AMPBEAUTY
When the rivers aren’t chock full of hot scaly ass and my porn shoots wrap for the season, I’ve gotta resort to bangin’ victims of industrial waste fallout and boating accidents. But like the guys in PUNGENT STENCH, I don’t care if the beluga bitch is missing a fin or two, or if she’s got a 20-foot propeller scar across her mid-dorsal section. When I see her struggling to get me off, with that one sad fin flapping around, I begin to understand what
Ampbeauty is all about, STENCH’s sixth studio album since forming in the late 80s.
Like these twisted Austrians sing about on their title track (and on "Amp Hymn"), I might even be an apotemnophiliac, because lately I’ve found myself swimming by all the marine life hospitals in the area, hoping some chopped-up babe comes rolling out ready for action. Nothing’s off-limits for this group— from Lynndie, the
Abu Ghraib girl, to lusting after the hairy beavers of skanky milfs, to corporate scandals and serial killers. They go right for the jugular every time (sorta like I do when that fat flounder director I work with gives me shit about my acting— I wanna dip that Orson Wells fuck in a vat of mercury).
It’s all thrash metal with less variation than porn music, but that’s fine because the fun is in the words. You can tell vocalist Martin Schrene (a.k.a, "El Cochino"), the drum guy "Mr. Stench" and bassist "Testy" don’t take themselves too seriously. How can you with a rhyme like "there is no taboo / she loves to strip you down / and smear your body with her poo" (in "Lynndie"). It’s nice that they’re topical, but the only kind of national current events I care about these days involve some snapper humming the "Star Spangled Banner" with my rod between her gills. Singer El Cochino sounds like he’s gargling something himself while belting out this happy set of tunes— it’s as if Tom Waits went out of his mind in the studio one day and started singing about "popping anal cherries" and "picking dingleberries."
For us salmons, it’s the barnacles on the balls we can’t stand. All I need to take my mind off it though is the sound of your nubs when they hit the water. That’s right, you crippled little guppy. Why don’t you come on over here and try Big Dick’s schlong on for a prosthesis? That stench you smell is just my bilge pumping its load on your one-eyed face . . . and a few scum-buckets from Vienna, telling it like it is.
