I'd say Old Time Relijun's Uterus and Fire is a true innovation in modern music. I think it's the first time anyone's ever recorded an ensemble of diarrhea-afflicted chimpanzees taking a collective dump in someone's garage. They somehow managed to mic each of the chimp's asses, slip 'em each a strong laxative with a banana lunch, and then, kerblaam! Lucky for you, dear consumer, these tree- swingers squeeze out just enough smelly goods to make for an entire album of pure unadulterated shit.
To continue the excrement theme, you could say that Old Time Relijun aspire to be the musical equivalent of those downtown NYC artistes that crap on a canvas, and sell their feces to pretentious art collectors for a pretty penny. Although, really, I'm the last one who'll condemn a band just because they can't "play" in a traditional technical sense. In fact, on a daily basis I enjoy all sorts of inherently filthy semi- musical crap: Pussy Galore and Jon Spencer, Jandek, the Fugs, the Stooges, the Sex Pistols, and so on.
On a technical level, though, Uterus and Fire makes an album like the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's exceptionally trashy 1992 debut sound like Zeppelin II. I mean, what sort of tragically hip jerk- off would allow these inept fucks to make a CD? This audacious little twerp should be shackled to his stereo system, have headphones duct- taped to his cranium, and forced to listen to his brilliant discovery on repeat for a few days.
When you get right down to it, these poor bastards don't even try. They aren't funny enough to be a joke band. They aren't offensive. Just unbelievably boring. The drummer bashes the toms like he's a seven- year- old doing a bad imitation of a handicapped John Bonham. The guitar limps along on a few repeating out- of- tune notes. The diverse lead singer gets into some ridiculous Yoko Ono vocal performance-- that's when he's not doing the muffled Jon Spencer- wannabe mouth- over- the- microphone screaming. And I guess they couldn't find a shitty enough bass player, because it sounds like there isn't any bass whatsoever. Damn that's bold, baby. Oh, and there's lots of clueless free jazz sax- blowing, too-- and, boy, it's not annoying or anything, trust me.
Oh, and hey, I'm glad they didn't forget to mention my favorite part of the female anatomy in the album title. That's so cool! Ha, they said "uterus," man. Cool. Why not name the next album Fallopian Tubes on Vagina Mountain, or how 'bout Enflamed Clitoris? They could even get Adam Sandler to make a guest appearance. Y'know, he'll cut a gurgling fart in the studio and they can sample it, or something totally cool like that.
