This is probably why Psychedelic Horseshit’s dense,
Casio-spattered tones have been knocking everyone dead lately. The extra
ingredient which comes only when a band decide not to let their lack of skill
get in the way of perfectly good bad music. “I’m picking up bad
vibrations” sniffs frontman Matt Whitehurst “everywhe-eh-ere that i go”, and we
officially have it, the exact opposite of Brian Wilson. This breezy little
melody lost in hurricane strength rawk, a sound texture to strip enamel from
your teeth, ranging from dictophone crackle to supersonic scree and punctuated
now and then by the sound of saucepans collapsing. But however much the music
might bare it’s teeth and balls, stuff garage stompers, street acoustics and
surf into the blender then cough phlegm onto it; this voice remains a constant,
underpinning everything with gentle Columbus Ohio pop tones. Like Burial for
Pavement fans, or Dawson’s Creek mangled in the VCR (I suppose). Yes, it is
psychedelic and yes, it is probably horse-shit but the gauntlet is down and I
defy any debut this year to top Magic Flowers Droned for aching beauty, brutal
self-reference and the ability to bother a dog. “We’re not trying to be perfect
folks”. Words: Gavin
An Archive of Incendiary Magazine 2002 – 2017