Thursday, 25 July 2013

Lumpy and the Dumpers

It's weird how quickly desire forms in punk circles, maybe one or two blogs or offhand mentions from a vaguely cool vaguely trusted source and a band can jump straight into the forefront of your mind as some of that real shit that you know you've got to get on. Two ripping demos from this band that popped up on a couple of my favourite punk internet spots and I was already unreasonably bummed when I found out I had missed them play a Thursday day show at Chaos in Tejas shortly after I arrived in Austin, and equally stoked when I found a flyer for their Saturday day show while wandering about on Friday morning.

Slop-punk slathered in fatty babble and tweaking on some true weirdone shit, Lumpy and the Dumpers first seven inch begins with Sex Pit. Opening in a trough of noise, Sex Pit has a long slurrylubed slide into a scuffed slobbering riff that kicks, and shines at the edges with pips and guitar squeaks. Screaming about a bacchanalia in filth, a fuck club lithe and squirming in a waste disposal. "I'M IN A POOL OF BUBBLING MUCK WHERE THE FLIES COME AROUND TO WIGGLE AND FUCK!" Transcendence through absolute degradation over "THE ONLY TRUTH IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PILE/NOT HOLY AND WHITE BUT STICKY AND VILE."

"FEELS SO RIGHT TO FUCK ON SLIME! FEELS SO RIGHT TO WASTE MY TIME IN THE SEX PIT!" the choruses blasts as the song wriggles and runs down into its foulness in tight circles with that sort of ripped-zip guitar tone like punk riffs squeezed through the bass grind of Chanes and Invy Da Truth's Loyalty.

 Elephant Man opens with the line "LET ME SEE YOU NITWITS POGO!" I'm always a fan of when these sort of braincracked punk nuts employ the language of raging Nicktoons characters, their animosity neutered by content restrictions, but finding a certain specificity of contempt in their puerile attacks. It fits this bands kinda aesthetic, Lumpy and the Dumpers sounding exactly like what you'd imagine Ren & Stimpy's latin-jazz freakout band to be named should they ever get their shit together in that way. Elephant Man features a bunch of ugly incomprehensible screams and blurts from the vocals as Joseph Merrick, this song's protagonist, struggles with his deformity and "CAN'T TAKE A NAP WITHOUT STARTING TO OOZE!", continuing this band's obsession with viscous fluid, like a Dawn of Humans song painted from a five year old's post-Ghostbusters 2 night terrors, making it feel sometimes like they're the prop-guys on a mid-90s kids game show. Mean Jeans have a song called Slime Time but with their pop-punk pull its more like a summertime slip-and-slide than the primordial glop here. Crazy Spirit, a band who share that sort of buggy oddface intensity and rumbling onwards motion with Lumpy and the Dumpers (if Lumpy and the Dumpers are more hardcore and fuller in their punk kills) have a song called Slimey Leech. which is more similar in its evocations of slippery weirdness and gunge, but maybe the real forerunner here thematically is the sneering spoken word of Nomeansno's bass-driven fulminating funk-punk/80s-pop cut-away Everyday I Start to Ooze: "A bold plan drawn up by assholes to screw morons/News at eleven but first/A long serious look at what's seeping from open sore/Perhaps you should STOP PICKING AT IT." where the succession of lop-sided leers, shocknews headscreams and crackling absurdities break out from silly social contracts with 'those personal acts' into a disgorgement of inner bile, black and yellow and bubbling.

The final song on this seven inch is called Too Much Slime, (they're not tiring of their theme, the chorus is "TOO MUCH SLIME! NO SUCH THING!"). It rolls on in this grubby motion, and degrades into these snatches of amplified cockroach clicks, and snaffling breaks, like a tear in the tape eaten by ugly worms. An ode to all that oozes, from tubs of vaseline to the primordial goop we popped from. The second verse suggests slime baptisms as a solution to the problems of Catholic initiation rites. This band wants you down in the muck from conception to end, Joseph Merrick and his secretions isn't some freak to be pitied, but a Lumpy/Dumpy hero whose essential dirty uncensored being was allowed to come out in a way that clean normals would never countenance. This band is about the filth inside, which is not to be confused with the darkness, it's not mental anguish and black godlusts that are spewing forth here, just the natural logistics of flesh, the slippery smelly stuff, honesty of form in the chitterlings and the old shambles. Semi-solid beings playing songs of uncomfortable physicality.

When I saw them in Texas, they played at the end of a long bill (something like 8 or 9 bands), after originally being billed third or fourth, and in a sweltering record store full of hot people who had been standing there for what felt like three days. They tore the place up, the drummer breaking a drumstool and drumming standing up for one song, the singer stalking around sneering, everyone responding positively to those calls to pogo, jumping and skipping about. And everyone in the room was sweat-drenched entirely, clothes clinging tightly with the perspiration, swamp-arsed and feeling icky and loving it. Just the way this band would want.

Available for PWYW download on Bandcamp.

No comments:

Post a Comment