Sunday, 15 December 2013

Bad Noids - Everything From Soup to Dessert

Some great dismissive and obnoxious squirtpunk from Katorga Works. Cleveland's Bad Noids start their album with a sort of freakout clattering to a stop, like the cut-off section of some invisible first track (do you remember when CDs had those supersecret secret tracks that you had to rewind the first track to get to? That was the coolest thing about that medium), the track dividings ineptly placed, straight into it, catch up or fall out. Lies is accusatory, bitterness and playground spite "You smell like shit!" isn't big and it isn't clever but it's spat with enough venom it cuts, "Here's a gun you know what you to do with it." An invitation to self-destruction, nastier and than any brutish threat.

Bad Vomit's frantic downhill run rips quickly from "DON'T CARE BOUT WHAT YOU SAY" to "FUCK YOUR HUMAN RACE!" cutting between duelling panicked snaps, one breathless, the other bitter, that rise in panic and crash into incomprehensibility as the song rumbles and shakes its rusty panels as it approaches escape velocity, escape force. "ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS FUCK YOU PEOPLE IT'S TIME FOR ME TO LEAVE AND IT WEIGHS A TON"

Caught in a ramshackle basement cacophony, Bad Noids are held together by the vocals, which are Apocalypse Hoboken snotty, Crazy Spirit anguished, and sometimes (like on the line "We're only gonna play for yoooou." on Roth's Children/Lizard People) there's hints of a Biafran gleeful snideness. Closest maybe to Joey Vindictive's pained muppetbark, words sharpened and dragged out, pulled and mutilated, like "I was born in a bad dreeeeeeam" on the squeaking/cracking proto-punk roller Nun Mother, until even the simplest thing gets right down to its raw meaning, it's defining punch. Lines don't need wit when they're done like that.

Poison in the Kitchen crying "MAMA! WHAT'S FOR DINNER!?", theirs are cozy places thrashed and crashed, Bad Noids are the weirdos born of ultimate normality. The way that suburban sprawl and all its attempts at safety and quietitude cannot sustain itself and births some real odd pricks, chugging good ol' clean-livin-American-dream coca cola cos your mum's cooking you poison, dropping Wendy's slogans into the grimey underpunk.

Roth's Children's/Lizard's People stop-start trainclank into slide-around banger and hellbeast croon, a distortion, Mary Had a Little Lamb melody, more wholesomeness thrown into the meatgrinder, like the way My Country chucks in some rootsy harmonica (also present in drowned fits on Poison in the Kitchen) in a sort of twisted exaggeration of This Bike is a Pipe Bomb, it's a corruption of folky sounds. TBIAPB were rooting their sound in rebel-folk tradition, Bad Noids are blasting tradition to smoking stumps, the harmonica fraying at the edges and dragged along in the chaos.

It's just an album full of normality motifs (the TV dinner cover, yo), but the real kick of it comes not from its subversions but the way in which it twists these things, tapping into childhood bluntness and surety, that power of tantrum, fearsome in its absurd totality, eschewing nuance and subtext for screams of "COPS! COPS! FUCK THEIR SHIT!" (or as the near incomprehensible spiralling liner notes would have it "FUCK THERE SHIT!", the is full of typoes and misspellings and shit, just adding  to that sort of sloppy inept vibe). Happy Endings "There's no happy endings/If you don't cum" dares you to look for a deeper meaning to the idea of happy endings beyond this obvious adolescent jizzjoke, their might be some deeper depression there, but this is an album that makes a virtue of it's superficial nasalizings and scrapings, it's obsessions, it's unhappiness in itself, scrawl crayola-bright on its face plain, momentstuck, givenover, screaming for this time right now, no structure behind it, nothing but the fleeting sharpness of this ugly day. The secret track a primitive stomp of "I HAVE A HEADACHE!", giggling mindlessly through the pain and a drawl of Baaaad Nooooids. Bad Noids: their noids are bad. It is what it is.

Download here.

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