Review Summary: A shoddy album that tries to conceal its tediousness under a layer of dirt
[Note: this album was written as part of Judio's ‘Review A Random Album Game 2015’ challenge. I would not have chosen to review it (I don’t, as a rule, review things I don’t like in some way), but as I have to, here it is, with unrestrained miserabilism.]
Famously, the conductor Thomas Beecham was asked by someone whether he had tried to conduct any Stockhausen. “No,” he replied, “but I once trod in some.” Cherubs do not near Stockhausen’s impressive level of squalidness (or musicality), but while listening to Icing, I suspected that Stockhausen would have met their obstreperousness with a inner twinge of solidarity. As artists they couldn’t be farther apart, but in their search for noise and ugliness over musical talent, they reveal a common spirit.
Cherubs are a noise- and punk-rock band from Austin, Texas. They formed in the early 1990s and released two albums before breaking up (and then reforming of late to grace us with another album). The two albums failed to make any considerable impact at the time, but seemed to have since gained quite a cult status. Released in 1992, Icing was the first of these -- and the band’s debut -- and has failed to make any impact on this reviewer.
A good starting point is the guitar. It squelches about in the same pool of mud for 25 minutes, with the last 3 minutes consisting of a kind of 60s-esque reverse-squelch effect. It’s as if after sucking you into the mud for half an hour, the music has burped out your remains. Anyway, the guitar chord progressions are dull and there is minimal variation and technique. Obscuring even further any detail or interest is an unrelenting layer of distortion that turns melodies into grunts, chords into vague clusters. The rest is just rhythm. Unvaried, sclerotic rhythm.
Now, such a grimy sound can appeal to me in a dank black metal kind of way. But there needs to be something more -- an atmosphere, an underlying clever musical design. But not here. Icing is just a very bland album with a touch of attitude.
The vocals are similarly contorted. They are direct, exhaustingly rageful, and wholly indecipherable. They are a bit more varied than the guitar though. Sometimes they are adolescent and shrill, and sometimes they are lower, more restraint and a tad more understandable. With no liner notes to hands, I’m guessing they are different vocalists.
So the guitar and vocals are not exactly impressive. What of the bass, then? Oh right: indistinguishable from the guitar. The drums, however, have the honour of being the most audible of all the instruments. They are forceful, loud -- I want to say rambunctious -- but somehow not that impactful. On tracks like ‘Pink Party Dessert’, the booming toms and strong rhythms were welcome, but the impact is lost because of how loud -- and therefore how compressed -- the album is. Like so much punk, it starts to sound very flat and monotonous.
Monotonous, squalid, rambunctious, squelchy, obstreperous -- let’s move to simpler adjectives. How about unmusical? Okay, not unmusical per se, but the album is markedly lacking in any kind of interesting musicality. I’m well aware I’m probably being quite the snob. This is punk. Grungy, dirty punk. But this shouldn’t ipso facto mean boring and ***ty. The riffs are all of the same kind. They predictably play heavily on power chords two, three, four and seven, with frequent emphasis on alternating between the major and minor third of the scale. Of course, the tritone makes a passing appearance here and there. Even if you’re not familiar with music theory, you can soon feel the pattern.
Worst of all, the music is patently two-dimensional. With grating pointless vocals (and lyrics), as well as a bass that is little more than a mutated limb of the guitar, there is only chords and drums. For a few dozen seconds late in ‘Shoofly’, the two interact interestingly -- with some snazzy new chords even. However, for the most part it is the predictable chord- and drum-banging that is probably great live, when drunk and filled with pointless rage, if that’s your thing. But it’s not mine.
So, a shoddy album that tries to conceal its tediousness under a layer of dirt. Lest you take my word for it, here is an equally unqualified reviewer from that ne plus ultra of mass unculture, Amazon: "I am hard pressed to think of a more degenerate rock group. Serious distortion, quick no nonsense songs, double entendre lyrics, a whiny ass front man." He, however, thought these attributes to be positive. And likely many readers will too. But I have to fall down on the side that finds this album repetitive and forgettable. Strip away the surface layers -- the distortion, muddy production and dull shouting vocals that obfuscate everything -- there’s nothing left of any musical value. If a certain ‘sound’ and attitude are enough for you, fine, go enjoy it. Otherwise I can’t say there’s much here.
