Zezaurian Music Dept. explodes in a firestorm of hyperbole

Have you read any of the reviews for Propagandhi’s new album, Supporting Caste? How, without a trace of irony, does someone come up with a sentence like this:

“…Instantly hitting with an insanely tight blitz attack of thrashing guitars and anger drenched vocals, ‘Supporting Caste’ ricochets out of the speakers with intent to not only maim but kill, as Propagandhi’s rush of politically fuelled rampages collide with brutal riffs stapled to a juggernaut of melodic rock…” (Room Thirteen)

Alright, calm down Mr Adverb! You’ll have someone’s eye out!

But there's no stopping him:

“…The thrash frenzy introduction of ‘Dear Coach’s Corner’…ensnares all within a 100 mile radius as audio commentary gives way to harshly euphoric blast of thrash before Propagandhi take the track and throw it slamming into your face, challenged only by the punk melodic charm of ‘The Banger’s Embrace’…Brandishing a barrel load of gang vocals amongst a raging hail of uplifting guitars and drum beats…”

Do music journalists go to drama school before attending journalism class? Do they all sit in a big circle and pitch action movies to invisible CEOs at Fox before running around in their underpants screaming? That last paragraph is actually more frantic than the new Transformers trailer. Thing is, if you didn’t have the album, you’d be scared to put it in your CD player in case it accidentally killed someone.

"Mother! Oh, God! Mother, Toby's head has fallen off!"

"What? How?!"

"It was the new record from progressive-thrash band Propagandhi!"

"But Jeremy! I TOLD you how dangerous that could be!"

I understand the need to be expressive, but if I had a conversation in real life that sounded anything like the crazy talk these idiots puke out, I’d get a punch in the throat.

[Answering the phone]

Me: Hello?

Mum: Hi, honey, how are you?

Me: Mother! I’m literally exploding with the violent chain reaction of a four BILLION ton TNT explosion in you face right now.

Mum: That’s nice, Dezmond. How’s the move going? You all settled into your new flat?

Me: Settled in? You’re kidding me, right? I’m not just settled in; I’m literally on fire just arranging the furniture. The new pad is like a hail of bullets made from unicorn horns travelling faster than the speed of light in a vortex of destruction. It’s so intense in my living room right now that every living soul within a mile radius is bleeding from their eyeballs with jealousy at what I’ve picked up from Ikea.

Mum: Well, me and your father will pop over when we can to see you. Do you need anything bringing down?

Me: Holy God, mother. If you and dad arrive at my flat - that’s actually more like an inter-dimensional time-portal of whirling supernovae - you’d have to enjoy an exploding cup of fennel tea with me just so you can understand what its like to have your brain sucked out of your nostrils at a thousand-miles-per-second whilst having a ten ton brick of annihilation thrown into your pathetic chest cavity by a warlock of made from obliteration itself.

Or something.

(9/10 for the new album by the way. I’ll describe it as “splendid.”)

Miss J.F Jukebox

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