This album is...well, folks, I'll be honest. I've had many difficulties in writing this review. What do you say, what can you say, when something is bad beyond words? How can you verbalize that what you've just heard is crappity crap-crap of the highest degree, a waste of money, and, simply, utterly, the worst piece of caca that you've ever had the misfortune of experiencing?
Let's clarify one major point here. I have no problems with the Moldy Peaches' stylistic choices. I've never been adverse to the lo-fi innocent clowning around, sonic tomfoolery, and/or expressing a POINT with zero concern about quality control. Bands such as Ween, Beat Happening, Camper Van Beethoven, King Missile, Kramer, hell, even Sebadoh and Thinkin' Fellers Union Local 282 have made me pass a smile or two over the years. Listening to The Moldy Peaches, you realize that they've probably done the same, probably feel the same, and that's fine. More power to 'em.
So, to try and alleviate my hesitation, my difficulty in reviewing this album, I thought I'd introduce a musician's friend: intoxicants. After all, it's good for loosening inhibitions between the sexes, so why wouldn't it work for a record reviewer?
If I were sober, I wouldn't need the need for intoxicants to review this piece of pooh. Slightly incompetent musicianship met with moronic lyrics made by musicians who seem to secretly know how to play their instruments and are probably better than their faux amateurism would allow. If I were to classify this record--for I am a music journalist, and classifying records is what I DO--the Moldy Peaches are simply a parody of a parody of a novelty act, nothing more and everything less.
After one beer: see above.
After two beers: See above, but add a rise in animosity in having to listen to this record.
After three beers: Ok, so at points they're ripping of "Low Rider" and I think that the boy on the cover really needs a spanking for doing so. That girl in the bunny suit is scaring me, too.
After four beers: Too bad people think Daniel Johnston is weird and the Moldy Peaches as possessing wit. And I'll never hear "Little Bunny Foo-Foo" the same again. You do NOT mess with the story of Little Bunny Foo Foo! That's a crime! Talk about my mama, make fun of me, but leave Little Bunny Foo Foo alone!! That girl on the cover, the one in the bunny suit, I think she probably needs to get out more.
After five beers: I'm totally off of this record. I need Appetite for Destruction to cleanse my soul. And that girl in the bunny suit? I changed my mind. She needs to stay inside. Very inside. Don't leave the house. Stay in the basement. For the love of GOD, somebody pop a restraining order on these people. Recording devices need to feel safe.
Think I'm even gonna listen to this whilst up on Vicks 44-M? Nope. Though that bunny-suited gal comes back to haunt me, and this time, it's personal. I doze off without ever really acknowledging the rest of the world, though my dreams seem to be a bit lewder than normal, and slightly stupider as well. Possibly because of this record? Who cares. I sure don't.
To be fair, I think these kids are a novelty act, and that their whole bit is to be laughed at. Hopefully they'll realize that we're not laughing with them but at them and call it a day. Or maybe they'll realize that the real money is to be made by actually making decent music. As I write, my hatred turns to sadness, because I start to feel for these kids. If they realize they're a joke and are acting on it, it's not very funny. IF they don't, then I can't help but pity them. Though I'm suspecting it's a joke, simply from that mad-lib on the back of the cover. Eh, nice try kids. Try a little harder. Better yet--don't even try.