Radiohead - OK Computer
Until this “art” group starts giving out their lyric sheets in untarnished form (i.e., not with all the dots and slashes and what have you; check the in-case booklet for more details), I’m inclined to believe that their post-post-modern music qua philosophy B.S. is a flimsy charade through which Thom Yorke is allowed to flail to above-all boring and largely tuneless Brit rock like a puppet let loose—isn’t that an unlikely twist for a whiner who spends 90% of his time acting like he knows what The Game is all about; acts like an antithesis to the corporate cocksucker he so clearly is? Whoops, forgot to talk about the album. B-
(Submitted by georgecoolney)
Belle and Sebastian - If You’re Feeling Sinister
You know, I don’t get them Brits. Thought their florid accents were supposed to get them loads of head, but apparently they just wheeze a lot of similarly florid (not in a good way, either) bullshit about wanting to be loved when they should be getting all that head we hear about them getting, which, I mean, come on! “Kissing girls in English in the back of the stairs”? As if you could ever kiss a girl in a language; I thought that this sort of self-reflective bullshit died out after Bono became a humanitarian. Now all I really want to do is touch Murdoch on the ass and see if he really is as watery as he sounds. Maybe he’s yogurt.
Six “David Karp is a sexless pedophile” stickers out of eleven whimsical guitar cases to place them on.
Hospice by The Antlers
Reminds me of my wily wife’s whiffle refusal to fuck my flabby fornicator like hot n’ sprigs post-coital cigarette as life-long jazz solo.
5 scissors out of oh god I’m so alone.
Burial: Untrue
London garages are dank things. True urban “jungles”, if you will. Places where you’d fuck a Chinese pussy because you can’t find anything else. Hell, let’s not even say “two-step”, let’s just call it “fuck-step”. Simmer down into a pot of Gwyneth Paltrow’s omni-bubbling macrobiotic placenta bouillabaisse (which, come to think of it, is probably what they serve in Tokyo) and drown in the inner throbs of Berlin leather bars everywhere. It looks like the little guy from Amnesiac is crying on the cover because, well, he just fucked some Asian pussy in a sex club while covered in Apple’s delicate placenta.
Four #don’t reblog tags out of six celebrity babies with Richard D. James’ face plastered over theirs.
Robertchristgauratings gets three self-aware John Malkovich’s out of a strange sense of post-modern ennui brought upon by irony and the breaking of the 4th wall.
Robert Christgau’s review of Dark Side of the Moon.
Jumping Jackrabbit Slims, like post-hoc “Money” grubbers Wish We Were Here lilting ladle lapel liking links of lackadaisical locales; pop goes the psych-rawk with aplomb and persnickety pamphlets for lunar conspiracies. Plump as Pink? I hope not- count and drag out seven-four pop tunez like muzak and comb-field renderings of 2001. Dark as the everlovin’ (although not understandable) Jingle John Coltrane, hail Santa fer all the black purposes this gets ya- but don’t get me caught in the crossfire.
Twenty-seven racist analogies out of three Othellos.
Disintegration gets four runny mascara lines down an eighth-grader’s face at the school dance out of four paper-mache penguins
Revolver gets four walruses out of five chimpanzees masturbating at the zoo so obnoxiously that there is no way you’re leaving that exhibit without awkwardly explaining to your kids what it is exactly they’re doing
