As if Skull Ring wasn't enough on its own to pour sugar into the gas tank of Iggy's terminally stalled career, the Pop has to go and associate himself with Shat. Iggy, I will meet you out by the flagpole at three o'clock for this; if even one person mistakenly thinks that some of your "cred" has rubbed off on this jackass, why, I'll... Well, probably get my ass kicked. I'm no match for a guy who used to roll around in broken glass, even if his body has been wrecked by heroin. But it's the principle, dammit.
Ig opens The Cunt Chronicles with a guest monologue, graciously informing us that the following eternity of faux-metal schlock is a "best of" compilation, but this is a lie; the disc is not blank. The best thing Shat can offer is silence, and not just any run-of-the-mill silence-- impenetrable death-silence. After sixty-five cuts that can only be seen as symptomatic of the growing rate of functional illiteracy in this great nation, The Cunt Chronicles is so remarkably vacant that it fails even as parody, succeeding only in making the sweet release of death seem all the sweeter with every track. But I, your intrepid reviewer, will hold on just a little longer. I'm on a deadline.
Okay. So, the album's not to be taken seriously; granted. With song titles like "If She Has a Kid, You Know She Fucks" (the brutal logic underlying the tragedy of teen pregnancy!), Sesame Street lessons like "Open/Close" ("Open the door/ Close the door"), and the fortune-cookie wisdom of the enlightening "You Can't Just Shit", this much is clear. And yet, it may not be a sincere endeavor, but that doesn't mean it's funny. I'd mention Anal Cunt, but they're hard enough to be scary, with far better song titles and lyrics. The Queers' "Day Late and a Dollar Short" (an early, brilliant EP collection from before they became surf-punk fluff) is really Shat's holy grail-- a goal sought, but never attained; for every cheap laugh produced by three-chord shoutalongs like "This Place Sucks", The Queers were able to hit on genuine humor and some actual music on tracks like "Kicked Out of the Webelos". Shat is not so talented.
Instead, The Chronicles are as relentless and unflagging as brain cancer, and twice as fun. Sixty-five tracks of this, y'all. Sixty-five tracks, and barely three times that many different lyrics between them all. Sixty-five tracks of mindless slog-metal that Def Leppard's drummer could play, with some obvious "ironic" riff-stealing-- in case you didn't know how funny it was to hear-- oh god, I'd give an example of one of the 80s hard-rock already-a-self-parody songs they mimic for kicks, but I'd have to listen again. Sixty-five tracks, but here's one Jeff Wood (the chief mastermind behind Shat) forgot to include. It's called, "Shat is Shit":
"Shat is shit!Shat is shit!Shat is a fuck-terrible piece of shit!Shat is shit!Shat is shit!Shat is a fuck-terrible piece of shit!Shat is shit!Shat is shit!Shat is a fuck-terrible piece of shit!Christfuckingchristfuck this album is awful!Give me back my money!Christfuckingchristfuck this album is awful!Give me back my life!Fuck!Christfuckingchristfuck this album is awful!Give me back my time!Christfuckingchristfuck this album is awful!Give me back my life!Shat is shit!Shat is shit!Shat is a fuck-terrible piece of shit!Shat is shit!Shat is shit!Shat is a fuck-terrible piece of shit!"
I wrote that! Me! I had you fooled, admit it. Strap that baby to a two-chord progression (everyone knows the third chord is a cliché, anyway) with full distortion while I wail the lyrics like a cross between Jello Biafra and Glenn Danzig, and I have just written and performed every single song Shat ever wrote. All of them. If there's any justice, some honcho over with at ASCAP will read this and investigate why I'm not receiving royalties for this album.
"Most of them I write at work. Like the song 'I Stepped in Shit'. I walked into this person's backyard, because I spray chemicals on lawns, and I fucking, I just stepped in shit and I was like 'Fuck.' And my friend said 'What?' and I said, 'I stepped in shit.' And it was like bing, that's a song, so I ran to the van and fucking wrote it down. My memory is shot. I've got to write it down because as soon as I write it down the song is done."
Think this sounds funny? Think this album might be "good for a laff?" Oh my no. One song. That's it. One song, and then run as fast and far as you can. If I were to humbly suggest the tune of choice, how about "Cunt Flavored Lollipops", primarily notable for an amusing breakdown of the song's one and only line-- that's right, "cunt-flavored lollipops"-- to the tune of "The Good Ship Lollipop." But don't even sit still long enough to laugh at it, even if you'd like nothing more than to savor literally the one moment of humor on The Cunt Chronicles. Flee before you are caught and devoured. There's nothing funny about realizing that you'll never get back a full hour of your life that could have been spent more productively having sex with a power sander, forgetting how to read, or simply letting the blood flow out of your wrists and into the bathtub drain, gently... so gently...
