Thursday, January 08, 2009

Teenage Jesus And The Jerks
Shut Up And Bleed

This aural comedown of freeform musical dismemberment helmed and incited by the tearaway teenage lullaby-eater Lydia Lunch presents a woman adorned in intensive care squalls of catholic (small c please) guilt, angst, disgust and rage with tantrumic mantras from beneath her childhood quilt. Clearly, which she characteristically flagrantly admits herself, in need of heroic exorcism like a speed-dating evening for catatonic and concussed crank-fiends in severe states of psychological paralysis she wails, shrieks, bellows asphyxiated incantations in the sternum-collapsing caterwaul that Kat Bjelland later cultivated in Babes In Toyland, and quite possibly stamps her feet, pulls any hair in reach and sticks her tongue out at her tea like a proper little madam amidst emphysemic saxophone screeches and solar-plexus scraping snatches (snatches? These are whole fucking Fort Knox bank raids with bullion packed onto the soles of your shoes enough to make New Rock acolytes wince in wonderment) of dissonance and staccato scalping. The Beirut Slump sludge is the debatable apotheosis of their admirable lunacy binge where they played house-band for a Bowery bum (with Bad Seed Jim Sclavunos on drums for ye archival addicts). Along with undoubtedly influencing Bauhaus, Sonic youth and many other skronk-shemers and dust-devil dreamers these atonal lacerations may be torture but there remains just one question – whether the merit they can achieve for incarnating the anti-Patti and smithing a whole new saga of street-slut baby doll poesy beats the rage-as-art or let’s jump up and down on Sister Ray in stilettos in the Funhouse on fire. It’s a question as large as the inquisition is intolerant and not readily answered in philosophical Buk-ist screeches like Freud In Flop or religious bitch bilges like Crown Of Thorns but it remains to this day an aural-rape, musical scalping and repository of scorn not for the squeamish.
Stu Gibson

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