Satan’s Kicking Yr Dick In
Internet reviewers seem to be under the impression that Satan’s Kickin’ Yr Dick In by Racebannon is some sort of revolutionary piece of avant-garde noise, a hardcore equivalent to The Who’s Tommy. I’m not sure what album people have been listening to, but I find it hard to believe that it could be the same one I’ve got sitting here, which is anything but revolutionary, and frankly, to my tastes, anything but listenable.
Now, it’s only fair, as far as I’m concerned — fair to the reader, fair to the artist — if, before I review something, I listen to the whole thing. And I’m going to put it to you straight: that was really hard to do this time. I had to settle for listening to at least the beginning of every track and then seeking forward to see if anything changed. But it didn’t. Every single track was the same relentless repetition of heavy double bass drum, ridiculously distorted guitar, and an annoying man screaming vocals to no particular rhythm or rhyme that contain such wonderful gems as “Goddamit, I’m the devil boy! I want you to be with me on this unknown night. So how does it feel on the tip of yr. tongue?…Now open up that mouth wide, and, boy, keep back that gag reflex. I promise in the end you’ll illuminate. Now, with all of me I’ve put inside you, I’ll unleash a dose to coat yr. throat, I’m gonna make this voice like nothin’ you ever heard. Oh yes, boy, I hope yr. ready!” The concept — a young boy named Rodney selling his soul for fame as a rock n’ roll diva named Rhonda Delight — is amusing enough on its own, I suppose, but under the direction of wordsmith Michael Anderson, the lyrics end up reading like they should be on the message board of a bad porn site, attributed to “User: MrqiDsde00173”, under the heading “What’s YOUR Sick Fantasy?…Post it HERE!”
And then there’s the music… if it can be called that. I should probably make it clear that I’m not usually one for hardcore. There’s very little of it that I can take at one time before it gives me a headache and makes me feel ill. But this record is, by far, the most annoyingly repetitious and unredeemingly bad sound I’ve ever heard disguised in the name of hardcore. By the end of the CD, I wanted to kill myself, and not because of the poignant tragedy of a young man who sells his soul for stardom by giving the devil a blowjob. But a lot of internet reviews I’ve read by people who, I would assume, like this kind of thing in the first place, have liked this album a lot too. So I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Racebannon certainly didn’t account for it — they may not even understand the concept.
Squealer Music: http://www.squealermusic.com