Nothing in your past can prepare you for the awesome terribleness of Big Gee's Retrologie. It doesn't matter whether you were raised by Satanists on the grounds of Neverland Ranch, fed a steady diet of LSD and Freon, and later abducted by aliens and anally probed with a ThighMaster to the sound of Burgess Meredith singing King Diamond's greatest hits; you have no frame of reference by which to grasp how truly fucked-up Retrologie is.

What we have here is a collection of big band numbers cross-pollinated with disco in such a way as to make Taco's version of "Puttin' on the Ritz" sound like "War Pigs." If this CD were any campier, it would be married to Liza Minnelli. The fact that 99 percent of the songs are sung in German is the icing on the urinal cake.

If Retrologie were a scene from a movie, it would be that bit in Dogtooth wherein the one daughter launches into a solo dance routine and then, a few minutes later, you realize she's trying to re-create the choreography from Flashdance, and you're left muttering, "Seriously, what the fuck?"

Verdict:

While it's tempting to hand the boys in Big Gee a pass on account of the huge balls it must have taken to stir up this amazing crapgasm, the sad truth is, the initial shocking badness of Retrologie wears off shortly into the second listen, leaving only the same sort of morbid curiosity that one normally satiates by slowing down to get a good look at a traffic accident. Seriously, what the fuck?

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

Before the Elegant Gothic Lolita movement conquered the world, women with the voices of little girls had only two career options: Either deliver Woody Allen's wake-up calls or move to Dublin and sing woeful ballads about murder, highwaymen, murderous highwaymen, famine, and famine that results in a murder, often within walking distance of a highway. Face it: Nobody — with the exception of the Jews — has suffered like the Irish. If you're an Irish Jew, you have plenty of reason to chug that bottle of Manischewitz; don't let anyone make you feel guilty about it.

Somehow this brings us to Heidi Talbot, whose new CD, The Last Star, serves as a nice antidote to the sort of cookie-cutter Irish balladeers who haunt your local PBS station at pledge drive time. Sure, all the elements of a bona fide schmaltzfest are present (the murder ballads, the drinking songs, the painful laments), but Heidi, who was actually born in a small Irish village called — I shit thee not — Kill, never strays into that hackneyed "Lord of the Dance" territory into which many an Irish singer has disappeared only to be seen again offering tote bags and umbrellas for a small pledge of $200. This is a nice, subtle and authentically traditional (in feel, if not in actual material) work.

Verdict:

While The Last Star probably won't make it onto your list of favorite CDs, the song "The Last Star," with its haunting melody and sadder-than-the-saddest-thing-ever lyrics, is guaranteed to stick in your brain for quite some time to come.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

Franz Ferdinand Schubert was born in the Himmelpfortgrund section of Vienna, Austria, on Jan. 31, 1797, to apprentice cabaret dancer Morris "Schecky" Schubert and his possibly imaginary wife, known only as "Rainbo without the 'w.'" In 1814, at the age of 1,814, Schubert debuted his first musical composition "Gretchen am Spinnrade" ("Gretchen the Reluctant Squirrel"), which was loosely based on both Goethe's Faust and a series of rude line drawings Rainbo had attempted to mail to Emperor Frederick.

Schubert maintained a lifelong friendship with Joseph Haydn despite the latter's insistence that "it was just a one-time thing. I was drunk and, besides, I'm really into chicks, dude. Honest."

On Nov. 19, 1828, Franz Schubert wUz tURnEd tO STEel iN tHE ThE gREAt MaGNetic FiELd, WHEn hE tRaVeLeD TiME FoR thE FUtuRe OF mANKInD.

Now tenor Mark Padmore and pianist Paul Lewis have teamed up to rid our planet of the cyborg menace and to record this brilliantly executed, deeply beautiful, absolutely essential interpretation of Schubert's "Die Schöne Müllerin." Padmore and Lewis manage to complement each other perfectly, yet still never fall into the trap of overwhelming the original composition (while fighting cyborgs).

Verdict:

The question we are forced to ask ourselves is, "If Schubert was such heiss schist then why did Padmore and Lewis wait nearly 200 years after his death to record a tribute to him?" Seriously, Michael Jackson hadn't been dead more than 10 minutes before BET, MTV and The Weather Channel dedicated 48 hours worth of programming to the King of Pop and Icky Feelings.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

The two cardinal rules for reviewing anything, be it music, film or that creepy massage parlor out by the interstate, are as follows: 1) Don't write about your friends, and 2) Despite the highly subjective nature of the act of reviewing, don't write in the first person singular. For example, it would be highly inappropriate for me to write that the deadline for the piece you're currently reading got moved up so, having nothing at hand to review, I panicked, reached into my CD collection, and pulled out the Total Fucking Destruction CD, which my friend Rich — who also happens to drum for Total Fucking Destruction and who used to let me crash in his dorm room when I was drunk — handed to me at a flea market a few months ago.

It would also be wrong of me to point out how fortuitous it was that the above chain of events finally got me around to listening to Peace, Love, and Total Fucking Destruction, because the CD rocks harder than Randy Quaid on crystal meth shooting an Uzi into an oil refinery that's been overrun by rabid werewolves.

Almost every song is a short (as in, less than one minute) blast of sonic angst. Basically, TFD are the anti-Joni Mitchell, which in itself would be enough to recommend them, but when you add to that the fact that the songs are actually catchy, Total Fucking Destruction becomes Total Fucking Godhead.

Don't put off listening to this CD until you have a looming deadline; seek it out now, or learn to live with regret.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

The Epic of Gilgamesh

A pretty little black A-line dress

I give to you

The spinal cord of JFK

Wrapped in Marilyn Monroe's negligee

I give to you.

—Grinderman, "Palaces of Montezuma"

Had Bruce Springsteen not converted to Islam shortly after rescuing the crew of the Challenger and remained a rock 'n' roll musician, it's highly improbable that he would have made another recording that rivaled Darkness on the Edge of Town. Even if Megan's Law hadn't prevented The Beatles from reuniting, it's a safe bet that none of their output would ever compare to the majesty of their greatest work: "Hang on Sloppy." This is because every great artist has an initial brief period of highly original productivity followed by decades of unlistenable, self-indulgent crap. The exception to this rule — indeed, the exception to every rule — is Nick Cave.

Not only has Nick Cave not made a shitty CD in the last 30 years, but he actually manages to top himself with each release, and Cave's latest, Grinderman 2, is not only his greatest work, it could also, quite possibly, be the greatest rock 'n' roll record ever made.

Smart without being pretentious. Funny without being trite. Sonically dense without devolving into noise-for-the-sake-of-noise-arty-bullshit. This is simply a powerful CD, both lyrically and musically, that you should own.

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Shortly before you die in a mysterious boating accident at the...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/09/austria http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/09/09/austria

If you're familiar with the Austrian techno-pop outfit mind.in.a.box then you certainly already know that their first three CDs, Lost Alone, Dreamweb and Crossroads, were collections of spacey/catchy pop tunes which combined to tell a mysterious science-fiction tale that most of us are still trying to work out. You also probably know that their latest effort, Retro, is an ode to the days of 8-bit video game tunes. But what you definitely couldn't know until a moment from now is that the next paragraph will be the beginning of David Copperfield with the word "titties" seamlessly inserted.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, TITTIES I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at 12 o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

Those of you who are unfamiliar with mind.in.a.box are probably old, which means that you're always droning on and on about that time, back in '89, when you saw Fugazi. Listen Pops: Shut your goddamn mouth and hurry up with that grande vanilla latte before one of the customers in line jumps over the counter and pounds your sorry ass into dust.

Even if 10 of the 11 songs on this CD sucked Michele Bachmann's hairy balls (which they don't), it would still be worth owning for the incredibly infectious tune "I Love 64."

(

Today, Aid or Invade breaks new ground by inviting you, the reader, to take part in the world's first interactive album review. By selecting one choice from each of the three sets of options in brackets below, you will be able to determine the outcome of the review.

The Do's A Mouthful is the [slickest/rockin'est/moistest] CD to come along since [The Gorillaz' Plastic Beach/The Meatmen's Crippled Children Suck/Justin Bieber's Golly, You Taste Just Like My Scoutmaster]. From the opening notes of the first track, "Playground Hustle," the listener is instantly transported back in time to [1970s New York/1930s Berlin/Maya Angelou's ill-advised appearance at WrestleMania XXIII], and is left with the distinct feeling that [Ben Stein is an asshole/this is a unique and challenging work/we forgot something back at the rest st— OH DEAR GOD. THE BABY. WHERE IS THE BABY??!!].

Imagine the Beatles if [Edith Piaf/Pia Zadora/Squeaky Fromme] had been the lead singer and [Karen Carpenter/John Bonham/Ringo Starr] had played drums. Surely the band must have picked up its infectious beats off a [lost Amazonian tribe/blind blues artist/public toilet seat]. If you've ever been [asked to leave a petting zoo/condemned by the clergy/covered in powered sugar and served to tourists], then A Mouthful is the CD for you.

Verdict: [Aid/Invade/Bomb the Living Shit Out of]

With the release of A Mouthful, The Do [persist in creating intriguing music/provide Mel Gibson with a plausible cover story/fail to explain what little Billy was doing to that squirrel]. Let's just hope they continue to provide us with [catchy tunes/mountains of cocaine/t...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/07/15/david-byrne-fatboy-slim-here-lies-love http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/07/15/david-byrne-fatboy-slim-here-lies-love

"I like New York because it's also a lot of Jews. 'Jew York,' you know. Now I feel like a Jew pursuing my Israel, my motherland."

—Imelda Marcos

First, there's the music. Although only the first track is supposed to purposely pay homage to the early disco scene, nearly every song on the two-CD set would be perfect background for an old episode of The Love Boat. Gentlemen, you're not being ironic; you're just making bad '70s disco.

Then there's the libretto, which focuses on Marco's rise to power and somehow completely misses the fact that Imelda Marcos was insane — we're talking Michele Bachmann-on-PCP crazy. No matter how hard you try, it's impossible to humanize Bozo the Clown by concentrating on his daily struggle to put on his huge yellow shoes.

Verdict:

Had this project been treated as one giant joke — which is the way Imelda Marcos' too-lengthy life will be remembered — it might have succeeded.

(

In 2005, the Ig Nobel Prize (an inspired send-up of the Nobel Prize) for Literature was presented to an anonymous group of Nigerians for distributing an audacious series of e-mails centering around a coterie of fictitious — yet surprisingly engaging — characters who all faced the dilemma of being unable to lay their hands on a great deal of cash without a small investment and a Social Security number provided by some enterprising and good-hearted member of the general public.

Although Tony Oladipo Allen does hail from Nigeria, and is not a fictitious character from an e-mail scam, he's quite a compelling guy. Allen taught himself to play the drums at age 18 and spent the '70s playing in Fela Kuti's Africa 70. Then he moved around Europe for a few decades and finally landed in the band The Good, the Bad & the Queen with members of The Verve, Blur and The Clash.

Tony Allen's solo effort, Lagos No Shaking, which was recorded in Nigeria's former capital, is a smoking-hot mixture of funk, dub, jazz and Afro-beats that has the power to make the lame walk and the blind see, and raise Pat Boone's penis from the dead. This CD is so addicting it should be sold in small vials on street corners, and so infectious it should come with directions to the nearest free clinic. This music is the reason why thousands of tight-ass killjoy honkie missionaries descended upon the Dark Continent.

If the song "Awa Na Re" doesn't stir something inside you, then you are dead. Stop reading and lie down.

More musings on Pat Boone's penis at rodneyanonymous.com.

 

 ...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/05/20/portugal http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/05/20/portugal

Ana Moura Leva-Me Aos Fados (World Village)

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Yes, this month Aid or Invade salutes Portugal. Not for the country's musical output, which is, more often than not, total crap, but for having a recent economic crisis which briefly resulted in a devaluation of the Euro and a strengthening of the U.S. dollar, which helped to make it possible for Baptist minister and founding member of the Family Research Council George Rekers to hire a male prostitute, whom he found on rentboy.com, to accompany him on a recent trip to Europe. Rekers — who two years ago was paid $120,000 by the state of Florida to testify as an expert witness in a trial defending the state's prohibition on gay adoption — claims he did not know the young man was a prostitute until halfway through the trip, and that he had hired the youth to lift his luggage. If only Reverend Rekers had said "I hired him to handle my bags," the story would be perfect.

Whatever George Rekers and his prepaid pal were up to in Europe, it was no doubt much more exciting than any of the tracks found on Portugal's Ana Moura's most recent release on the World Village label, Leva-Me Aos Fados. Not that Leva-Me Aos Fados is a bad CD, per se. In fact, it's a rather competent collection of nicely sung folk tunes. The problem is that it's monotonously competent, with each song sounding remarkably like the one before it.

Verdict:

As George Rekers well knows, variety is the spice of life R...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/04/22/medieval-france http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/04/22/medieval-france

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"I'ma get medieval on your ass." —Marsellus Wallace

Don't you just hate it when you break out your favorite poison pen and prepare to go all Kitty Kelley on some poor schlep's artistic efforts only to discover that you actually enjoy the thing?

Producer Robert Sadin's Art of Love: Music of Machaut has all the ingredients of a musical disaster on par with Justin Bieber Sings the Songs of Besse Smith: Medieval melodies, jazz and a guest appearance by aural kiss-of-death Natalie Merchant. The only thing the CD cover is missing is a large red warning, reading "Caution: May Cause Rectal Bleeding."

The good news is that Art of Love turns out to be a collection of truly inspired reworkings (perhaps "rebuildings" would be a better word, as the tunes are completely restructured from the ground up with sparse piano and Afro-Brazilian percussion) of the songs of Guillaume de Machaut.

"What?" you say, "Not THE Guillaume de Machaut; the brilliant 14th-century French poet and composer? The same Guillaume de Machaut who wrote the 'Messe de Nostre Dame'? The Guillaume de Machaut who played the role of Benson on the TV comedy Soap, and later starred in the series named after the character?" Yes! Yes! And, no, dick-freckle; that was Robert Guillaume.

Verdict:

For the completely mad concept behind Art of Love: Music of Machaut, a contemporary reimagining of the works of a 14th-century genius, Robert Sadin deserves our respect. Anyone can cover a song, but it takes a true visionary to bring a song back to ...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/03/25/brazil-pecadores-rogai-por-nos http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/03/25/brazil-pecadores-rogai-por-nos

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Pecadores

Rogai Por Nos

(Wave)

In the early '90s, eminent physicists Stephen Hawking and Roger Penrose found themselves in a heated debate over whether gothic/electronic music would be more appealing if the lyrics were sung in Portuguese. Penrose claimed that the Doppler shift in language would be a great improvement, whereas whatever Hawking said, it always came out sounding like Kraftwerk.

The debate remained strictly theoretical until the emergence of Brazil's Pecadores (Sinners), who not only sing in Portuguese (OK, "Humility," "Hell Is Fine" and "Paranoia" are sung in English) but have also made it their raison d'être to explore the darker side of organized religion. The lighter side being free wafers and the chance to handle snakes.

Speaking of snakes, Pecadores' newest release on Wave Records, Rogai Por Nos (Pray for Us), is a twisting, hissing, slithering beast that's equal parts wicked electronica and sample-driven voodoo ceremony. If there were a soundtrack for the mass suicide at Jonestown, Rogai Por Nos would be it.

Seriously, how could you not love the band who penned the lyrics "Hell is fine/ Sex, dope and wine/ Especially at night/ You should try!" — and then actually wrote music to go with it? And "Zé do Caixão," a tribute to Mexican horror film icon Coffin Joe, has got to be worth at least three Grammys.

Verdict:

South of the equator, toilet water swirls counterclockwise, Goths tinge their music with a hint of salsa and all is fine. Sex, dope and wine. Especially at night. You should try. <...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/02/25/inti-illimani http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2010/02/25/inti-illimani

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The Greek philosopher Strabo is famous for saying "If you live long enough you're bound to do some strange shit." True. But allow me to add: If you dig around long enough in the used section of your local CD store, you're bound to find some truly strange shit. Take, for example, the 2004 album by Inti-Illimani that is currently populating cut-out bins across the planet.

The cover of Antologia Vol. I 1973-1978 depicts the band members draped in red ponchos which make them look like a satanic cult ("Voodoo Chile?") about to chase Peter Fonda through the woods in a B-movie circa 1973 to 1978. Those years were, of course, rough years in Chile; during this period many students went to college on rock-throwing scholarships.

As for the music itself, it would be a scientific impossibility for Inti-Illimani to kick more ass than they do here. Jangling Spanish guitars and haunting Andean flute are layered atop the deep primal thud of a single drum. Shit, Luther, even if you don't understand the words to "El Pueblo Uncido Jamás Será Vencido," you'll still find yourself chanting along with the chorus. And "Ojes Azules" is just plain beautiful.

Aspiring DJs take note: You could do a lot worse than sample a few bars of "Rin del Angelito," put some dance beats behind it and loop it.

Verdict:

This weekend, why not take part in a little guerilla action? Rescue Antologia I from the used bin and replace it with a copy of Michael Jackson's Anthology.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

More strange shit at

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Sweet Jesus in a Jet Ski accident, this has been a rotten month. In the past few weeks we've learned that it'll take the CIA more than two decades to comb through all the drone footage of Afghanistan, and that Sarah Palin wasn't aware that there are two Koreas. This was also the month during which the phrase "Negro dialect" entered the lexicon; Pat Robertson blamed an earthquake on devil worship; Danny Glover blamed the same earthquake on global warming; and it was discovered that the U.S. Army was using rifles with "secret Bible codes" inscribed on them. And if that's not bad enough, the pharmacist refused to fill your prescription for Zoloft just because it was written in crayon on a hamster and because Zoloft was misspelled a couple times. Where did all the good times go?

Blame Eva Ayllón, for she, like some sort of sultry, hip-shaking multinational corporation, has apparently managed to corner the market on fun. On her new effort, kIMbafá, Ayll�n whoops it up — singing, shouting, purring and generally letting us all know that she is happy to be alive — on all 17 tracks, having the sort of good time that will no doubt soon be outlawed in Tennessee, Alabama and at least three counties in Idaho. This is good Peruvian stuff: pure and uncut.

Verdict:

Should one person be allowed to have a monopoly on joy? That's for the some judge in The Hague to decide. The rest of us should enjoy this while we can because the months ahead don't look much brighter.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

Lots of good drone footage at http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/12/24/isle-of-misfit-toys http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/12/24/isle-of-misfit-toys

"Bottom line is Christmas is about Christmas. That's why we have it. It's not about winter solstice or Kwanzaa. It's like, 'Wow you guys, it's called Christmas for a reason.'" —Erin Ryan, president of the Redding Tea Party Patriots

"Screw Erin Ryan and the reindeer she flew in on." —Jesus H. Christ

The Chieftains' Bells of Dublin (1991) is the greatest Christmas recording humans will ever make. This is because the CD comes off as if Paddy Moloney simply threw a party and invited anyone within a thousand miles to drop by, have a drink or 10 and sing.

In short, there's something for everyone: For traditionalists there are wonderful, inspired versions of standards like "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "O Holy Night," as well as Marianne Faithfull, who sounds like she's been hitting the egg nog pretty hard, turning in a superb version of "I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing." For cynics of the season, there's Elvis Costello singing "The St. Stephen's Day Murders," a song about the horrors of large family gatherings. There's even a little something for the nonbelievers: Jackson Browne's "Rebel Jesus," a tune so earnest, you actually forget Jackson Browne is singing it. It's a Christmas miracle!

Verdict:

Speaking of miracles, "Past Three O'Clock" and "Est Ne/Ca Beger" (sung in French by Canadian sisters Kate and Anna McGarrigle) are works of staggering beauty. Hell, not even Burgess "You're a bum, Rock!" Meredith's spoken-word poetry on "Don Oiche ud I mbeithil" can ruin this party.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/11/26/russia http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/11/26/russia

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This month's Aid or Invade is dedicated to Lori Mehler of Philadelphia's Germantown section, who recently submitted a letter to the editor asking, "Why does the City Paper have such a zealous penchant for using excrement in both its column titles and its pieces? I am wondering if this is printed intentionally for humor, or if your writers simply lack the intellectual wherewithal to produce linguistically heavy work."

Ms. Mehler, I, too, feel a flush of anger with the sort of yellow journalism that's been swirling around this publication, staining its formerly porcelain reputation. I assure you that the following review will be 100 percent free of scatological references. And now, here's the poop on the latest release from Ersatzmusika:

Songs Unrecantable, the sophomore effort (or The Ol' Number Two, as it's known in the music industry) from Ersatzmusika, is a truly mesmerizing piece of work. While the CD could ostensibly be described as "cabaret music" — dark, accordion-driven tangos backing a woman who sounds remarkably like Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel — there's so much raw strangeness, in the form of original song concepts like the oddly engaging "Oy, Pterodactyl!" (imagine Nico fronting the B-52s) and the creepy, droning duet "Letter from Baltimore," lurking about this recording to make it a genuinely intriguing listen.

Verdict:

With its curious combination of cabaret cool and Eastern European weirdness, Ersatzmusika's Unrecantable is the perfect music to listen to whether you find yourself cheering on the Browns in the Super Bowl, dropping the kids off at the pool, or just seeing a man about a hors...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/09/24/finland http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/09/24/finland

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The last time Aid or Invade paid a visit to Finland, it was to review the latest effort by fiddle band JPP. Their CD, Artology, was given the coveted AID rating, not because it was any good (in fact, it was pretty goddamn awful), but to point out just how subjective, arbitrary and, therefore, completely asinine rating systems are.

This time we'll be looking at KTU's Quiver, which is a whole different kettle of fish (which is, coincidentally, the national dish of Finland) altogether. One look at the credits — Trey Gunn on Warr guitar (a Warr guitar is a 12-string guitar with a neck slightly wider than a football field); Kimmo Pohjonen on accordion; and Pat Mastelotto on "rhythmic devices, beats and noises" — lets you know that you're in for something different.

And "different" is exactly what Quiver is: a dark and heavy sort of insane tango-prog rock that sounds uncannily like an updated version of the Goblins' soundtrack to Dario Argento's Suspiria mixed with Rick Wakeman's most intense PCP experience. Disjointed melodies pop in and out of cacophonous bursts of aural energy before being submerged again in pulsing rhythms. Not unlike the mighty herring, struggling against the current in a brave effort to meet its drug connection.

In short: This is the perfect music to be played at each of Charles Manson's future parole hearings. Oh, and there's yodeling, too.

Verdict:

America, you've prayed to your false gods for decades now to bring you something different. Luckily for you, Odin intercepted your feeble pleadings and has sent you KTU.

(

Last week it was widely reported that confused former President George W. Bush planned to fly to the VNV Nation to negotiate the release of two Fox News journalists who had become stuck in a glory hole; so now would be an ideal time to learn a little bit about the band VNV Nation who, like the groups America, UK, and Der Fatherland Vocal Band, decided to name themselves after their respective homelands.

If you're already a fan of VNV Nation, then Of Faith, Power and Glory [there's a little thing called an "Oxford comma," fellas; you might want to Google it] provides everything you'd expect from one of their CDs: wonderful buzzy bass lines, swooshing synths, and pleasantly pounding percussion [that's how an Oxford comma works, by the way]. And, of course, there are singer Ronan Harris' terrific pub-crooner-meets-industrial-noise vocals.

That said, then, if you're already a fan, you know that VNV Nation is capable of a lot more. Don't get me wrong, "The Great Divide" and "Art of Conflict" are stellar tunes, but shit, Luther, these are the guys who gave us "Illusion" (a song that can make outlaw bikers weep openly at 300 yards), "Darkangel," [Oxford comma] and "Chrome." They should be cranking out GREAT CDs and not just GOOD ones — which, unfortunately, is exactly what Of Faith, Power and Glory is.

Verdict:

While invading VNV Nation might be akin to invading Loompaland, the time has come to wake the Oompa Loompas up, so they can get back to making something delicious.

(r_anonymous@citypaper.net)

...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/08/06/egypt http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/08/06/egypt

Mahmoud El Esseily
Tool Manty Ganby
(EMI)

Sometimes you just want to puke your fucking guts out, know what I mean?

It doesn't matter what drove you to the edge of tossing your lunch. It could've been one too many videos of demented old ladies holding up town hall meetings by insisting that President Obama was born on the desert planet of Tatooine. Or one too many e-mails forwarded by your crazy uncle warning that America is soon to have its Christian Nation status revoked. Or one too many news stories about Congresswoman Michele Bachmann that omitted the word "cunt" and lack capital letters: i.e. "MICHELE BACHMANN IS A CUNT."

The point is that you're college-educated, well-read and about to find yourself in a depressed stupor and jerkin' off to Rachel Maddow — unless you take action now. That's why you need to buy a copy of (Vin Diesel look-a-like) Mahmoud El Esseily's new CD, Tool Manty Ganby (EMI).

It doesn't matter whether the CD is any good (it's excellent, by the way). What does matter is that the CD is unmistakably "Ay-Rab" music.

Now, go to either eBay or a thrift store and score an old jam box. All you have to do now is find a place where crazy people congregate (the entire state of Oklahoma, for starters), crank up the CD and watch 'em scatter like flies whose shit soufflé has just been jostled. It might also help to wrap a towel around your head when you do this.

Verdict:

Great, a bunch of xenophobic American assholes have just forced us to aid Egypt, a country with a piss-poor human rights record. Yippee fuck.

(...]]> http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/07/09/oklahoma http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/07/09/oklahoma

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This month's Aid or Invade is dedicated to Oklahoma state Rep. Sally Kern, who recently issued a proclamation blaming America's current economic woes on our president, whom she says "disregards the biblical admonitions to live clean and pure lives by proclaiming an entire month to an immoral behavior."

This condemnation of Gay Pride Month is not just striking because it smells entirely of Ms. Kern's own ass, but also because the Oklahoma! soundtrack (available on the Angel label) is the single gayest recording of all time.

The whole thing kicks off with an overture. Now, if there's one thing I've learned from watching the 700 Club while drunk, it's that homosexuals spend most of their free time making overtures to hunky straight Christian men like Larry Craig and Ted Haggard. And just look at the song titles: "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" (obviously code for some sort of gay sex thing), "Out of My Dreams" (and my closet) and "I Can't Say No" (to reruns of Xena: Warrior Princess, no doubt). Shit, Luther — decades before Brokeback Mountain, Oklahoma! gave us "The Farmer and the Cowman."

Verdict:

If you'd like to help enlighten Ms. Kern to her state's under-appreciated gay heritage, please send a copy of this column to: Rep. Sally "Butch" Kern, 2300 N. Lincoln Blvd., Rm. 332, Oklahoma City, OK 73105.

You can also pass a link to the online version of this column on to Ms. Kern via her Web site, repsallykern.com (click "contact"). The person who sends us some sort of proof that...]]>