Believe it or not, as a young fry, my parents made me go to church every Sunday. It wasn’t long before I got kicked out for trying to use my "eleventh finger" to put the fear of God into this cute choir guppy as she sang Ave Maria. Maybe it was how the flowing white robe looked over her pert little scales. Of course, my finger wasn’t the titanic monstrosity it is today— nowhere close.
That was the day I realized I wasn’t like the other salmon. Being different and standing out is something the sorta upbeat, nü metal group FINGER ELEVEN tries hard to do. But they wind up sounding generic and boring on most of their songs, including the overplayed, seaweed-mush hit "One Thing".
These Canadians are like a semi-hard rod you can’t get rid of. You just want them to go hard or soft. But no, they choose the middle ground, and a hardcore star like me approaches their music like I would a smokin’ grouper in a nun’s outfit. Maybe I’m screwed in the gills, because they HAVE gone gold with the album and were chosen to tour with Ozzie in 2003.
But singer Scott Anderson and guitarist James Black don’t take any risks, and seem to be going through the motions with the hacked up and tired themes of disappointment and disillusionment. Sure, it’s fun to spoil a carp’s innocence with a relentless hammering, but these guys need to be kidnapped and raped a few times and then made to re-write songs like "Stay In Shadow" and "The Last Scene Of Struggling".
When you’re trying hard to appeal to everybody, you may end up rich, but you’re gonna leave a bland aftertaste in people’s mouths, not like I do in the mouths of my lovely co-stars after three days of continuous drinking (it’s Big Dick’s rule that the little honeys swallow regardless).
It's tough to say much about a group that doesn’t inspire you to love or hate them— they’re *yawn* okay, like sticking it to a sea turtle while you read the wanted ads (I never discriminate against other species, especially if they can get you off good).
That reminds me of one scene in my latest flick "All Fish Suck Dick In Heaven" when I splooge on a piece of driftwood in a shallow confessional and have a sand-crawler lick it off slowly while I say the Lord’s prayer. She was a good girl.
Hey, at least my Sunday School lessons were useful for one thing. Now if only I had slammed her in the head with an anchor afterward . . . Wouldn't that be something?
