
Daughters – Daughters
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,
never saw the word “wheedling” before. huh!