Regardless of how little (or how much) you've got invested in crusty old notions of "selling out to the marketplace," there's still something undeniably-- if stupidly-- charming about Fuck's preemptive commercial bellyflop. While total disregard for mainstream acceptance/placement on Wal-Mart shelves may not be as powerful a virtue as some would like to think, the glib, art-for-art's-sake balls of naming your band after America's most noxious expletive continues, after nearly 10 years, to stand as a puzzlingly impressive choice. The Rammstein collection may go untouched, but please pluck Fuck from the shelf before Grandma comes to visit. They're just that fucking dangerous!
The abrasiveness of their moniker will inevitably inform any first impression of Fuck, but their name is ultimately unrelated to the gentle swoon of their lush, folky musings. Despite meeting in a police holding cell and churning out songs with dumbly enchanting titles (see "Panties Off" or "Motherfuckeroos"), Fuck's relationship to "fuck" provides what might be the single, crowning irony of the band's career: They've wrapped themselves up in a word that's both wholly definitive and comically irrelevant. With their skewed, airy take on traditional folk-rock and Timmy Prudhomme's bizarre, cooed lyrics, Fuck are occasionally subversive-- but mostly they're just pretty.
Since forming in Oakland, California in 1993, Fuck have ripped through a mess of labels, making their footprints harder to trace; after two full-lengths on Rhesus, Fuck signed with Matador in 1997, who released their third and fourth records (1997's Pardon My French and 1998's Conduct). 2001's Cupid's Cactus appeared on Smells Like, while Goldbricks and Those Are Not My Bongos were snatched up by Italian label Homesleep, a move which rendered both albums virtually nonexistent on U.S. soil-- until 2004, when Future Farmer finally opted to release Bongos stateside.
Like most Fuck records, Those Are Not My Bongos is a whispery haze of giggly jokes (some excellent, some less so-- skip through the "Does the penis offend you?" intro, but savor the momentary idiocy of "I saw Betty and Veronica/ Juggling Jughead's harmonica"), docile folk strumming, and sweet, breathy harmonies. But, thankfully, Fuck aren't all snark: When Prudhomme bravely whispers, "When cool things happen, I think of you," it's obvious that the band's lyrical agenda isn't exclusively preoccupied with landing prime dick jokes.
"Nowhen, or 'Now, Hen'" sees Prudhomme wheezing delicately over a lone electric guitar and gentle keys; "Table" is similarly non-confrontational, with bits of piano, bouncy drums, steady guitar, and domesticated lyrics: "She sets the table/ Rechecks the table." Fuck haven't totally abandoned their more experimental tendencies, but Bongos is a softer, more cohesive effort than anything else in the band's discography, and worth just as much consideration as that word on the spine.
