Saturday, April 04, 2009

Wednesday 13
Blood Work


Following last year’s Skeletons album then the live CD/DVD hextravafanga Fuck It We’ll Do It Live comes this limited EP. Released in conjunction with his current tour as well as heralding a cull on activities as the curtain descends on the last chaotic year or so. Ever more inveterately entertaining the pentagram tooth-picking diminutive devil-raiser starts the skewering opening sequence with a two-pronged frenzy of new blood that has playful nursery rhyme B-Movie Babylon blistering, listing a roll-call at midnight mass atop seething cauldrons and chainsaw shrieks of reanimated WASP relics and Plan 9-budget creepy keyboards lathering threats like ‘I’m the worms in the can / I’m the corpse in the bodybag’ in gore and groans galore. A line like ‘I’m your neck in the noose / I’m your screw that’s coming loose’ casts a slight light through cracked clapboard walls that the angst and allusions are still digging deep, which, despite the sheer exuberant fun of much of the muck he rakes through, is a striking reason why he levitates himself out of the trough into the realms of real idol. Return Of The Living Dead disinters it’s shattered shell from similar ground but opens up the throttle like a well severed carotid to force stakes splicing the heart of the live favourite rampage through Tom Petty’s Runnin’ Down A Dream. From Frankenstein Drag Queens From Planet 13’s comes I Love To Say Fuck (featuring the pleasing admission ‘I don’t care if you’re my mother / or my motherfuckin’ father’) to retwisted visits down shadowy paths on My Demise B.C. and Skeletons A.D. – already haunting extracts from the album of that name, here embalmed acoustically, releasing the purifyingly odious stench of desolate gothic grandeur with pictures of graveyards, candlelit black-shrouded scribes in stain-glass windowed church antechambers. Talk is of a hiatus for the foreseeable while he readies his country side-project Bourbon Crow to go to town. For now, this is a slight though essential means to curtail this chapter in Joseph Poole’s scar-tossed career.
Stu Gibson

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