Sometimes you just know. Call it judging a book by the cover if you will but I had a horrible feeling about this album based on the title and the fact it is four very long tracks with very similar names. It came across like a study in weird for weird's sake. And guess what? That's exactly what it is.
Clarinets whining, saxophones suffering in the furthest thing from silence you can imagine with the most harrowing bass and percussion track produce a cacophony unlike anything I've been tortured by since Bitches Brew.
It's like the soundtrack to the worst possible film noir.
"I should've known something was rotten in the estate of Daneshill when I awoke on a Tuesday with half my face hanging off. I got out of bed and duct taped it up and then went for a dump. There were tiny fragments of vinyl all over the bathroom floor. I leaned down and picked up what looked like a piece of the label at the centre of the record. It just read 'Ming'.
"Ming". The only record I own that would have "Ming" on the label is the Flash Gordon soundtrack. I listen to that occasionally when I'm reminiscing about my school days. But why would I have smashed up the record? It had been signed by a Freddie Mercury lookalike at an office party some years ago and would be worth something.
I pondered the clue while I wiped my ass. After seven dry wipes and even running the toilet paper under the tap to make a sponge, the next wipe still came back with a brown spot but I figured my underwear could take it and decided to call it quits.
I stood up and flushed but the toilet was blocked. The plunger wasn't helping so I had to bite the bullet and put my hand down there. I felt around and caught the corner of a piece of cardboard so I grabbed it and pulled it gently out of the pan so as not to spatter myself with my own shit water. It was pretty badly crumpled and when I straightened it out I could see it was an LP called "The Black Saint And The Sinner Lady" by Charles Mingus.
I tossed it into the bin and put a hand up to my wounded face to sooth the lacerations stinging in the adhesive. As I did so I noticed little tiny pieces of flesh underneath my nails and everything became clear. This album must have been so awful I had clawed off my own face. Then, realising what it had made me do to myself I had smashed the record and tried to flush the sleeve down the toilet.
I got dressed and went into the living room. My friend Larry was there sitting on the sofa, very matter of factly with his head blown off. A pump action shotgun was leaning up against the door frame. Larry couldn't have shot himself and then put the gun there so who had killed my friend Larry?
I walked over to the body. There was a piece of paper sticking out of his shirt pocket. I pulled it out and read it.
'1001 albums to choose from and this is the one you bring over? Fuck you, Larry.'
My handwriting - I guess people should exercise extreme caution when introducing me to new music.
I packed a bag, took all the bills out of Larry's wallet and headed for the emergency room."
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Opinions are like arseholes. They're never wrong. But I'd rather you express one than be the other :-)