Taking a slow drink from my glass of pineapple orange juice I have reached nirvana, where men dressed in bug suits shred about my ear drums with pulverizing, spastic, brain-fu
cking music that is just as confusing as my last relationship with a dinosaur egg. But the confusion eventually leads to a warm, toasty understanding, like when you finally come out of the closet or when you decide to just eat the dog's fur to stay partially alive. The Locust are like the Frank Sinatra of ADD America, soothing every nerve ending with song titles such as "Anything Jesus Does I Can Do Better" and "Captain Gaydar It's Time to Check Your Clock Again". It all really just makes me happy to be alive.
So these beautiful
Joe's Apartment rejects have created a work that is probably one of the most enjoyable albums to listen to, if you have a spare twenty minutes.
Plague Soundscapes does exactly what it's meant to do: take you a journey through hell and back, and maybe satirize some popular culture while it's at it. Not once do they stop with the lambast of dissonant, strange guitar lines that seem to be written by Godzilla's anus, warbled, shouted or screamed vocals, chaotic drums, and synthesizer work to match it all. But even among the mess there are moments of pure hooks, such as the brief dance section in "Practiced Hatred" or the trade-off vocals and eeriness of "Teenage Mustache", making the album even more than just a spastic romp.
Despite how convivial twenty-three songs of Mothra madness can be, there is a good chance that many people won't be able to absorb what The Locust have to offer.
Plague Soundscapes, though being fairly solid, has the tendency to become monotonous among all of the screeches and squalls. Take off your freshly powdered wig and set down your glass of pineapple orange juice and strap yourself in for experiences not unlike those of Dale Gribble.
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