I haven’t felt this depressed since my last case of the crabs— from who else, Melba, my favorite Dominican patient. All my colleagues know that her twat’s a viral oven, but that makes doing her a much more daring, and dare I say, diagnostically adventurous experience. I hate those snapping pincers so badly I want to down a bottle of ludes on a rainy night. But who needs quaaludes when you have this somber, 33 RPM electronica suicide-machine called "Coma" at your fingertips.
Had to double-check the label to make sure I hadn’t mistakenly picked up a CD from 1997, a year in the middle of that awful pseudo-progressive electronica era. Also the year this Austin bunch got together to start writing soundtracks to teen breakups everywhere. Mash up PINK FLOYD with THE CURE and throw in a bit of RADIOHEAD, and you get 54 SECONDS, which is exactly the amount of time this group should have lasted. But unbelievably, "Coma" is something like their 3rd album.
Itching my scrotum like mad, I closed my office door, pulled out an old lava lamp, packed a bowl of Jamaican redhair, and tried my best to get through it. When you’re attempting to be a dark psychedelic rock group, you have to have those electronically distorted vocals full of echoes and static to go along with your synthesizer and electric piano. And you also have to repeat the same fuck-me-while-I’m-hypnotized beat for every song.
Don’t forget the raspy, one-note singing voice. I guess Stewart Cochran decided he hadn’t whined enough as a kid and so now I’m subjected to 49 minutes of his castrated droning. But oh my, how damn good castration would feel right now, as I dump another worthless bottle of shitty medicated shampoo over my package.
I will definitely not be sticking my rod in Melba anytime soon. Nor will I be listening to this CD again— even if they do have a video playing on MTV Europe. Then again, what an appropriate place for this kind of disease-ridden music.
