Sunday, 25 April 2010
THE PAUL KIDNEY EXPERIENCE – Flower Punk
This is a huge stumbling splattering mess of sound. It's music as expression, unleashed Id breakout, it throbs and it's a cosmic lurching slug that exists in different time phase, oozes past dimensional gaps, has sex with mountain ranges in the past eras of the earth's geographic history. This music roars, screams, and humps the couch because the whole sound, where it in fact not mere sound but in fact one magic daemonic entity, and said enity would be so, so out of it's tiny mind that it would be certain that the couch is a large sac of molten jelly that can only be prevented from exploding and causing a potentially fatal overload of bad vibes by being humped. Soundly. Because it is, actually, sound. Right?
Alright, calm down. Blimey, was that the caffeine talking. Look this CDR release on Sunshine and Grease is a one-track monster. It's a big old jam by a bunch of freaks from Melbourne. It sounds like these things do, which is like a fucking mess fucking a couch. This is no bad thing at all – I'm a couch-rooting advocate. I've done it and if you haven't – well you're probably too old and may have missed that vital window when couch humping is a genuine option, because you can't fake it – I just tried and the magic is gone.
How lucky am I then, that this big throbbing wave of sonic mess exists to transport me back to a glorious time when I could hump couches with total commitment? I do wish I'd been there to see this recorded because the joyful, expressive explosion of 'music' - and I use the term loosely - is infectious and exciting. This is not some epochal release but it is the sound of people going fucking nuts and loving it, with little regard for form or narrative other than that which is imposed by the tyranny of music's time-based nature. Special mention must go to Matt Gleason for providing propulsion and a thrilling sense of vertigo, but all the players are having a ball, none less than the man himself, Mr Kidney. Screaming and growling and avoiding any semblance of words – well there are some but fucked if I can make them out and why the hell should I try? It's scarcely the point.
The point is that this great big splat of fluoro paint bombing is a great start to any day, a good end to any night, a smokers delight and a fun listen. I guess it might be in the Acid Mother's Temple realm, but then again, it could also just as easily be a squalid little universe of it own, one with elastic boundaries and lots of shrilling guitars that carry screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaming monster with long, skinny limbs into the clouds where they can piss all over the deserts and bring new life, over and over again in an endles cycle of destruction and renewal that echoes Ragnarok itself
Or something like that. I dunno, it's fucking nuts. Good shit.
out now on Sunshine & Grease. In an edition of 100. You snooze, you lose.