Review Summary: No one axed for this but I'm lapping up every drop of it.
The self-proclaimed "Kings of Sleaze," The Mentors, ejaculated on to the punk rock scene in 1985 with this offering that some would liken to the musical equivalent of a tower of shi
t. It's contents are putrid and nostril-stinging, but also surprisingly impressive due to the structural prowess used to create such a faecal monument. Founding members El Duce, Dr Heathen Scum and Sickie Wifebeater offer trashy, poorly recorded music accompanied by lyrics that will be hysterical to some and vulgar/offensive slander to others. Nonetheless, both parties will shed tears and as El Duce yells with authority:
"Bend up and smell my anal vapour
Your face is my toilet paper!"
I'll let you be the judge on what the sentiment is behind them. Personally, I find Duce's basic rhyming pattern endearing and catchy. Where some label the genre of this band "rape rock" due to its demeaning content, you could also make an argument that it's comedy rock due to the absurd and hilarious shi
t they say. One thing is for certain; this trio of men tore me a new hole to get filled on my lustful nights out on the town.
This is an album that I would imagine people would listen to as they shoot up an HIV-riddled needle filled with mystery liquid into their arm, before heading off to the local Bikie Bar. After downing 6 tequila slammers, they are now ready to join the royal rumble taking place in the Gloryhole-laden cubicles located in the men's bathroom.
Sometimes it's not the album that immortalises its impression on you, but rather the feelings and memories that were taking place while the album was on in the background. This happened to be the case for me as I found my drug-riddled body being pummeled at every angle by a field of closeted bikie flesh batons. I cannot indulge you with the details, as the potent cocktail of viruses and drugs surging through my body dulled my ability to remember most of the promiscuous act.
The first course of this album is a simple serving named the Sandwich of Love
. However, before you take a bite, note that this sandwich is much different from the one you'd find in your average lunchbox. El Duce has remarkably attributed the female perineum to a popular cafeteria food item. El Duce immediately states this sandwiches purpose as he yells the albums opening line:
"It´s the sandwich of love, one below and one above"
With El Duce's gurgling proclamation, we are now aware that this sandwich is a meal for two and I'm eating up every crumb of it.
continues the albums tasteful lyrical content as we are treated to a song all about a disease that I just can't purge from my perineum. El Duce cements this song in the STD hall of fame as he exclaims:
"She hangs out with a colony of whores
Now she´s hosting a colony of sores"
The more I read into the myriad of debilitating STD symptoms sung on Herpes Two
, the more I empathise with the pus-ridden and sore-infested picture Duce paints on this diseased track. It's a picture I am all too familiar with as I stare down at the landscape of sores and putrid pus that make up the topography of my erogenous area. A sorrowful sight that I can only compare to Malibu Ken's face from the latest Aesop Rock offering.
The late and great El Duce saves one of his best lyrical lines for the bodily fluid ballad Golden Shower
, where he states:
"Our relationship I don´t want to spoil it
You are my personal toilet"
He says these lines which such finality and conviction that if he were to say it to my face, I would all of a sudden feel my mouth stretch to an ungodly oval shape as my torso shrinks and my skin turns to porcelain. As my body contorts into its final form, I can't help but feel like I'm a character from the Animorphs book series. But instead of transforming into a pterodactyl or a pretty pony I have turned into a seat that people shi
t in to, and El Duce wastes no time putting my services to use. I brace myself for impact as he squats on my seat and instantly starts shi
tting a river of pyroclastic lava into my shi
t receptacle. I can only liken the violent nature of this bowel barrage to a vindaloo pipe bomb which is going to have similar effects to the fallout found in Chernobyl. My duties are only half done and as the flow of molten sludge finally subsides and meets its diabolical end, I ready myself for the final hurdle. To flush is to swallow and I do so with chagrin. The Ganges Lake of putrid gravy goes down with force as the cistern water acts as a high-speed train for its faecal passenger. With frightful force, the festering fluid is beer-bonged down my porcelain throat and whisked away to parts unknown. A journey that began from the upset bowels of El Duce and ended in the bowels of the deepest pit in hell where it belongs. Contemplating my new life as an inanimate object I think about my duties and what my new life means. My inaugural trial has bound to have taken years off my excrement-processing existence. All I hope now is that if my services are required on a public holiday, I will be given a day-in-loo as compensation.
As the final track My Erection Is Over
comes to an end, my life is also about to meet an untimely end. Like my fellow fate-tempting pioneers Icarus and The Challenger crew, my "belt-choking, while snake-stroking" days have caught up with me. My balance toeing on the line of suicide and touching the face of God has been undone by a fatal misstep. Knowing the end is near I rally up a handful of death-strokes to catalyse my final act of heroism. As I fire the final round from my flesh pistol, my soul goes with it. Departing via my semi-flaccid barrel, my soul has also departed this mortal plane. Free at last from its corporeal prison, my soul soars high into the blackest of skies, free from the wistful grip that once held it captive. But by leaving the body, it lost what gave flesh and feeling to its spiritual essence. By leaving the body it lost all the memories that gave sincerity and significance to its unique existence. By leaving the body it became nobody.
As my directionless contempt-filled vessel meanders aimlessly over fields of barley, it begins to dissolve into obscurity and dissipate into the night sky. The faint remnants of my soul are scattered unceremoniously by the woeful westerly winds, never to be seen again...
5/5 great album.