Traces of HÜSKERS meets ’70s rock, containing many of the excesses (long, drawn-out songs, self-conscious structures, etc.) that made that kind of music so unbearable and necessitated punk in the first place.
Spoken word. Side one is LYDIA LUNCH recounting a fictional (?) account of a woman getting fucked by a greasebag on a cold cement floor. Side two is a very disgusting account of a fat kid who fantasizes about his male boss, kills a bum in an abandoned building, slits him open, and eats the fetid intestines as he burps the beef. Art? Prose? Slop for slop’s sake? Well, the reader is in the SWANS, which probably explains it all.
We’re bordering on ambient slow-burn here, but I’m still drawn…no, sucked into this band’s whole thing. They simply can do no wrong. I’m the biased jerk who really shouldn’t be reviewing this babe. Not for everybody, but then neither is good taste.
