As an amateur comin’ up in the biz, I had to shoot in my share of stank hole polluted lakes, rivers, and streams, but none was ever as bad as the Hudson, the kind of green shit pit that one-man acts like DESIRE BLACK crawl out of. Let me tell you, Jersey cod stink so bad you have to bathe in cologne before you bang ‘em if you don’t wanna gag. It’s amazing that I didn’t strangle myself with fishing line before getting to the top, which I’m hoping Jimmy Matheos does before trying to throw together a follow-up to Last Call for Decadence, which sounds like a scratchy, out-of-sync Trent Reznor demo.
I rather have a sea urchin spike shoved into my cock-hole than have to listen twice to these 10 tracks of bad punk hardcore, laid against Matheos’ strep-throat vocals. A few of the songs like "Slam (Motherfucker Slam)" and "Puke Til You Vomit" start out with decent enough guitar riffs in the first say 10 or 15 seconds, but from there the quality goes down faster than my FDA rating after plugging the one-eyed Jersey City blowfish that gave me mercury poisoning. (I got the bitch back— her snatch wasn’t tight enough so I used her socket, givin’ the poor girl some extra brain damage she didn’t need.)
Matheos writes pretty good lyrics which, on "Bleed My Lips," sound like what I told this sad foundling of the sea: "Hold me gently / you bleeding fuck / you’re not listening / and I’ve had enough." Shoulda been "bad bleeding fuck" but oh well. I threw her back in the nuclear rod coolant she called her home and got myself to a detox unit right away, my own rod lookin’ like a tainted shrimp cocktail. The sad ballad "Irish Eyes" made me think of that dark hole I stretched out in her cyst-ridden head as I sat in the ER behind a weepy gang-banged catfish. The opening line "You’re dark eyes are calling me" damn nearly made me mist up.
I understand the shitty production equipment Matheos is probably stuck with. God knows I’ve wasted plenty of 5-star loads in front of shaky handheld VHS camcorders, but that’s what you gotta do starting out. Good for him for tryin’ to be creative out there on his own amid the Jersey blight and heartless gill-stabbing competition that’s probably driving him apeshit. There’s always hope. Like one day I hope to get rid of the scale cancer I got from the one-eyed wonder. Chances of that are the same as the chances I’ll be putting a fin on Matheos’ shoulder at a red carpet event and saying to him: "Welcome to my ring, motherfucker."
You got a long way to swim, bro, and it’s all upstream. So good luck. My crew and I got 6 to 1 odds you pull a Kurt Cobain before your next LP.
