Daughters – Daughters

Daughters are pricks. Daughters are dipshits. Daughters are otherwise idiots leaning hard on the savant angle with the bludgeoning purpose of a Columbine kid parading a trench coat in 2003. A few years late and thirteen marks shy in a culture attuned to true horror.

That’s not to say that Daughters exist without merit. They have chops, sure. All sorts of fucking abilities that come from a career practicing spit-takes in front of the mirror and “Mutiny in Heaven” pitch-shifted at 78rpm. But you give enough lonely monkeys amplifiers and a swift course on Dyonisus and you’ll have a band you can advertise as “debauched”.

Man, that would be AWESOME!

And I hate monkeys, but FUCKING THINK ABOUT IT!

A bunch of angry apes, conditioned to savage isolation ala Henry Harlow’s “love” experiments. Force-fed PBR and a steady diet of Mute records early oeuvre (fuck their later love of tyrannical beat). Loosed on stage night after night until someone in the audience got a little too close to the masturbatory frenzy and ended up with their face in the alpha male’s belly.

At least then, you’d have some fucking climax. A fucking dynamic. Occasionally, someone would cum.  Shit. Eat their strings. Anything other than parading an endless barrage of jack-hammers and listless croon.

I mean, this record has hand claps and, I think, an organ which is a welcome distraction from all the thuds and wheedling but it’s sure as shit not enough to make for inspired listening unless you get off on a dream of Perry Como luded out of his fucking gourd dry-humping a theremin atop Gabe Serbian’s bass drum.

In which case, I’d like to shake your hand.

But we shouldn’t be friends.

Daughters – Daughters, reviewed by Charles on 2010-04-12T10:23:41-07:00 rating 2.5 out of 5