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Tag Archives: 00’s

Herbert Bodily Functions vinyl cd mp3 500x500

This one goes out to RyGuy.

Your bodily functions will forever live on in our hearts.

Even the stinky ones.

Stinkyheart Memories.


RIP buddy, see you at the big bagel in the sky.



Click here to download Bodily Function in MP3 converted from vinyl LPs



This is the music that vagrants hear as they sit on the sidewalk barking wildly at some unseen specter. It’s not that they’re crazy. We’re all a little crazy–there’s no difference there between them and us on that front. It’s that they’ve had their circuits fried. Their motherboard, their cpu, their neuronet processor. Somewhere along the line some sort of liquid or cheeky solid passed through their epidermis, through the subcutaneous membrane, beyond the skull, and on into the grey maze. The result is that they constantly hear the purely synthesized whisperings of Matmos.

See, we’re all just a bunch of electrodes, diodes, and Didos. Any of us could wind up sitting on a city street wearing a large, fur-lined parka on a hot summer day eating a hot dog out of an Asics crosstrainer. We really could. All it would take is a faulty fire suppression system and the correct head tilt and poof, you’re trying to sell one-way subway tickets to men in Armani suits under direction from the Supreme Balloon.

Just look at these people. They were once law-abiding, God-fearing citizens that paid taxes on fairly nice houses. And they didn’t eat out of garbage cans while receiving auditory transmissions of over 17,000hz.

Take a look at Frank here.

Hey there, Frank.

He was once a respected firemen for Baltimore Engine #9. That is until he responded to a kitchen fire on Fleet Street shortly after lunch time on a clear summer day. The fire turned out to be nothing really, just a small grease deal he and the boys quickly subdued. Afterward, Frank and his crew took the time to unwind in the air-conditioned kitchen and hit on the sexy raven-haired mama who phoned in the emergency.

In the apartment next door two 9-year-olds, whose mothers were both out working minimum wage as baggers at Safeway, popped a can of WD-40 in the microwave on high for 10 minutes. They just wanted to see it dance, just like their previously tested compact disc of Drake’s “Thank Me Later” had, but their hypothesized effect couldn’t have been more wrong.

The resulting explosion vaporized the microwave, pulverized the wall separating the two apartments, and shot the WD-40’s red applicator straw, along with a good amount of the industrial lubricant itself, right down a tear duct on Frank’s unshielded face. It settled nicely between his two lumpy hemispheres without leaving a single outward indication of  injury.

He was never the same after that day but no one, especially Frank, could explain why. That little straw didn’t show up on any of the CATS, MRIs, or what-have-yous at John Hopkins. Everyone figured Frank just lost his nerve at the explosion, it rattled his cage, sent a screw loose.

But that WD-40, along with the applicator straw, went to work at crossing all sorts of wires through Franks brain, literally.  Now he spends his day wearing a Halloween fireman costume while spraying his hose into the orifices of any unlucky soul who happens to cross underneath the deadly 242-volt light post at the corner of W. Fayette & N. Hanover.

Despite the loss of family and friends, Frank still feels blessed thanks to the continuous loop of “Mister Mouth” that guides his conscience.


Meet Muriel, former curator of French Culture at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Oh hi Muriel.

One night Muriel stayed particularly late reviewing and cataloging the new additions from the Fisher Collection. She’d spent all day on the phone with Jean-Paul Sartre regarding the works of Alexander Calder and had completely forgotten to take in lunch and dinner. A diabetic since early childhood, Muriel needed to get a quick snack to boost her blood sugar.

Unfortunately for Muriel, the café at the MOMA was closed and she found herself without any bills or change for the vending machine. She quickly locked up her office, grabbed her things, and disembarked at 11:13 with a very light head on a snack-finding mission.

However, at every corner store she came to the story was always the same—cash only and no ATM. At the fourth shop she, beginning to see dancing silver snowflakes on her periphery, even resorted to begging. The cashier took no pity on this Yves Saint Laurent-drenched bourgeoisie and sent her hiking.

Wandering without aim, Muriel eventually stumbled upon the Carl’s Jr. at Civic Center Plaza. She had barely teetered through the doorway when a large Oreo shake struck her upon the right temple, demolishing any balance left in her system. She took one good gallop to the left, countered hard to the right, and collapsed miserably like the Maginot line.  There she rested in a diabetic coma as the result of blunt sugar trauma.

The fast food brawl that produced the ballistic Oreo shake quickly subsided–it’s rumored that cashier Crystal Ruiz was messin’ around with Carl’s Jr. patron La-a Johnson’s baby daddy right out in the open. But Muriel remained on the floor for a good hour while hungry San Franciscans inelegantly clomped over her body to fetch Frisco Melts. During that time the runny Oreo slurry, packed with all types of supposedly manmade fillers, slowly filtered into Muriel’s ear. This unnatural goo ate through the drum, devoured the brain stem, and continued to engorge itself on the entirety of her cultured brain.

Now Muriel is known as Madam Tenderloin: Meat Pleaser of Knob Hill. She does her darnedest for man or beast in beat with the neverending intracranial soundtrack of “Les Folies Françaises.”




Here’s the reasons why hardcore punk doesn’t make sense on vinyl.

1. Hardcore negates the need for vinyl’s superior sound quality.

People buy records because of their accurate sound reproduction. Vinyl brings out a richness of tone you won’t hear on CD. The sound is crisp, robust, and mellow all at the same time. It’s like a freshly-baked chocolate chip cookie for your ears.

Hardcore punk albums have nearly zero production quality. I understand that this is the point; it’s meant to be raucous and abrasive. The artists want to sound as raw as possible. Vinyl isn’t the way to go about achieving this sound.

I strongly believe that all hardcore punk should be recorded and played on a Talkboy. The microphone’s limited capabilities, paired with the Talkboy’s half-inch playback speaker, will give punk artists the terribly tinny sound they all so desperately crave. Plus, you can always speed up the sound to make tracks totally shred. Or you can slow it down to turn the album into a goth punk affair. So many possibilities.

2. Thirty-second songs make track selection a total bitch on a record.

Not only that but what’s the point of a 30-second track? I know it’s tough playing drums that fast for an extended spell but come on. By the time I can figure out what the hell the lead singer’s saying the song’s over. I want to know what you’re so angsty about, Mr. Man!

**Pig Destroyer is the exception to this rule.

3. The album artwork always looks like the inside of a junior high bathroom stall.

Back when I was in junior high I thought the album artwork  on punk albums was totally boss. Screeching Weasel’s simple covers were my shit. And this album, with all sorts of gnarly dudes missing eyes and chicks with huge head tumors, would have been especially edgy to my tween eyes. Almost as edgy as a wild boar and an alligator working as cooks at Waffle House. Uh oh, somebody call the health department!

Now it doesn’t appeal to me. Maybe I’m just too old. But then again, the guys making hardcore punk aren’t in junior high. They’re all around my age. Hell, one of the guys featured on the album liner of The South Will Rise Again is suffering hardcore from male pattern baldness.

Is there something I’m not seeing? Should I look at this like a Magic Eye?

4. It’s more expensive than other music genres. Seriously? Seriously.

When I visited the local punk vinyl shop I ended up buying this 7″ because it was $4. What I really wanted was a full-length LP from a band I listened to when I was younger. Unfortunately everything, from used discs to re-releases, was priced at $20 and up.

I thought the whole point of punk was that it’s made for the poor youth of America who are hell-bent on fighting the man and his capitalistic oppression of the masses. Now it seems that the tables have turned and only those making prodigious gains from that capitalistic monster can afford to rock out with their cock out. At least if they want to do it via big black discs.

5. You can’t make music for a genre that doesn’t exist. Punk is dead because Green Day killed it.

Capitalism in action.


>>>Go ahead, punk. Make my day.



A1 Ugly Law – SBBS
A2 High Life (3) – Four Dead, One Drunk
A3 High Life (3) – M.A.D.
A4 Logic Problem – Untitled
A5 Socialcide – Morning Disaster
B1 Bomber (10) – Go & Tell
B2 Reason Of Insanity – Job Nazi
B3 PMRC, The*  – Madonna Death Cult
B4 Archaic (3) – Black Hole
B5 Cult Ritual – Eat The Police
B6 HRT – Big City

There are albums that make you want to cry. There are albums that give you the giggles. There are those that slip on a pair of dancing shoes and do the Charleston across your new living room rug.

And then there are albums, like S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D., that will give you scary weird dreams.

Now, I understand the connotation that this album will put you to sleep is a bad thing. No artist wants to imagine an audience getting the nods during their wicked guitar solo. But I’m not saying that this album will put you to sleep. I’m saying that if you happen to have this playing while you take a quick weekend nap, in between raves perhaps, it will recharge your chi with some wicked weird REM.

Here are some dream scenarios you may encounter while cuddling up close to S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D.:

– You find yourself running an afterschool swimming program for inner city kids. The pool’s located in an indoor gymnasium, the kind with the retractable wood floors. It’s poorly lit and smells strongly of feet. The turnout, as usual, is small–the boredom becomes oppressive.

Suddenly, Marvin Gaye shows up wearing short red trunks and ready for a swim. He’s clearly too old to be swimming with junior high students but you let him in because, after all, it’s Marvin Gaye. Marvin hops on the diving board, does a couple of pumps on the end, and takes an incredible 100 yard leap straight into the other end of the monstrous pool.

You run to check and see if the security tapes caught this fantastic feat. Joy abounds once you see the Beta machine’s rolling. However, this joy quickly fades once an attempt is made to retrieve the tape and show it to local news stations. The tape crumbles upon human contact, and with it your hope to spread the word of this suddenly very tall tale. No one will ever believe you about Marvin’s magnificent aquatic hop. You want to die.

– Your dream starts on an impossible tall escalator–so tall in fact you can’t see the top. It’s rolling upward with you perched on one of the unnecessarily sharp steps. There’s suddenly a strong vibration felt through your feet and hands. You look up just in time to see a huge block of sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese bounding down, down, down.

The knife-like stairs begin to grate this behemoth as it approaches your position. This happens slowly at first, but quickly confederates with each step passed. Once the cheese block reaches you it isn’t a block at all but a finely grated cheddar blizzard. This blizzard knocks you clean off of your feet and down to the bottom of the escalator, where you roll helplessly over the incoming stairs–helplessly in a big pile of grated sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese.

The heat of your friction against the stairs melts the cheese, turning it into a frothy gloop of the nacho variety. You continue to roll like a Donkey Kong barrel at the bottom of the escalator. Finally, the nacho cheese of your own making becomes too deep and you drown in the Queso Sea.

– You find yourself lying on the floor at a !!! concert. Everyone’s laughing at you because your legs don’t work. Everyone. Is. Laughing.

>>>Click here to download S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D. at 320 kbps


A1 Story Of The Whole Thing 4:56
A2 Dad, There’s A Little Phrase Called Too Much Information 7:25
A3 This Bum’s Paid 4:49
B1 Hair Dude, You’re Stepping On My Mystique 4:20
B2 The L Train Is A Swell Train And I Don’t Want To Hear You Indies Complain 12:15
B3 “My Two Nads” (Dad Reprise) 4:40

There isn’t much I know about King Of Woolworths. There isn’t even a Wikipedia entry for the group. The little I’ve found out about project has been through sites run by fans around the globe. I only know that I LOVE this album.

It was only by a chance that I ever even heard about them in the first place. During the summer of 2002 the radio station WOXY, in Oxford, OH at the time, starting playing this curious little track called “To The Devil A Donut.” It started off in slow rotation but eventually made it into heavy play for a few solid months. I’m not sure the DJs even knew much about it…they just liked it so they put it on the radio.

It’s a pretty creepy track with bits from an old horror movie entitled “To The Devil A Daughter”. On the face there are very obvious reasons why it’s got a case of the creep. It uses snippets of dialogue about baptizing a baby in the blood of her dead mother, bringing that babe up in seclusion as the devil,  and then pumping her full of morphine. You know, the usual.

But it’s not really what’s on the face that makes it creep hypnotique, verging on a dream. With every song on this album I envision myself lying on the ground, staring face up at a different situation. The beat, the strange use of strange 70’s British synth, and the vaporous ambient cloud swallows you up and spits you out on another locale at each track’s start

With “To The Devil A Daughter” I envision myself sprawled out in a cold cellar of an ancient English country manor. It’s so old, in fact, that the floor is composed of soft, damp earth instead of hard cement. The walls are large stone without caulk. The ceiling is comprised of old oak beams, covered in spider webs. The room is lit by the soft but terrifying flicker of torch light. Hooded shadows work their way in and out of the ominous glow, always threatening but never pouncing. The suspense is terrible but just as it comes to a climax the track changes and I’m transported elsewhere.

In “Theydon” I’m lying on the beach somewhere on the coast of the North Sea. I don’t know how I got there and I don’t know why I’m wet and I don’t know why I’m wearing a blue and white fleece because I don’t ever wear fleece but I don’t care. I don’t care because beautiful music floats over my drenched body and connects me with the little pebbles covering my jeans. I say hello to the passing gulls. The sun rises and I worry temporarily that it will melt my bones, but the fear quickly passes and I’m at peace. Everything’s OK.

The album takes turns tossing you psychologically from dark to light, harm to safety. It’s like a continually operating wooden rollercoaster in an abandoned park that you keep riding over and over and over. You always think it’s gonna jump the tracks and fling you into a bloody underbrush demise. But it doesn’t, it keeps on round and round in a beautiful and terrifying loop.

I think Mr. King Of Woolworths himself, Jon Brooks, puts it best: “Everything’s fine, but there is something not quite right about it.”

>>>Click here to download Ming Star


1 Kentish Town 5:33
2 Bakerloo (Main Titles) 6:19
3 Where Fleas Hide 1:58
4 Stalker Song 4:44
5 Colcannon 5:14
6 To The Devil A Donut 6:02
7 Kite Hill 5:30
8 The Watchmaker’s Hands 7:11
9 Theydon 6:49
10 Bakerloo (End Credits) 4:40