Show Report: Pollution
August 5 2009 at 12:12:55 PM
Surf’s up, dick. A “Spray Paint (the Walls)” run through melting cabs, thrashed by flash-fire drums, welded into a metal monkey dildo of poison leads, buttered beyond a slick shitstink mess with run-an-axe-up-the-man’s-ass vox is what the schmoes – including yours truly – need in substantial and near-deadly dosage. Too many Internets Tweedle-Dees have waxed their backs on what-it-is-to-be “heavy.” We’ve all heard the acoustic Blues turned inside out and around as precursor to “Charmicarmicat” – or worse. Logic stretched as grandmother’s tongue via bloggerhead chin-rub rumination on neo-folk as cling-clang uprising via Guevara bootleg tees. Add a pinch of indignation and cry some tears over who’s getting the e-Ink these days and you’re privy to the environment that grows a band such as fuckin’ Pollution. Even Ryan’s CHECK, CHECK, 1, 2, CHECK is most ominous and gets the Herberts running like rats.
Four guys, some guitars, a bass, a Rodgers kit painted sea-foam green by an in-the-pocket meticulous meth-head. Admirable conscious and concerted efforts to sound like nothing, no one; to sound sick and fucked and bleeding and broken. Go get hit by a truck, Moe. Wrap your ribs around udder times, udder dimensions. Hang your head on space, on notions of animal spirits articulated by bros who genuflect to nothing but Mellow Candle, to beanbags. Fuckin’ drummer is splitting sticks, spitting wood. Back a bus into the fuckin’ screamer’s mouth. Fuckin’ guitarist No. “Jailboid” is warring with magik, Moe. Magik. Fuckin’ guitarist No. Teeth is farming hair, growing blizzards. It’s loud and gets fuckin’ louder and I realize I’ve had nothing to eat since a mid-day breakfast of scrambled eggs and corn tortillas and I’m nearing rubber-room status. Three-quarters of the Left Hand Path “staff” is either witnessing or disseminating.
One song and another. Fuckin’ drummer’s sprinkler’s on. Fuckin’ No. Jailboid, powered on by Natty Lite, burnt out on Weatherman, Ginn, on another country named Raleigh. Fuckin’ No. Teeth is brownbaggin’, crouched and tigered. Fuckin’ screamer is presence and power and a fight waiting to bruise, to blacken your mug. Pollution is done in minutes. Ties are told by charmers to buy tapes. I am asked what I think. What the fuck could I think? Surrounded by falling DePalma, blur here and there, ink, Vans, gourds, ears the consistency of gauze, of honeycomb, I ain’t thinking. This is blown away; this is taken by sound – as legitimately and totally gay as that sounds, Moe. Maybe one day you’ll see/hear for your own sorry self. Until then: So, this horse walks into a bar. The bartender looks at ‘im and asks, ‘Why the long face?” Att-uh-cuh! Att-uh-cuh! Att-uh-cuh!
[Stewart Voegtlin]
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The horse looks at the bartender and says, "I got AIDS."