Music reviews. CD reviews. Critically hip!

If Monty Python existed today, and considering their over the edge degree of distasteful antics that set the comedy world on its collective ass, this might be the aural equivalent of their artful form of superior quality juvenility.  Here’s this thing called Devilcake, where if the title’s any indication… Nah, it’d be too obvious that the entire theme of the record revolves around culinary nightmares and spastic colon-ary lines of text that’d make Dom DeLuise sick.  

And now having read the lyrics three times in a row, not only am I going to be ill, but fuck yeah, that’s exactly what it’s about!  The music’s state of the art shit, which naturally can be determined in many ways depending on ones level of dementia—thankfully, for those of us who haven’t accepted adulthood with open arms just yet, food fights and fuck ups, single served on a steaming sound bed of production-deficient monster movie music is just what the large intestine ordered.  

Think of a group like an in their prime Melvins invading the set of Julia Child, raiding and hording every consumable they get their paws on, dissecting the digestive details onto tape, regurgitating it for the unsupervised eleven year old who takes great pleasure in all things sick, dirty, and perverted, scrawls the experience onto notebook paper, and who’s parents hire Carnivore and GWAR to perform at the next funny farm family outing.  

No qualifying textural principles going on here, just a weak fleshed, food fetish, that’s as funny as a fart between floors… and any side effectual music value that should come of it, is, rest assured, purely coincidental.