Jello Biafra is pissed. This might not be a surprise to anyone keeping tabs on the former Dead Kennedys singer, whose scathing leftist diatribes have been the primary focus of a consistently fascinating but frustratingly uneven career. This time, the root of Biafra's frustration-- aside from the threat of global terrorism, the Bush administration's response to the threat of global terrorism, and, uh, yuppies in Cadillacs-- is personal: The Melvins approached him about a possible collaboration after witnessing the supposed Dead Kennedys "reunion," which-- after a series of inter-band legal disputes-- occurred without Biafra at the helm.
Biafra has been conspicuously absent from the music scene in recent years, choosing instead to channel his vitriol into lectures. That forum doesn't seem as suited for his talents-- the singer's blistering sarcasm has fueled many biting punk anthems, but he's not the most revelatory speaker on the campus podium circuit. Therefore, it's nice to have Biafra return to his role as a polemical punk rock gadfly.
The Melvins are ideal musical foils to Biafra's maniacal persona, and show an admirable willingness to subdue and camouflage their normally obtrusive sound. The band members' great admiration and respect for Biafra's work are evident in the album's malleable arrangements, which strike a perfect balance between the Melvins' grimy post-alternative metal and classic Kennedys-style California punk. Opener "Plethysmograph" begins with a blast of trademark Melvins sludge metal but quickly melts into a driving, dead-on Kennedys riff. The band's subtle emulation brings out the wicked humor in Biafra's sardonic description of a controversial genital device (approved by Attorney General John Ashcroft) used to administer shock therapy to perverts.
The album's strongest material avoids the type of somber apocalyptic weight that characterized Biafra's late-90s efforts with Lard. "McGruff the Crime Dog" uses the trenchcoated children's icon as a symbol for an intrusive U.S. world police force, as Melvins guitarist Buzz Osbourne's rapid metal riff captures the demented energy of Biafra's lyrics. "Caped Crusader" is an attack religious fanaticism, and is blanketed in Sabbath-style affected gloom. Biafra-- with the "help" of Ashcroft and 9/11 hijacker Mohammed Atta-- offers a virulent indictment of zealous anti-terror "crusaders": "God is great/ God is love/ We must kill infidels!"
Too often, however, Biafra's political sentiment is misguided and throws the album's venomous energy off course. His bizarre indictment of airport security staffers on "The Lighter Side of Global Terrorism" unfairly describes the underpaid guards as sadists who get off on patting people down. On "Yuppie Cadillac", Biafra flays the white-collar SUV crowd in a manner that might have been somewhat provocative five years ago, but now feels antiquated.
Never Breathe What You Can't See isn't exactly a return to form for Biafra-- only a return to format. He's essentially sold the same brand of hyperactive fuck-all rhetoric since his earliest days as the ultimate manic street preacher of West Coast punk. Both Biafra's sentiment and approach have dated, though, and this album lacks a needed urgency. The most telling and affecting commentary Biafra offers concerns the singer's own legacy, on "Enchanted Thoughtfist": "The pressure of being taken seriously/ Breathing down on me, to keep up with my extremes/ And keep on plantin' seeds." The song's closing mantra ("Start your own fire/ Bring the world fire") suggests that Biafra's discontented fury still runs strong, and that he isn't about to fade away without a fight.
